#This might make no sense I wrote this on a whim | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pinkaditty · 2 months

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Beauty (Twisted Wonderland, Rook Hunt)

tiptoes into blog again but steps on a comically placed whoopee cushion and alerts the entirety of my eagerly awaiting readers

hey hi hi sorry this is 2 let you all know that i am ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i had 2 disappear 2 focus entirely on my studies bc i was due 2 graduate with honors soon and i needed 2 have ALL my work completed lol! anyways, im glad 2 say that soon i will be the proud owner of an early bachelor’s degree in pre-med. this honors thesis better look STUNNING on my fucking resume.

a/n: anyways YES im working on ur asks now that i have more free time yaaaaaaaaay!!! in the meantime enjoy this lol i wrote it entirely on a whim bc i saw the new rook card on twt and was like “hm. okay fine ass.” anyways let it be known i know VERY LITTLE about book 7 and Rook in general (ive seen spoilers but i don’t actively seek them out, plus i don't have the game anymore bc free palestine, fuck disney), so this might be ooc or an unusually placed scenario. please let me know how i can improve!

summary: rook’s back to his old self. he’s not sure of himself, but you have some choice words.

cw: suggestive!!!!!!!! minors DNI!!!!!!!!!, book 7 spoilers i think, gn!reader (specifics of reader’s physical attributes are not mentioned, but Rook uses the masculine French word for "dear"), NOT PROOFREAD!!!!.

MINORS DNI AS PER USUAL THIS IS SUGGESTIVE!! THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING MY BOUNDARY!!!

“Well, I admit… the version of me you see standing before you, cher, was not me at my prime…”

You stare curiously at the man before you. Unmistakably, this was Rook. Same French accent, albeit with a harsher twang, same upturned green eyes, same haunting, knowing smile. It was Rook, without a doubt. But, he was different. He looked different. His uniform wasn’t Pomefiore- it was Savanaclaw. His hair was longer and wilder, choppy bangs and uneven waves falling in his face and along his back. His skin was darker, a light tan present on his usually pristine, pale skin. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and crest of his cheeks, and a smattering of them was found on his shoulders and neck. He didn’t stand quite as tall; rather, he stood with a slight slouch. Bending forward just slightly, piercing green eyes peering at you from beneath the shadow of a wide-brim brown hat. Strangely, like this, he appeared considerably more predatory.

Suddenly, him previously being in Savanaclaw made sense.

However, this spurred a question in you. Not about his decision to change dorms, but about his words.

“What do you mean, not at your ‘prime’?”

You furrow your brows in confusion as you stare back at him, searching for answers. This Rook- with far more obvious muscle definition and hardened expressions- seemed quite at his fully-functioning peak. You step towards him, your eyes raking over his form, lingering at his rough, calloused hands on his hips, at his broad, freckle-covered chest, and at his perfect cupid’s bow, where a stray freckle laid. “Mon trickster,” he speaks, the sharp twang of his accent making you shiver. His lips rise into a knowing grin. Your eyes snap back up to his eyes, glued to you in irony. “It’s rude to stare.”

Your cheeks heat up only for a moment, but you wave him off. “Rook…” You start, giving him one more once over before glancing away again, not wanting to get too caught up in observing his proportions. “I don’t think this isn’t your prime. If anything…” You turn to him again, looking him in the eyes. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth before hurriedly spitting out the words before you could regret them. “...I think you’re beautiful.”

You would expect Rook, of all people, to be unfazed by these words. However, he seems a bit taken aback, his eyes widening and his posture straightening, before he leans back forward again, his predatory smirk stretching wider across his face. “Merci, mon chéri, however, I do believe-”

“I mean it.” You quickly interrupt him, stopping him from beginning a self-depricating tirade of how unaccustomed he used to be to the concept of beauty. “I think you’re beautiful like this.” You face him head-on, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. This shouldn’t feel like confessing, but strangely, it does.

Now it’s Rook’s turn to blush. His smile fades, his eyes going from knowing to gentle curiosity. The warm redness of the blush spreads across his tan cheeks, accentuating the darkness of his freckles. Something about that is endearing to you, and for a moment, you are emboldened.

You step closer to him, to which he instinctively steps back, maintaining space while his senses are momentarily thrown off by his reaction to your praise. However, he doesn’t get to do that for long. He stumbles back into a stool, gripping onto its edge as he falls onto it, surprised. He would have known that was there, if not for your closeness and persistence. You move even closer, placing a knee between his thighs on the stool, boosting your height and leaning in to grab his face. He freezes, momentarily shocked by your bold actions, but he soon relaxes, his shoulders falling and his breathing returning to normal. He looks down, his eyes becoming hooded before he looks up at you again, his emerald gaze more alluring than before. He bites his lip before speaking, probably to distract you. Admittedly, it almost works. “Mon trickster…” He speaks again, and you wonder how anyone got used to hearing him speak, when such a harsh twang in a smooth accent contradicted so perfectly. He breathes shakily, a blush returning to his face. You deduced he was definitely trying to lure you in. “You’re being… awfully bold today. May I ask what’s brought this on-”

“Your imperfections are what makes your beauty!” You don’t shout, but you do raise your voice, ensuring his words are drowned out. Being this close to him makes you somewhat nervous, but you stand your ground, pressing your palms a little more into the flesh of his cheeks. He blinks at you confusedly, waiting for you to speak. You open your mouth to speak, but close it just as quickly, letting out a few false starts before sighing. You look away, taking a deep breath, before steeling yourself and facing him once more. Slowly, you let your eyes take in his face, until your gaze reaches his freckles, prominent against his tan skin. You find yourself stroking his freckles with your thumbs, gently tracing the nonsensical patterns in which they appear. You finally find your confidence again, and speak without thinking. “Your freckles and tan don’t tell me that you had bad or sensitive skin- they tell me that you loved the sun.” Your voice is so gentle it surprises yourself, not whispered, but low, and filled with a strange intimacy.

His eyes widen at your words, his lips parted. He breathes shakily, but something about it is genuine this time. His eyes remain fixated on yours, his thick eyebrows downturned in a strange mix of melancholy and yearning. You stroke his face more, and he relaxes, closing his eyes and letting you hold him. You begin to breathe shakily yourself, your body flushing with heat and your fingers beginning to tremble just slightly. You move your right hand from his cheek to his hair, not once lifting your palm. Your fingers gently move through his hair, holding the back of his head, and he leans into your touch, exhaling as your pinky brushes the back of his neck. You lean in as well, following him as he follows your touch. He opens one eye to peer at you curiously, gauging your next action. When you gently pull at his waves, his eye snaps shut again, and he disguises a moan as a throaty exhale. You speak again, led purely by the spur of the moment. “Your uneven bangs and wild hair don’t tell me that you didn’t care for it- it tells me that you took the time to let it grow, and chose not to restrict what was yours.” You say this close to his neck, your lips gently brushing against the shell of his ear. He shivers, gripping the stool harder.

You begin to pull back, keeping your palms to his skin. You move your right hand back to his cheek, where your left hand still rests on his other one. You pause for a moment before drifting both hands downwards, your palms and fingers tickling his jaw and neck. He leans his head back to allow you access, sighing quietly at the feeling. You gently trail your palms and fingers down his neck before finally resting at the base. You then gently drag your hands to his shoulders and squeeze them, looking up at him. His blush still remains, and his lips are still parted, his breathing still shaky. He gazes at you expectantly, as though eagerly awaiting your next bit of praise. You lean towards his face and press your forehead to his, looking down at his shoulders. “Your slouch does not tell me that you had bad posture- it tells me that you were shyer, and didn’t take pride in your appearance.” You begin to trail your palms down his shoulders, your fingers feather-light on his skin in their wake. He shivers at the gentle stimulation, closing his eyes again. His breathing gets heavier and shakier, and you begin to feel heat pool within you once more. You pull your head back, straightening up as your stare at him. Leaning your face close to his, you continue to trail your palms down his arms, your fingers lightly pressing into his muscles, mapping out the structure of his body. Eventually you lift your palms, using only your fingers to trail down his forearm, tracing the insides of his wrists. He hardly flinches, likely expecting this, but still shivers at the sensation. “It also tells me…” You continue, your lips mere inches from his, but not daring to move any closer, staring at his cupid’s bow and blonde lashes. Your fingers reach his hands, and you gently pry them from their grip on the stool, moving them to his lap, palms up. You trace your fingers along his rough, calloused palms and fingers, making shapes and patterns. “...That you took more pride in the things you did with your hands.” You press your palms into his and his eyes flutter open, not surprised to find you mere inches from his face. He exhales, his blush deepening. He blinks at you, knowing you still weren’t finished yet.

“Your imperfections lead me to your beauty. That’s why…” You trail off, lifting one hand from his palm and caressing his cheek once more. “...You’re beautiful.”

You begin to pull back, closing your eyes and quickly moving away, beginning to move your knee from between his thighs on the stool. However, he quickly grabs you, his fingers gripping the back of your uniform as he pulls you in. Your knee follows your movements, pushing into his inner thigh on the stool. He sharply inhales, looking down, before looking back up at you with hooded eyes. His eyes still look expectant, as though he still wants more.

“Mon trickster…” He says lowly, pulling you in further. Your knee presses harder against his inner thigh and your upper body closer towards his. He breathes shakily, moving one hand from the back of your uniform to the front, bunching some of it in his grasp. He tilts his head towards you, and you can feel his breath on your lips as your eyes lock with his. Heat flushes through your body again.

“Are there any other… imperfect beauties… that I possess, that you’d like to point out to me?”

rejoice! entertainment be upon ye!

a/n: okay but seriously, i hope u all enjoyed! i wrote this in like,, a few hours? for reference it is like. 5:45 am where i am as i type this LOLLLL! i was up lateee bc i no longer have schoolwork which meansss every spare second i have that im not working working, ill be doing these. anyways! please please pleeeeaaaasssseee leave a like, comment, and a reblog if u liked it! i love 2 know that u loved my work! ik its been a while but i promise 2 try 2 be more active… i swear!! oh, and leave an ask if u have any ideas about other things i should write!

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland smut #minors dni #rook twst #rook x reader #twst rook #rook hunt #rook twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt twisted wonderland #rook hunt twst #rook hunt x yuu #rook hunt smut #twst #rook hunt x mc

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yeyinde · 11 months

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lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met.

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really.

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with.

Stupid.

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine.

Because maybe you are, too.

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent.

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him.

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you.

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him.

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber.

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both.

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar.

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet.

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight.

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush.

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways.

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape.

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore.

Moving on. Moving forward.

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness.

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location.

You send him your pin.

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way.

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre.

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met.

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap.

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care.

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed.

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth.

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?"

And that was that.

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them.

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him.

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him.

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain.

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart.

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots.

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring.

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner.

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots.

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest.

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it."

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you."

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult.

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid."

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it."

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought.

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot.

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips.

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain.

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you.

Except—

It isn’t.

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes.

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know?

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips.

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him.

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic.

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around.

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken.

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison.

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat.

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here."

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance.

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him.

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it.

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do.

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe."

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—"

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat.

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame.

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold?

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state.

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back.

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy).

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making.

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away.

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign.

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now.

Because you do.

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts.

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too.

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin.

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences.

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same.

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing.

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it.

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it.

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always.

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him.

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun.

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free.

Confessing goes like this:

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears.

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands.

"...and that's basically it."

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you.

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all.

You want it. Want him.

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam.

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth.

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated.

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation.

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence.

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin.

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain.

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take.

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air.

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you.

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind.

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke.

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable.

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames.

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown.

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all.

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it.

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this.

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration.

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two.

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food.

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along.

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling.

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know?

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #ehhhhhh #these are my sloppiest tags #i didn't feel like making a gif so i threw this together real quick #will fix in the am #when my eyes aren't on fire

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luffyvace · 6 months

Text

BUGGY HEADCANONS

Wrote this on a whim when I remembered how much I liked this guy 😎

Buggy stans, assemble!!

I love buggy and I don’t talk about it enough

but like he needs more screen time

he has a decent amount I just wanna see him more :)

onto hcs!

buggy is a guy who wants to be confident but isn’t so he fakes it but you can tell

at first he’s just as phony towards you but as time goes on he opens up to you

you try to convince him he can be himself around everyone, especially his own crew he but still thinks he has to put on a show

its what he does best afterall!

buggy is subtly physical affectionate, for example, resting his hand on your waist

or putting a hand on your head

him being more flashy would be giving you a big kiss

he dips you and makes a “mmmmwah!” sound so you know it’s for show when in public

other times he does it to be playful

Another grand love gesture he does is sit you on his lap or shoulder

the man’s got some good muscle so he can hold you not matter your weight 💗

He likes make a game or show out of a lot of things you do for fun

he won’t do it if it bothers you

but he makes you laugh so much how can you not like it??

buggy doesn’t really like anyone seeing him without paint/makeup on

he gets up like really early, around 4-5 to do it

he doesn’t even want you to see very often

he says he doesn’t feel ‘buggy’ without it

ngl cabaji and mohji are wonder how buggy bagged you?? 🤨🤨

like your so fine (yes you are idc abt your opinion of yourself, You. Are. Fine.)

lowkey buggy be wondering too..😗

buggy always talks to you before bed.

he like, caresses your hair and whispers in your ear

he’s not tryna do it in a suggestive way

like in a way where he’s trying to comfort you or lull you to sleep

”how’s your day been lovely?”

“I wish I coulda been there to punch that sucker in the face. you did not deserve that.” /

“That’s good honey, why don’t you go ahead and get yourself some sleep?”

“What about me? Oh sugar don’t worry about me, you just go ahead and get some shuteye”

he kisses you atop your head as you two snuggle up and fall asleep

YOU GUYS ARE SUCH A CUTE COUPLE

just for the record it took a WHILE before buggy got that smooth 😊

like he had to get comfy in the relationship before he could even think to say any of that without cringing at himself

at first he was a lowkey stuttering, blushing mess

buggy enjoys if you help him wash his hair, especially the part where you massage his scalp 😍

he loves it,

it’s his favorite part

if you wanna do his makeup tho..😗

your gonna need the rest of the crew to pitch in on a plan to capture all of buggy’s separated limbs for that one 😋

courtesy of the straw hats for giving you that idea

he’ll grumble and frown as you wash away his old makeup and apply a fresh layer :)

he’s not mad at you tho

He’s just going to kill his men once your finished 🤗

buggy is a pirate captain so he likely has a ship cook

which be thankful for that..

becauseeee this man could probably never cook in a million years..

anyway buggy’s main love languages are physical touch

because it’s easy to display his love for you

and sometimes he would make a show out of it ;)

acts of service

because I mean he just oh so loves to serve his sweet darlin’!

he lives for it even!

he lives to bring people joy and laughter from his shows

why would that be any different, especially with you??

and gift giving too

this is mostly for if he has a more so materialistic/superficial s/o

who likes the luxurious life and being pampered

or he might just get you stuff to see that big ol’ smile of yours 💛

he may be a coward sometimes

but he’s always a man in the sense of being a gentleman

It happens a lot but he gets really upset when his crew ruins what was supposed to be a romantic date for you

like picture it: everything’s going well

your dressed up and feel confident and buggy is too

you both sit down at a private reservation to a restaurant he rented

he takes your hands and kisses them as you both giggle and stare at each other, with hearts practically in your eyes

then the waiter comes in :)

*sniff sniff* “what..can I get you?..” 😢

”CABAJI?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE WHERES THE WAITER??”

”well you said do anything possible to rent this place since we didn’t have enough money..*sniff* so we had to sell Richie” 😭😭😭

”ARE YOU SERIOUS?! SO WHERES THE STAFF??”

”well you said you were renting it out so they thought you needed it for a party or something..not for a date” *sniffles*

buggy was practically on FIRE 😂

all bro wanted was a romantic date

but instead he had to go search for a LION 🤦‍♀️

Well you spent the rest of your day tracking down the restaurant staff and richie

and trust me that was a hassle

Everyone was tired and ready to give up but cabaji kept begging and crying

eventually you found the restaurant staff!…..forming they’re own circus..with richie..who was also crying

you had to fight the staff to get richie back

and they were unexpectedly strong

yeah at the end of the day you and buggy were tired and went to be early

he keeps it in his notes never to ask his crew to help him with a date again..

LOL

another topic :)

i feel buggy would really like receiving massages

like back/shoulder ones specifically

rub some lotion in his back and that’s the ultimate way to calm a angry buggy 💗

he really appreciates when you do this

he’ll return the favor too

more likely to come in the form of gifts than another massage

but if you state that’s how you’d like to be repaid he wouldn’t mind at all

in fact he’d be quite good at giving massages

especially since he can simply separate a hand or too so he can continue to manage his crew 💖

buggy likes to put you in his acts

He teaches you everything he knows and is really proud of you when you impress the crowd or master a skill

he’s very supportive and patient in that sense

and when I say the word ‘patience’ is reserved for you I mean it

he prioritizes you a lot even if he can’t afford the L he’s about to take in order to impress you

refer back to the failed date where he couldn’t actually rent the restaurant

🤪

and don’t get me wrong buggy isn’t broke or anything

it’s just he gets expensive when pampering you

like buying you lavish resorts, cruises and any other thing you could possibly want

he thinks you higher than him, better.

And in a attempt to get you to stay he gives you reasons!

lavish dates! Comfort! Happiness and laughter!

a part of him thinks you’d leave if he didn’t do those things

that you wouldn’t love him for just him and that it must be for the show

later on in the relationship when he explains that’s how he feels and opens up to you

you’ll definitely reassure and correct him about your love for him

that you’d love him even if he was a bum, nobody and total loser

he tries not to tear up but he’s tearing up

btw if you don’t like being in the spotlight/stage

he doesn’t mind :)

will occasionally try to push you out of your shell—

“your a star baby! Your meant to shine!”

”people would love you! You should at least try!”

—but he won’t force you <3

he’ll give you a front row seat to his acts and look for you to see if your smiling/laughing during the big act/climax of the show

he definitely values your opinion way over other’s and a lot of the time even his own

even more so if your intelligent

he might ask you to at least be a volunteer for his acts even if you prefer to be in the crowd

and you accept sometimes, to make him happy 😊

or maybe you work backstage!

like on spotlight or curtains!

maybe you made the props, if your an artist you may have painted them!

He compliments you on it too!

”ya worked wonders with that spotlight baby!”

“Really all I did was move it around..😅”

“Still ya did great! You’ve got a great sense of timing!

Or it may go more like this:

“The props looked wonderful tonight hun!”

”really? Thanks! It took a while!”

”hard work shows! almost stood out more than your smilin’ face in the crowd, my dear!”

WHO KNEW I COULD WRITE FOR BUGGYYY 😍😍

I LOVE THE WAY THESE TURNED OUT!! SO PROUD OF MYSELF 💪💪

Hope you enjoyed the hcs :) I really liked this experimental style I did<3

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nuri148 · 2 months

Text

My Take on Levi's Age

I originally wrote this as a rb addition to another post. I've been meaning to make it a stand alone post since then, and with all the talk about Levi's age since the publication of bad boy, here it is, finally.

If you ask me, Levi could not have been more that 4-5 years old at the time Kenny found him around 829.

Why?

He's severely malnourished, probably spent several days cloistered in the room with Kuchel with nothing to eat. So my guess is that, though he was old enough to speak and understand Kuchel was dead (even if he could not quite grasp the bigger concept of Death), he was too young to go out and procure himself and his mum some food, be it by stealing or begging. And for that, he's need to be very young.

I lived in Greater Buenos Aires more than half of my life (the infamous "conurbano"), and I've seen lots of very small kids, 4-5 years old, begging like pros for either change or food. It's unfortunately very common in impoverished areas. And I wasn't even in the bad ones. So, in that aspect, the Underground wouldn't be different from our villas or Brazil's favelas.

Kuchel was a prostitute. She wouldn't want Levi to witness her at work. It is fair to think that as soon as he was old enough to cross the street she'd let him roam and go play with other kids while mummy's busy. There, he'd quickly learn how to come by a piece of moldy bread to stave hunger.

So in order to just sit starving by his mother instead of going out looking for help, Levi must have been young enough that his mum could still keep him under wraps; too young to know his way about the Underground's streets, too much of a rookie in terms of using his charm or his cunning to get a bit of food.

Uri Reiss inherited the Founding Titan in 829. BUT, nowhere does it say that Kenny's encounter with Uri happens right after the latter became a titan. So Kenny might have joined Uri up to a couple of years after 829 (not many, as Rod Reiss still looks young in that flashback).

So Kenny finds Levi between 829 and 831; And Levi is 4-5 then, meaning he was born, at earliest, in 823 (considering his b-day is only one week before the year's end, that'd make him 5 in for most of 829) and latest in 825 (same if Kenny found him in 831). That makes him 10-12 years older than Eren and company. , ~20 when he joins the SC, ~26 during seasons 1-3, ~30 after the time skip, and ~33 in the epilogue.

"But Yams said he was thirty-somethiiiing!"

TLDR: I wouldn't consider canon some spur-of-the-moment answer given by Yams in a panel where he's probably tired, nervous, and doesn't have his timeline handy.

Allow me to speak here as a writer: the whims of your imagination often don't align with the logic of what needs to go on the page. So it is perfectly possible to imagine your character in a way that is inconsistent with your timeline. You see them with short hair and summer clothes fixing lunch in their sunny kitchen in a scene and, when they move to the dining room you see them with hair 4 inches longer and serving supper as a snowstorm rages outside. When you write it, you're going to have to pick up one, and go back to your notes often for continuity after, bc your brain keeps forever placing the kitchen in sunny summer and the living room in a winter night. Oh, and they're both simultaneously on the ground and the second floor. Escher pictures make more sense.

The story of AoT spans many years, so we don't know which year Levi is the default Levi in Yams' brain. It could even be the Levi from the time skip, or from a future after the last chapter that only exists in his imagination. Also, Yams has bungled up numbers before so, personally, I don't trust him much in that department.

In any case, Math is a hard science, so if Kenny found Levi with 4-5 years in 829, he can't be 30+ in 850. 5+21=26. No matter what Yams says.

Additional notes:

The original post. With additions. I recommend reading the quoted twitter thread.

Another, recent twitter thread on Levi's age

A lengthy post by an actual psychologist providing scientific foundation for Levi's age when Kenny finds him.

I saw yet another post on Levi's age recently, but I can't find the link rn and I have to make lunch. if/when I find it, I'll add it (and others I may come across)

#levi ackerman #levi's age #aot meta

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aphroditelovesu · 11 months

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Yan!Alexander the Great Random Headcanons

❝ 📜— lady l: i managed to convince my sister to let me use the computer just to post this and later I post the sneak peek of The Lost Queen. These hcs are just for fun and contain some facts about Alexander and others are headcanons that I made up, but it doesn't come out of his personality that I wrote in his general hcs, you can read it by clicking here. Good reading and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️❤️

❝tw: not entirely historically accurate, mention of tantrums and heavy drinking and perhaps implied murder (?).

Alexander has a very high tolerance for alcoholic beverages, particularly wine. However, the wine he is used to is the ancient one and not the ones we know, but he would definitely make a point of trying the current drinks just because he likes to get drunk. and he is a violent one

He's a very curious man and that curiosity he has has gotten him into a lot of trouble, more than he's willing to admit. Part of his fascination with you comes from his curiosity.

Rumor has it he had a fear of cats, apparently ailurophobia and will definitely have issues with his darling if they are a cat lover. Basically acting all "the cat or me".

He is short-tempered and acts irrationally and impulsively when he is angry, and even though he regrets his later actions, he is unlikely to apologize. Besides being a greedy and ambitious megalomaniac.

Alexander tends to be very hard on his punishments and they are all in military ways like whipping. He will punish anyone who crosses him, who crosses you, and he will show no mercy. Not even his darling is safe from the King's angry excesses.

He has a low intolerance for spicy foods and you can be sure that when he puts something with too much pepper he won't do well. There was one time you almost swore you saw fire coming out of his mouth 'cause it was so spicy.

If Alexander watched a movie about him, you can be sure he won't like it, especially if it's an adaptation and not faithful to reality. He might want to hunt down whoever portrayed him in such a way and make them understand that the Great King is not to be mocked.

I believe he would be a good father in the "good" sense, better than his father ever was and to me he has a lot of a girl dad vibes, although obviously he would like to have a son, I still imagine he would be a good father to a daughter.

Alexander can have serious tantrums and almost no one may be able to calm him down but you. Usually a few kisses and a soft tone of voice does the trick in trying to keep control over this man. And he gets jealous easily and often of material things or other people's achievements.

It is a fact that he is ruled by you and he wants to satisfy you and conquer all your desires and whims. Do you want a jewelry? Ask him. Do you want an Empire for yourself? It's yours. He's a little bitch for his darling and all he wants, what he'll demand in return, is that you be wholly his and his alone. He has his qualities but he also has his flaws that are difficult to deal with. Do you think you can handle him?

#history #yandere history #yandere historical characters #yandere alexander the great #alexander the great x reader #yandere alexander the great x reader #headcanons #yandere headcanons #yandere alexander the great headcanons

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leclsrc · 1 year

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brought me here – cs55

Three lives bathed in citrus.

auds here... guys i wrote this on a whim because the concept of the intimacy of. just peeling a fruit & sharing it w a lover.... got to me fr. warnings for 1. google translated spanish and 2. a notting hill love letter in the middle. title from this

“Hey, do you want the other half?”

You present a half of an orange to Carlos, words muffled by a slice. It’s a big fruit, almost comically so, but he nods and lets you toss it to him. He pops one into his mouth, lets it crowd with the sweet taste. You smile. “Good, right?”

This is the first time you interact, over a peeled orange and then some. He talks about racing, about Spain; you talk about how you’re new here, interning at another team, and the oranges taste so much better. He asks if you’ve packed another, quietly—like he’s imposing—but you shake your head, no don’t be shy, I’ve got a lot. Swiped them from my neighbor’s yard.

You yank another one out of your bag and peel it with dexterity. He’s fascinated by this, by watching you, someone who had just been a stranger ten minutes ago, peel an orange and hand it over. “Oranges are best for sharing, don’t you agree?”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t really, doesn’t know what you mean enough to agree. “I don’t know.”

“Think about it.” He focuses on the English, gears turning in his head as it processes through him in Spanish. “An orange can be perfectly pulled into slices, into halves, quarters. You can easily share them without a knife or a cutting board. Just talking like this, we’ve shared two.”

“You’re right.”

“And no orange is alike. So every half really only matches its other half. Cool, right?”

He chews on a slice, nodding and smiling, then opens his mouth to reply. But just as quickly as this conversation has started, it’s come to a close—you’re called to report to work and you leave him, alone and stuttering over a response.

Carlos inspects the slice, the pith, the pulp. Nothing else will match this except the slice you’d peeled it away from. And Carlos doesn’t know this yet, but you’re his other slice, his other half.

He doesn’t know that in two months you will be peeling an orange for the both of you in his bed, offering a half to him. In six months you’ll be peeling an orange for him while you talk about moving in together. In eight months, you’ll be peeling an orange and inspecting your new flat. In a year, he will toss you a half of an orange, and you will chew on it while reviewing a job offer outside of racing.

In a year and a half, you’ll be sharing half an orange at a friend’s wedding. He will turn to you, watch your fingers fiddle with the discarded peels, and make a decision in his head. In two years, you will peel an orange for him, and this time you let him have all of it, because he’s world champion.

In two and a half years, he will peel an orange for you at dinner, then propose to you hours later. In three years, he will write his vows to you, and express his deep appreciation for the oranges you’ve peeled, for the conversations shared over them. Mi media naranja, he calls you. Always, forever.

And a long stretch of peels and pith later, he will be tucking a little girl into bed, brushing hair out of her eyes and promising an orange for breakfast. And he might wonder then, what life would be in any other universe, if he would still have his media naranja.

—

Carlos passes by a billboard of your face on his drive to work. It’s barely a drive—measly five minutes of traffic, really—but even if he walked or took a bus, the route would still show your face. Smiling and airbrushed and beautiful, on the poster of your brand new movie his roommate has seen twice in the cinemas now.

Your face is also the one staring at him blankly, sunglasses perched on your nose as you wait for your purchase to be checked out.

He’s owned this bookstore in London for five years now, a business decision that made barely any sense because he’s not even English, and hasn’t been to half the countries the store sells books of. They say magic happens with books, but Carlos is surrounded by hundreds of them, and for five years all he’s really got is a magical amount of debt and teenage shoplifters.

But this is magic. Right? It must be. A famous actress buying a book from his store. Somebody sidles up beside you; your eyes widen in mild panic.

“Oh, God. Could I maybe get your autograph? Oh, God. This is mortifying. I’m—I haven’t even got a pen, for God’s sake—”

“Well,” you say smoothly, “don’t worry, I do.” Your voice slides easily through the words, a pen retrieved from your jeans pocket. You let it hover idly while the other customer fidgets to find a good surface for his signature. Eventually, he settles on the front page of his new book, presenting it like a sacrifice.

You sign a clean, illegible scribble. He bows, then shrugs, as if to openly question why he even bowed. “Um, the bow was stupid. Don’t—Christ. Sorry. Big fan, I am. Oh, my—whatever. I love you. Bye.” He half-runs out of the store, and the bell rings noisily as he departs, his head still turned toward you through the glass even when he’s walking away.

You turn slowly back to him, clearing your throat. “Did you still want to ring that up, or—?”

“Oh, sure. This one, right?” He points at the smaller book—The Dummy’s Guide to London—and when you nod, he rings it up. “That’s not so bad a book. None of the usual ‘Big Ben, Buckingham Palace’ stories you’ll usually find in UK guidebooks. But y’know, there isn’t much to know about this city. It’s posh, a bit pretentious.”

“Right.” You nod, hiding a smile. “And you’re so obviously British.”

He laughs, shaking his head—his accent giving him away—then he smiles. You speak again: “How about this. I’ll let you know if it’s of good use. And no need for a bag.”

“Oh, please do.” He smiles back, placing the receipt on the book. You stay like that for a bit, then on a whim, he tugs an orange out of the brown paper bag he’d brought from the weekend market earlier. “If you’re hungry, or if you fancy a talk about London—for non-dummies and actresses, maybe—we could split the orange.”

You laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. “Okay. Well, oranges really are best for sharing, don’t you agree?”

“Hmm. I don’t know.”

“Think about it.” He focuses on your English, on your unmistakably American accent, gears turning in his head as it processes through him in Spanish. “An orange can be perfectly pulled into slices, into halves, quarters. You can easily share them without a knife or a cutting board. It’s just… easy.”

“You should turn that into a movie screenplay.”

You laugh. “I’ll give you half the royalties if it happens.”

Carlos lets you meet his friends two weeks later. One of them, Lando, totally blanks and forgets you’re a world-famous actress. Charles and his girlfriend serve you chocolate, to which you’re deathly allergic; apologetic and panicked, the only other sweet thing in their kitchen is an orange. You accept it gratefully, peel it, and give half to Carlos.

A year later you accept a half orange, continue mulling over the future of your relationship. You’d been in hiding for so long, in an effort to keep him safe. But this is real, you think. It’s the both of you, like it’s always been, like it’s going to be, always. The day next, after commenting on how your handbag smelled so naturally of orange peel, your Spanish co-star says: “So he’s like your media naranja?” And when you prompt elaboration, “Hmm—like your other half. Better half. Perfect match.”

You invite Carlos to a movie premiere of yours in Los Angeles nine months later. You forget dinner in the rush to make the call time, and squeeze his hand in the middle of the film. He’s too distracted by your acting, but manages to give you tiny orange he’d wedged into his inner jacket pocket. He peels it, gives you all of it. A congratulatory gift all his own.

—

You are both alone in this life, but content.

“Vendías naranjas ayer, ¿adónde fueron?” Your brows knit together. You’d made this specific stall your very last stop, to make sure you’d get the best oranges. The air is still and humid in Seville, but the weather is beautiful, and the oranges are delicious—really delicious. Andalusia is perfect this way.

The vendor shrugs. “Estamos fuera de ellos. Tienes que llegar temprano.” Then, as if sensing your lack of fluency in Spanish, he switches to accented English: “That man over there just got the last ones.”

Your eyes travel over to two stalls over, where a tall guy browses the tomatoes. His hair is long, his polo is loose, his paper bags overflowing with oranges. And you think, who the hell needs this many? But you don’t press, you simply walk away. You have work, a yoga class, a coffee to buy for yourself. Friends to meet. Money to earn. Countries to travel to.

Nothing tethers you to Seville. You’ll be gone in weeks if you wish to be, gone from the hills and the lovely area. But sometimes, and here especially in such a beautiful place, you always end up wondering if you will find someone to keep you. Someone to quarrel over an orange with, someone to peel it for, and someone to love.

You wait at the bus stop, eyes watching intently as the orange buyer walks over minutes later and stands idly beside you. You both wait. You both wonder.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader

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silverofthunder · 4 months

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☆ watcher in the night ☆

Papa Emeritus IV x GN Reader

summary: You nodded slowly, trying to get all of this – the whole moment – to fully sink in while you studied the painted face of the man. His expression was soft, in a way, and he seemed curious, though you could also sense the danger underneath all of that.

content: 2.6k words, mystery (kind of), drama, fantasy, some feelings i guess, i don't even know, SFW (i think?)

!! mentions of blood and killing !!

So, I have no idea where this came from. I just started to write and it kind of escalated. This is different from what I've used to write but oh my, how fun writing this was! Let me know what you think. 😊

The cemetery wasn’t far from your home and one evening you decided on a whim to go there late at night. You took your bag and slipped a pen and a small notebook into it with a smile on your face – you never knew when the inspiration might strike so you had to be prepared. You zipped up your hoodie and grabbed the keys from the small dresser and checked that your phone was in your pocket before leaving your apartment.

It wasn’t that dark outside due to summer and the air felt more chilly than you thought but you didn’t bother to turn back to get a coat. You didn’t plan on staying at the cemetery for long, after all. There wasn’t much people on the move – you saw only a few teenagers hanging out nearby the cemetery as you finally reached the main gate.

You opened the gate, the creaking sound echoing in the quiet of the night. Your eyes took in the surroundings as fast as they could and as you walked along the main path, you started to feel a bit nervous and wonder if this had been a really bad idea. You remembered how it usually didn’t end up well when people visited cemeteries at night in the movies.

With a shake of your head you tried to get rid off those horrible images – it was silly to even think that something could happen. Or technically it wasn’t but you didn’t want to think the worst. Instead you focused on tombstones, their outlines and followed the path until you came to the spot where you could see one of the oldest graves, the big stone on top of a small mound.

You decided to head there and turned right, stepping on to the grass and following a line between two rows of tombstones. Then you took a turn to the left and passed a large tree, almost tripping to one of its roots that was sticking out from the ground. You hissed a curse as you regained your balance, breathed slowly in and out before continuing walking. As you finally reached the grave, you lowered your bag onto the ground and placed your hands on the stone.

It was cold and there was some kind of pattern on top of it as you run your fingers along the surface. Whoever was buried there must have been well-known and notable person.

A sudden rustle made you jump and you turned around, your heart picking up pace in your chest. You couldn’t see anyone and soon there was a sound of flapping and croak, so you suspected it to be some bird flying away. Sighing you returned to your bag and sat down on the grass, leaning your back against the tombstone. You searched for the notebook and pen and took your phone out of your pocket, putting the flashlight on and setting the phone leaning against the tombstone. Then you let your mind wander for a while.

The quietness was a bit unsettling and the chilliness was slowly getting into you, making you regret not getting that coat before coming here. You did your best to focus on the surroundings, the scent of summer night and let your hand guide the words out of your mind, ink them onto the page of notebook.

It wasn’t a story, just some random thoughts about creatures of the night. The one’s who lived in the shadows, had sharp fangs and carried a mysterious aura around them. You weren’t sure if you actually believed the existence of those creatures but it was certainly intriguing thought. A small smile made its way on to your lips as you wrote more words down.

Soon something flew past you fast and you shrieked, dropping your pen and notebook to the ground. Your head turned fast from side to side as you tried to see what it had been. As you couldn’t see anything this time either, you shook your head and picked the pen and notebook up, mumbling some calming mantra to yourself.

You opened the notebook and saw the inkline speading from one word all the way down to the bottom of the page. It called you to doodle something onto it before you turned the next, plank page and continued writing. You could feel your heart beating just a bit faster than it normally would – you couldn’t help it, the sudden noices in the quiet had gotten you nervous and you were kind of waiting for something to happen again.

When the chilliness was getting so uncomfortable, fingers feeling stiff from holding the pen, you decided it was time to leave. You put the notebook and pen into the bag, took your phone, slipping it into your pocket and hoisted yourself up, smoothing out your hoodie and jeans. And just as you were ready to leave, your eyes landed on some figure standing beside the tree on the right. You blinked, hoping it was just your mind playing tricks on you, but the figure was still there.

Your heart missed a beat and you swallowed, staring at the figure. Then it moved closer to you and you could see it was a man.

”Isn’t it a bit late to be out here?” he spoke with a soft, deep voice, taking slow steps towards you. His features came more clear – his other eye was white, face covered with some kind of paint. He was wearing ripped jeans and a shirt that looked like something that was worn centuries ago. You took a step back as he got closer, eyeing to the side and considering just running away.

He stopped moving, eyes scanning you and you just stood there, nervousness stinging within you.

”Who are you?” the words slipped out before you even realized you had opened your mouth.

The man’s lips curved into a smile, flashing something white and sharp, and now you really were sure your mind was just messing with you. You blinked and pinched your arm but the man was still there, and so was the smile on his lips, too. Nothing sharp visible this time, though, and you sighed, but it didn’t really settle your racing heart.

”Just having my night walk,” the man said and you raised your brow.

”On a walk at the cemetery?” you stated and the man chuckled.

”Sí,” he said in another language – Italian maybe? – and took a step closer to you. ”Seems like you were having your own moment here, too.”

You eyed him suspiciously, watching his movements like a hawk. He didn’t look threatening but you still couldn’t be sure… And just like he was reading your thoughts, he raised his hands up a little as if to show he didn’t have any indication of hurting you. Still, it didn’t ease your suspicions much but some part of your mind held a thought that he would have probably hurt you already if he wanted to do that.

”I was just leaving…” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. The man didn’t move or say anything so you just turned and started to walk away. You had to take a look at where the man was left standing after a moment and couldn’t see him anymore. Just as you were about to sigh from relief, you turned your gaze back to forward and stumbled back as the man was now right in front of you.

He grabbed a hold of your arm.

”Careful,” he spoke as you stared at him with wide eyes. His white eye glowed in the dark, the other seeming to slowly change color if you saw correctly. It was dark after all, so you couldn’t fully trust your vision. He seemed to breath slowly in through his nose while a small smirk made its way onto his lips. For a moment his fingers tightened around your arm, you could feel his nails digging into your flesh and it felt way too sharp to be normal. Your heart was beating in your chest rapidly and you pulled your hand away from the man’s hold.

The man shook his head a bit after the contact was lost and let out a small laugh and now you could see the white, sharp fangs clearly. You swallowed, thoughts starting to race in your head.

”What are you?”

It was barely a whisper but you knew the man had heard it. He stepped closer and you were sure now it was time to flee and you tried to take a step back but something stopped you. There was a slight swish of wind and for a moment your felt a bit dizzy and then you felt the man’s hand under your chin as he leaned closer.

You couldn’t be sure if your heart had missed two beats instead of just one but now you were completely frozen. You could move your legs so you probably could leave but for some reason you didn’t… want to.

”I’m sure you already have the answer in your mind,” the man answered finally, voice smooth like a velvet. It seemed to resonate everywhere, making you feel so… strange. It was really hard to describe – it felt like it reached somewhere deep within you and calmed you down somehow.

”The creatures like that don’t exist,” you said.

”That’s what your mind is trying to tell you,” the man said, moving his hand slightly and starting to trace along your cheek with his sharp fingernail, strangely gentle. ”Hate to disappoint but the creatures you’re thinking about are real and I’m one of them.”

He showed his fangs and his non-white eye changed to glow red. It certainly looked real, felt real but also a bit of dream-like. Like two worlds mixing, the lines of reality and fantasy blurred.

”You’ve surely used some… unholy mojo on me,” you stated and the man chuckled.

”Only a little,” he admitted, gently tapping your lips with his finger. ”To make you feel more calm. If you want to go, you can, I’m not stopping you.”

Blinking, you considered what to do. As time passed and you didn’t move, a pleased smile rose to the man’s lips and his finger traveled down to your neck.

”You’re not… going to hurt me?” you asked, hesitant. You had to.

”I could… if I wanted and you could not do anything,” he said straightforwardly. ”But no, I’m not going to hurt you. So don’t worry, you’re not gonna be my meal – unless you want to.”

You nodded slowly, trying to get all of this – the whole moment – to fully sink in while you studied the painted face of the man. His expression was soft, in a way, and he seemed curious, though you could also sense the danger underneath all of that. It was easy to imagine how the predator in him could just take and destroy you, drain the life out of you. But at the same time tthere was this temptation – how it would feel like if the fangs pierced your skin and the blood would rush out of you, feeding him.

You snapped out of your thoughts, noticing the man’s face now being much closer to you.

”Sorry,” he said then, pulling a bit back and you felt some strange energy around you. ”It seems that you are too acceptive of ’my unholy mojo’. And your scent…”

The man didn’t finish his sentence and he really didn’t have to as your thoughts could fill in the rest. You were more surprised by the fact that you seemed to do something to him, too, even though it felt like you weren’t doing anything.

”The thought is intriguing, isn’t it?” the man then asked, flashing his fangs again, and you understood what he meant. You knew you could just lie but you also were pretty sure that the man would know if you were lying so you had no choice but to speak the truth.

”Yeah, it is.”

With his finger the man traced some pattern on your neck, making you shiver. You knew he could feel your pulse while you could hear your heartbeat ringing in your ears. The air around you changed, the dizziness reaching you and causing you to sway a little and soon you felt hands on your sides, steadying you. You blinked rapidly, trying to keep your eyes focused but the intensity of the strange feeling only grew and your eyes fell closed, your hands grabbing the man’s arms.

”Damn,” you heard the man speaking. ”You’re not making this easy. I swear I’m not using my powers that much.”

He sounded surprised and his hold on your sides tightened. You drew in a deep breath before opening your eyes and you were hit by the blurry red-white glow of the man’s eyes. The darkness seemed only to highlight it and your slightly hazy mind thought it looked kind of beautiful.

”Oh shit,” you breathed out in awe.

”It’s so addicting,” the man said. ”Easy to get lost in it and lose your self control.”

His words aroused your curiosity.

”Have you ever lost control?”

The man’s expression changed and he lowered his gaze, his hands leaving your sides and causing the spell to break. You blinked, feeling more grounded again.

”Sí, many times,” he answered quietly and your mind instantly filled with images of faceless people lying dead on the ground, their bodies smeared with blood.

”Are you… afraid that you will lose it again?”

You weren’t sure where the questions came from but the whole situation seemed already so weird you doubted it couldn’t get any more weird.

”Not really. I learned my lesson a long time ago.”

The man’s gaze found yours again and you could only nod as you really had no idea what to say to that. For a moment you considered to reach out to touch him but then decided not to. It seemed that the closer you were, the more it affected to the both of you. The man was right, the feeling was addicting – weird, too, but definitely something you wanted to feel again and again.

And it was like the man had read your mind, his hand reached for yours and as soon as your fingers entwined, you felt the wave of warmth coursing through you. The dizziness hit afterwards but only lasted for a short moment. You had never in your life tried any drugs but you guessed that being under their influence would feel close to this.

”This feels so strong,” the man said, turning your joined hands. ”Reminds me of the time when…” he trailed off, shaking his head. ”It’s not important now.”

You were a bit of disappointed that he didn’t tell more but maybe it was a story for another time. If there woud be another time.

”I should probably leave…” you said and the man gave a you small nod. You really didn’t want to leave but it was night and you needed some sleep. The man squeezed your hand before letting go, the warmth slowly leaving you and the chilliness of the night biting into you.

You stuffed your hands into the pockets of your hoodie and slowly turned to leave. Every step that you took away from the man felt heavy and eventually you stopped, turning back to him.

”Will I see you again?”

”Maybe,” the man answered and even though you could only see the silhouette of him, somehow you knew he was smiling.

”What’s your name?”

”You can call me Copia.”

Copia.

You rolled the name in your mind for a moment and with a smile on your lips, you turned to head home. And as soon as you got home, you changed your pajamas on and went to bed, welcoming the much needed sleep.

The rest of that night your dreams were occupied by a pair of red-white eyes, fangs and painted face.

#copia x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #ghost band fic #ghost band fanfic #jen writes fics

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tinfoilhatsss · 9 months

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Naomi is actually an antagonist

Most people have different theories about Naomi from BSD, so I thought I'd put my opinion in.

First off, Naomi is NOT an author like the rest of the BSD cast. Her namesake comes from Jun'ichirō Tanizaki's novel 'Naomi'. I'm going to be speculating about the connection between the novel and the BSD character, but I actually haven't read the novel myself. I'm taking my information from the summary.

The two members of the Armed Detective Agency without an author's namesake are Naomi and Haruno. (As seen down below)

Both are characters from the novel 'Naomi'. I'm just going to be focusing on Naomi for now, as she plays a bigger role in the novel and in the BSD plot, so I have a better understanding of the character.

Anyways. Naomi and Tanizaki's relationship has never really made sense to me. Asagiri is known for humanising his characters and making sure that all of them have motives, even some antagonists. For example...

Mori, although as asshole of a character, has an overarching need for the greater good. Although he has made some pretty hurtful decisions to get there, it's with a 'good' cause in mind

Fitzgerald wanted the book to revive his daughter to try and piece back together his family by improving his sick wive's mental state

I know this doesn't really apply to Fyodor and Fukuchi, but I have no doubt that by the end of the arc, their actions will have some sort of reasoning to them.

So WHY did he write Naomi and Tanizaki into some sort of seemingly incestuous relationship? Either or both of the scenarios below could explain their actions:

They're faking their romantic intentions

They're fake siblings

It still doesn't answer the question of what their relationship adds to the plot. It could be written with the intention of humour in the end, but Asagiri has stated in an interview that he's a fan of Chekhov’s Gun (the principle that all elements of a story are essential), which means he most likely wrote their relationship with a specific intention.

If Naomi holds a similar characterisation to the novel she is from, then her relationship with Tanizaki might not be as caring as it is made out to be.

In the novel, the character Naomi is actually the antagonist. The protagonist is an older man who becomes obsessed with Naomi and her Westernised personality. (Note: the book is set in post ww2 when America took part in the colonisation of Japan and thus became a large part of the culture there.)

The protagonist, a salaryman named Jōji, plans to gradually groom 15-year-old Naomi when they meet at a cafe. Her true nature is revealed to be incredibly manipulative. She eventually reverses the power imbalance and Jōji ends up completely submitting to her every whim.

This makes me question her role in the plot of BSD. Especially now that we actually haven't seen her in a long time (the entire Decay of Angels arc). Most BSD characters are based on the protagonists of their novels (Oba Yozo and Dazai), if not the author themselves.

Naomi being represented by the Antagonist makes me wonder if she is in fact a threat to Tanizaki. I would say that she is an ability, but Dazai has touched her before, so it's been confirmed she isn't. Could she be made by the book? Is she controlling Tanizaki, a mastermind in disguise? I think there must be more to her character than we see, or else Asagiri wouldn't have written her in.

she looks kind of sinister in the manga yknowww...

#naomi tanizaki #naomi bsd #bsd analysis #bungou stray dogs analysis #bsd theories #bsd #bungou stray dogs #tanizaki naomi #tanizaki junichirou

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thescribblings · 3 months

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LONG POST AHEAD! Lots of text and no drawings after the cut!

So, I've been procrastinating this post for a while because i don't have any art explaining his new arm except this one, and i wanted it to be pretty similar to, or even better than the first prosthetic post, but i don't think i can do anything more than an infodump today, lmfao sorry

But here it is! In all of its glowy/floaty glory!

Some facts and features about his arm under the cut

So, I'll just copy and paste what i wrote in my notes, since my brain is complete mush lately

The notes are unfinished and in no specific order, but i figured it might be interesting if you think my au is fun ,^,

His arm! Made of a mix of carbon fiber and whatever the fuck the metal future donnie invented is

-the metal parts of the arm are matte, for style, obviously

*The nails are made of a type of nanotech so he can customize everything about them, with some limits due to there being limited nanotech stored in the hand itself.

- he can have claws, short nails, stilettos, talons, or even a mix of them. He knows a thing or two about programming nanotechnology due to his other prosthetic, so he can customize it on his own eithout issue. And yes, he does

paint the nails on it, as well.

*Some form of electromagnetism keeps his hand and forearm attached, without it they'd just fall to the ground. Some things it can do with this feature involves;

-see how his sword is situated on his back? He couldn't possibly get it off without bending over backwards, it's too long, right? Actually, he can grab the handle with his prosthetic and then detach the hand from the forearm, this will let him independently control the hand, which lets him pull the sword out of its scabbard no problem

-the limbs can move independently, the only limit being his ability to focus enough to smoothly control the individual pieces. This lets him easily take his sword out of its scabbard with the hand while simultaneously blocking a hit with the forearm, for example

-since the hand is the only part that doesn't glow, it's much stealthier, so he can surprise attack opponents from behind, even when he's standing right in front of them

-are the parts sentient? Do they have independent will? He doesn't fuckin know, and neither does Donnie. He discovered that they can move independently on a whim and decided that it's best not to question it. He's totally not extremely cocky about having potentially created artificial intelligence on accident -Stickbug

*The individual pieces of the arm can hover, letting him do things like what is shown in the illustration

*Nanotech is stored in the individual pieces

-if something were to, say, slash his prosthetic forearm and leave a gash, the nanotech would mend it immediately, letting him keep fighting unaffected until he can properly fix the damage

-if something were to slice the entire forearm in two, the electromagnetism would pull the pieces together while the nanotech seals the gash, making the forearm good as new

*What is it powered by?

-i didn't mention this in the thigh prosthetic post, but his thigh isn't actually powered by anything, it doesn't need more than the guidance of his muscles to function

-the electromagnetism in the arm is powered by his ninpo, it lets him turn it on and off on a whim, and it gives him a more natural sense of control when he operates it

-his ninpo powers the electromagnetism, but what powers the rest of the arm? Trick question, it's the electromagnetism! It triggers mechanisms in the individual pieces that powers all the mechanical features, such as the nanotech, fingers, and a coupleo nes on brand with it being genius built:tm:

-since the arm is technically powered by, and connected to his ninpo, he can teleport it much like his nagamaki!

*since it's powered by his ninpo, if his ninpo gets spazzy he cannot use the arm. If he were to try to use the arm when his ninpo is spazzy, a lot of things might happen

-first things first, why would his ninpo be spazzy? It's a side effect of his body effectively sustaining itself with his ninpo for over a decade. It made up for lost sleep, lack of food and water, and everything you might need to, y'know, live. This quickly drained his ninpo until it was little more than a spark, and anytime that spark flickered out from him overworking himself, he'd crash and pass out for the next day and a half. He didn't actually know this was going on until he popped up in the present and everything just kinda started making sense

-it could switch on and off sporadically, causing it to fall to the floor and snap back into place at random

-the hand and forearm might suddenly shoot off in a random direction, which is hilarious, but also dangerous

-he would have basically no control over the arm, leading to jagged movement and randomly activating different features

-it might randomly teleport to or from him, depending on how he feels

*at first glance the previous point might seem like bad design choices, but it's actually a necessary feature! Since he tends to overdo it pretty often it's important that he can't use his prosthetic when his ninpo is spazzy

-his ninpo only gets spazzy if something triggers it, it's kinda like it switches between rest and survival mode, this gets triggered if he's overused his ninpo and it got too close to when he relied on it for survival

-the only way to fix his spazzy ninpo is, well, rest. A lot of napping. Which is why it's so important that he literally can't use his prosthetic when he needs rest

*It can teleport?

-why yes, it can! Being able to telepoort the pieces to and from himself gives him a huge advantge in battle. Since you can't disarm him! Pun intended

*it's a very silent piece of tech, which is ideal for his fighting style. the only part that makes the typical 'tech prosthetic' sounds is the fingers, as they are connected with joints instead of electromagnetism

*the flexible parts

-the main part covers the delt/ shoulder of his residual limb and wraps around his neck for a snug, comfortable fit.

-there's a sliver of it cutting the metal of the palm in half right between his fingers, giving it more mobility. (Try gently bending your own palm, it's surprisingly flexy)

-there's a small sliver at the 'wrist' of it, since it wouldn'tbe able to bend properly if there wasn't something leting that part of the hand bend, as well

-the flexible parts in the hand is yellow, while the piece covering his shoulder is green, adorned with his iconic shoulder stripe, in yellow, of course

-the green and yellow aren't a perfect colour match, they're a bit more saturated than his skin and markings, but it's not very noticable at first sight, so if he wears a hoodie over the arm his hand could be mistaken for a real hand, letting him hide it in public, to avoid stares

*The hand

-it has a softer, kinda rubbery material covering his palm and the length of the fingers that lets him tell different textures apart better, even if just by sound. It's a lighter, more desaturated green than the hand, even lighter thann his skin

-the soft material is not smooth, but rather textured, not bumpy, per se, just somewhat rough. Maybe a bit sandpaper-y

-the textured material gives him better grip, especially in battle, since it wouldn't exactly be ideal for a sword that is 5'7 long to suddenly fly across the battlefield. As funny as it would be, lol

-it also lets him control his grip strength better, so he doesn't accidentally crush someone's hand, or whatever object he was holding

*There's a good chance you might find him walking around with just the shoulder/bicep piece, since he can teleport the other pieces to himself at will, and it's less draining when he leaves them somewhere, off

Have nice day :]

#rottmnt #art #save rottmnt #sffl(wg)#future leo #rottmnt fanart #third season #my art #rottmnt future leo #look at his funky floaty prosthetic #feeling snazzy with his new prosthetic #prosthetics #i love designing them #but i spent like 6 months designing the thigh prosthetic #and I've only started on this one a few days ago #really rushing my creative process for ya'll tn #hope this is legible

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azrielbrainrot · 5 months

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"I Laugh Like Me Again... She Laughs Like You" got a lot more attention than I thought it would. I'm so happy so many people liked it and want to read more!!

Problem is I wrote it on a whim and with no clear idea of where the story was going. And as of right now I have 2 different ideas for how this can go and I can't decide which one is better </3 I think I'll have to write a little of both to see which one will make more sense to me... so it might take a while. That and I also have the next part of "Fire on Fire", "The Devil I Revel In" and healer reader started.

#isa talks

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apprenticestanheight · 4 months

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Imagine rimming/pegging Adam for the first time and hes all sarcastic and sassy like convinced he wont really like it even saying youre a perv (like the smart ass he is), then the second you start hes whimpering like a bitch and spreading his legs and begging for more <3

Pegging Adam Stanheight Headcanons + blurb

OH MY GOD ANON thank you for opening the floodgates with this one. It feels like it's been AGES since I last wrote for Adam (i've spent a lot of my time focused on an AU with Lawrence and trying to get a couple ideas for other characters to work on on my off days lol) and writing a fic involving pegging just felt like the right move to make so--here's this??

I also also also am SUPER SORRY for how long this has taken--if you've looked at my blog since I started last week, you'd know I work a really fuckin weird rotating schedule and twelve hour days. This has been marinating in my inbox since before I started working, however, and before then I was just demotivated and so anxious it borderlined upon debilitating. I really hope you enjoy this one and that it makes up for the time you spent waiting for it to come out. Also hope you're okay with headcanons and a little bit of a blurb as the fic format, as it made more sense mentally for me to do it that way.

Fic type - this one is SMUT!! y'all should know what that means by now, too--minors, GO AWAY!! This fic is for those 18+ and if I see you interacting I will not hesitate with my bestie, the block button.

Warnings - pegging, praise, begging, the use of a strap-on, I wanted to get this out today so it's also unedited, and again, MDNI!!

All right, to start, you are the one who finds it interesting first. You spend a solid week wherein all of your horniest thoughts consist of Adam pinned to the bed beneath you, one of your hands holding his chin while he whimpers bc the strap-on you're using is so big and you're moving at a pace that's so slow he almost hates it.

Adam finds it mildly interesting--he's thought about it once, decided he might not like it but also decides to bring it up to you one random night bc you're both high, exhausted, and horny.

So, now you're wondering how it gets brought up, right?

WHHAAAAAAAAAAALEEEEEE, Adam brings it up half asleep, when you're both in the aforementioned state of high and horny and also very exhausted.

"How would you feel about pegging, baby?" and then you're pulling him close bc he's not close enough (his chin is tucked into the crook of your neck and you can smell the mint and cigarettes that he emanates even when he's not smoking. You just want to meld yourself to him bc when you get high, yeah time ceases to be something you believe in but when you're high with Adam you're the clingiest person Jersey ever did see)

and you're saying "yeah, that would be fun, Adam," bc it has consumed your thoughts wholly for a solid two or three weeks by then, but you're wanting to be chill about it.

both of you are completely out to the world like, five minutes thereafter.

It does, however, get brought up the next night. He agrees to it pretty easily, says that the two of you can try it the next time you have sex and if neither of you like it then that's that, and if he doesn't like it, then you respect his boundaries enough to respect that about him.

You buy a strap-on on a compete whim from a sex shop near your apartment on a random wednesday, buy lube that day too bc sex safety and all.

Both of them wind up being used on a friday night, when Adam is stressed bc post-saw vet school has taken it's toll and if he has to study one more minute, he'll lose his mind.

You have dom/sub dynamics in the sexual aspect of your bedroom and both of you are switches, and Adam asks if you have the necessary things to peg him and laughs when your face just lights up at the idea.

You prep him, and the entire time that goes on, Adams like "I'm unsure about how this'll feel, but if it's not my thing, meh. I don't think I'll like it but trying it will have been decent, at least."

AND THEN YOU START

and Adam is still thinking he's probably not gonna enjoy it as much as you will.

"When did you become such a perv, baby?" is said by him in a few different variations when you're prepping + rimming him. It eggs you on and he knows that, wants whatever comes with it.

And then, you actually start pegging him--the strap-on you bought is a fairly large eight inches in length, a fairly thick girth, and blue just because, and seeing him beneath you is probably akin to seeing the handsomest man to ever exist?? maybe??

SO ANYWAY, you start, and Adam goes from thinking he won't really like it to needing you to bottom out like, instantly. He likes how it feels to be split open in that way, doesn't so much as TRY to hold back his moans.

He does try to look away, though--he's loud and proud of it but also somewhat embarrassed bc he's not really one to be submissive in the relationship (you work in marketing and deal with people all day so you come home wanting to be fucked into thoughtlessness more than he)

you, however, don't let him, and when you push into him another inch and a half, he moans lewdly while staring directly at you. it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.

When you finally bottom out, pressing a kiss to the sweet spot on his neck as one of your hands goes to his cock, Adam is feeling so amazing that he's convinced he'll start seeing stars.

You've heard Adam beg but a few times since you'd started dating, and it's been amazing every single time.

That night, he begs so much that you're sure you could bottle it and use it to get black-out drunk, should you have pleased.

He spreads his legs a bit more to let you have better access and moans when you start from a different but better angle.

He becomes a mess SO QUICKLY TOO IT'S THE FUCKING HOTTEST THING

all in all?? pegging him is one of the best decisions you could've made for your relationship bc both of you love it so much

"Oh my God, Y/N," he's moaning, helplessly, as you thrust quickly into him. "Oh my God. Please, please, please don't stop. Please--fuck."

"I know," you kiss the sweet spot on his neck, quickening the pace of your hand on his dick. "You're taking me so good, Adam. This is one of the best things I've ever seen. You're so hot, beneath me and begging to come, mm?"

Adam is so blissed out that he's almost not thinking, and when he comes he already knows he's gonna be a thoughtless mess from your ministrations. He's cock-drunk, loving the way that your strap-on fills him up and never wanting that to end.

"Fuck," he moans, not even trying to suppress the sound. "So close, Y/N. I'm--ah!"

You laugh, kissing his cheekbone as ropes of his come spurt from his dick and paint his stomach.

"You're so cute when you're cock-drunk like that," you laugh again. "You liked it?"

You're pulling out of him, slowly, as he nods. "Yeah," he says. "I loved it, actually."

You clean up his stomach and clean up yourself, having come from the feeling of the strap-on against your clit and the sound of Adams moans. When you climb into bed with him again, he pulls you close and holds you tightly.

"I love you, Y/N," he says.

"I love you too, Adam," is your, admittedly very exhausted sounding, response. "Next time I peg you, you're riding me while I sit with my back against the headboard. You love that position when I'm the one doing the riding, and I wanna know what the fuss is about."

Adam laughs, kisses your collarbone and gives your ass a cheeky little smack in form of a response.

You fall asleep not soon after, naked and cozy in each others arms.

#adam stanheight #adam stanheight x reader #saw (2004)

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celestemagnoliathewriter · 6 months

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Characterizing Ted Tonks

As many of you know, I've been on a Tedromeda kick lately (I happily blame @merlinsbudgiesmugglers aka my inspiration for Tedromeda/ kick-ass beta/co-mod). When it comes to Tedromeda, we have so little in canon that we've got to do some extrapolating to fill in the blanks for minor characters. Ted Tonks, unlike Andromeda, has some lines and scenes in DH, which serves as part of his characterization for me. However, as I characterize him in Supernova, my current longfic AU, it's taken me some work and time to build him as he is.

What I love about AUs is taking canon characters and personalities and then testing them in another situation. It's stripping the characters down to who they are at heart and then throwing them in the deep end to see how they cope. This means that characters won't always act like their 'canon' selves, because they are NOT in canon in an AU. And that's OKAY! That's why AUs exist. A good AU, to me, is one in which canon characterization is close enough that you can recognize the canon character, even if they don't say or do exactly the right thing. As in, 'would he say that?' The answer for canon might be no, but the answer for an AU is 'it makes sense for this situation.' The answer for non-canon/OOC is 'in no AU would he say this.' Anyway.

When it comes to lesser-developed characters, it's more challenging in one sense to keep what little canon we have, but it's a ton of fun in another way to develop a character deeper than canon could.

I've actually written Ted many times before. I wrote him for the first time in Collide, and as I kept writing and reading (always read! the more you read, the better a writer you become, I promise), I got a better idea of who he was. With him being a central character in Supernova - and his flaws coming out in all their glory - I thought I'd make a post on how I characterize him.

After all, in canon, Andromeda runs away with him. She left her wealth, privilege, and status for him. That means, at the very least, that he's not just a pretty face. Andromeda doesn't strike me as the type of character to do things on a whim. Ted had to be worth it.

So, with that intro bit out of the way, this is how I characterize Ted Tonks, particularly for Supernova:

Ted is loyal and kind. Andromeda wouldn't have run off with someone who wasn't going to be ride or die with her, much less someone who wasn't good to her.

Ted expects loyalty from others he loves and trusts. It will hurt him deeply to be betrayed. Once he's pledged his loyalty to someone, it would take heaven and earth being destroyed for him to go back on his promises.

Ted's kindness is as much a weakness as it is a strength. He is kind to a fault: he doesn't like hurting people. It's one of the reasons he can be dishonest, because he would rather lie than hurt someone. If you're reading Supernova, you'll see how that works out for him. When he does lash out, it's because he's hurting badly, but he feels guilty afterwards.

Ted is giving and generous. One of the reasons I HC him as a Healer (not only because he patched up Harry at the beginning of DH) is that he's kind to Dean in DH, and he seems to be really good with people in general. He seems like a helper, and with his healing skills, I see him as a Healer, which is a natural complement for being giving and generous.

Ted doesn't necessarily expect generosity from others, but he does like to be acknowledged for what he can do. In Supernova, he's repeatedly hurt by Andromeda rebuking him and his attempts to get to know Dora.

Ted is passionate and wants others to be passionate with him. He sees more possibilities than roadblocks. He gets frustrated when possibilities disappear, or when they're shut down by someone else.

Ted is determined. The upside to this is that he's a hard worker, but the downside is that he can be unreasonably stubborn.

Ted is a man of integrity. This is tied to his loyalty. However, under severe stress, his integrity can come into question when promises conflict with one another and his loyalties are tested to more than one party. In Supernova, he'll have those loyalties tested repeatedly.

Ted is sharp/clever. He's got a good mind and he keeps it open to new possibilities. He sometimes overestimates his abilities.

Above all, Ted is a good person and tries to be good to those around him. When he's determined to do right by someone, he'll do his utmost to be devoted to them. This is one of the biggest reasons why Andromeda falls for him - that intensity of being devoted to her is the kind of intensity she has too.

Next up, I'll make a post on characterizing Andromeda!

#ted tonks #edward tonks #tedromeda #andromeda black #andromeda black tonks #andromeda tonks #nymphadora tonks #supernova #characterization #on writing #my writing

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whereistheonepiece · 5 months

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Okay, time to talk about my One Piece ships and why I ship them while I wait on my laundry.

Not in any particular order.

Zosan- The Zosan seed sprouted in Arlong Park. Zoro grinned when he saw Sanji kick someone through the wall. Then that Chopper King of Beasts movie happened and they hyped each other up behind each other's backs and I was like, "Boyfriends!" I also like argumentative assholes who respect each other and become soft for each other.

Lawbin- Started as a whim. Started out as a stray thought that often happens when I like two characters I also happen to think are hot. But then an anon saw my stray musings and was like "Yes, join us!" And then I entered ship hell because I became obsessed with them and had no one to talk to about them. And the ideas were a little sad. And then I wrote a fic to figure out how they might work out in canon and I was like "God, these two make so much sense."

Buggyshanks (I don't like their official ship name sry)- One specific piece of fanart and they clicked in my head.

Usolu- They were a side pairing in a Zosan fanfic. It just made sense.

Usona- Same as Usolu.

Lusona (Luffy/Usopp/Nami)- Usopp has two hands.

Chakapell- I liked their dynamic. I liked coming up with headcanons for what their romance would look like. They're mature adults (not mature as in a euphemism for old, but mature as in fully mentally and emotionally developed) and sometimes one wants a mature romance.

Frobin- Everyone ships Frobin. I think I saw fanart and was like, "Well, yes." So they weren't a ship that jumped out at me while watching Enies Lobby, but some of my fav ships didn't jump out at me immediately.

Namivivi- They're cute. Why else does anyone else ship them?

Cavenlaw- Cavendish was very gallant with Law when Law was in need. I like seeing someone be so princely with our emo prince.

Cavenlawbin- Law has two hands. Robin has more than two hands. Robin can clone herself, actually. I'm just really attracted to these three characters and already ship 2/3 dynamics of it. Actually Cavendish/Robin is lurking in the back of my mind. Waiting to get me.

Other dynamics I like but I'm not unwell for or just really emotionally invested in:

Buggy/Galdino- They are friends with benefits.

Buggy/Alvida- Dumb man + mean lady who isn't as smart as she thinks she is. Failcouple energy. I think it was a fic that fully converted me.

Hanvida (Hancock/Alvida)- Good art. Good fics. Disappointed there isn't more fic.

Smohina (Smoker/Hina)- Smoker is a gruff, no-nonsense man who lets her call him "Smoker-kun." They have history. They're hot. Yes.

Viola/Robin aka Violin- Sexy. Hell, let's throw Law in there.

Buggycule aka Cross Guild + Shanks- Centered around Buggy. CG is funny but I like the idea of two hardened assholes like Croc and Mihawk catching feelings for the poor little meow meow that is Buggy. Plus Shanks has to be there. Buggy and his three weed smoking girlfriends.

Corabug- Cute fanart. Cora-san would be good for Buggy.

I think that covers it. You'll also see me reblog ships that didn't make it on here because I like nice fanart.

#my ships

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inviberu · 10 months

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calm down!

Someone needs to calm him down. Thankfully, the Sage is there to help the twins.

— super short! wrote this on a whim for a friend

"Mithra, dearest, you must calm down!" The situation doesn't look too good—that much, you can tell. Snow and White were too preoccupied trying to calm him down, clinging to his arm and legs as if their lives (although white is dead) depended on it.

So what happened? You thought back to what happened just a few moments ago. It barely provided any sort of coherent explanation. After all, Mithra just suddenly came storming out of his room with an angry expression with the twins closely following behind him.

He wasn't listening. No, not at all. Even the twins were beginning to give up seeing how stubborn he was being or perhaps they were getting prepared to make him stay through other means.

Ah, you shuddered. You didn't want to see such a sight. The northern wizards always said that the twins could be downright terrifying if they wanted to be.

"Let go."

"No, stay here...!" The two were pulling on his coat with all their might. Mithra clicked his tongue, and tried to walk away but oddly enough they were keeping him in place with just that. Were they using magic?

"Sage! Please talk some sense into him!" They pleaded, looking at them for any sort of aid or response. You jumped at the sudden request, snapping yourself out of your daze. Come to think of it—what were you even doing just standing around doing nothing?

"W-What do I do!?"

"Anything!" Snow exclaimed, "tell him something unexpected so he'll be caught off guard!"

Mithra summoned his magic tool and suddenly the timer started ticking.

One...

"Ah..."

Two...

"Um—!"

Three...!

"Mithra! D-Do you wanna go on a date!?

A sigh of relief. Mithra set down his skull as a blank expression took over his face and the twins finally let go of him just to collapse to the ground.

"Huh?" He tilted his head, "right now?"

"I- I mean not right now but—"

"If it isn't right now then I'll go continue what I was doing. Just tell me when later."

"Come to think of it! Haha, right now would be a good time! Impromptu dates are fun, aren't they!?"

#mhyk #mhyk writing #my writing #promise of wizard #mhyk x reader #mithra #mithra mhyk #mhyk mithra #mithra mahoyaku #mithra x reader #mhyk mithra x reader

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n7punk · 1 year

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As Many Lives As It Takes (To Be With You) - Interlude: Three Years Ago

This is an interlude/short companion fic for As Many Lives As It Takes (To Be With You), my Nine Lives AU. It's set three years before the main fic.

Main fic on AO3. Pairing: Catradora. Chapters: 3/? (probably 8-ish total). Word count: currently 17k. Rating: T.

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Interlude Summary: At nineteen, Catra finally accepts help, even if opening up to Scorpia feels like it might kill her. At least it wouldn't stick. Word count: 3.7k. Intended Order: After Chapter 3 (after Chapter 2 is fine too). Notes: This is "skippable" considering it wasn’t in the original outline, but I wrote it on a whim and liked it, so have it over here. The real chapter four will be back in present day and up in a day or two. (Reblogs are off because I don't want this further removed from the context of the original fic, where it won't make sense).

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Interlude: Three Years Ago

It’s warm by the stove, far warmer than Catra has been since the summer gave way to fall and then winter. Sometimes she curses Bright Moon for having a full season’s cycle. Other times she knows that it’s better than the constant heat or cold some other places have to deal with. The rain from being off the coast is a lot to contend with, though.

Catra stays on the opposite side of town from Bright Moon Bay if she can help it — the last thing she needs is to drown, again — but the tropical storm that blew in took the rain to her. Absently, she reaches up and scrunches her hand into her short hair. For being a pixie cut, it holds a lot of moisture, and water runs down her fingers. It’s worse than her clothes sometimes, especially right now when she has at least changed out of her top. She feels uncomfortable in the loose uniform shirt she is wearing over the pants she wrung out in the bathroom and then put back on, but it’s nice to have something dry on.

Catra huddles closer to the stove, hoping its warmth can work into her bones before the scorpioni slowly moving around the kitchen decides she’s done and heads home. Catra isn’t eager to go back out into the rain, but any time away from the downpour is worth it. It has to be for her to come inside like this. It always makes her feel cagey. She has stayed in shelters before, but they scare her, maybe even more than this small kitchen filled with the smell of baking does. Shelters felt like a place where people would look for her. No one would ever picture Catra of all people here, bedraggled on the floor of a small kitchen filled with cutesy pink things.

“Scorpia! Anyone come in yet?” Rose says, brightly, looking up from whatever she is brewing on one of the freestanding stovetops. Catra flinches as the younger of the women becomes visible, shuffling through the open doorway to the shop. No, they haven’t. Catra’s hearing is on overdrive trying to find the threats that surely must be lurking under the stacks of teacups. No one who had anywhere to go would be stupid enough to be out in this weather. Scorpia shakes her head, throwing her mom a smile.

“I put a notecard on the counter to yell to the back in case someone does come and we don’t hear them, but I doubt anyone is out.” Well, that’s the first smart thing Scorpia has said. “We should probably head out if there’s a lull. Otherwise I think we might end up stormed in. Mom’ll be so worried.” Make that two things, even if this one makes her ears pin back. Heading out means sending Catra out.

It will be miserable, but at least she’ll be out in the open again. Safe. She guesses. Nowhere feels safe with this storm all around them.

Rose sighs.

“We can once I finish prepping things for tomorrow. I don’t think it’s going to let up. If it looks like it’s about to get worse, then we should head home, but for now let’s just wait it out,” she agrees. Scorpia nods, her whole body bouncing with the motion.

Adora used to do that, Catra’s mind reminds her. Traitor.

As if she can hear her, Scorpia turns her attention on Catra. Catra shrinks back despite how she hates showing fear. She just wants to ball up here and sleep forever. Lay down a blanket and it would be perfect. No one would be stupid enough to let some random homeless person sleep in their family shop — she can’t believe Scorpia even came out to the alley when the storm started and invited her in, much less that she accepted — but it’s a nice fantasy.

She’s only entertaining it because she hates being wet. It reminds her of-

Fuck, does she have no options that don’t tug at one of her traumas? Outside is open and “safe” — except for how it’s definitely fucking not, even on an average day — being indoors is being trapped, being in the rain is drowning again, and she’s left with nothing. At least the stove is warm. Scorpia doesn’t take her tail tightly wrapping around her ankles for the hint that it is and shuffles closer. She stays out of striking distance even with her stinger, but Catra feels a growl rising in her throat and quickly looks away.

She’s only proving that they should tell her to go, but instead Scorpia just sits down on the floor with her for some reason.

“Quite the storm, huh? Like being inside a washing machine. Just woooosh,” Scorpia seems to mime clothes spinning around in a washing cycle by circling her pincers in front of her. Something in Catra feels warm. The stove is working, then. She grunts an acknowledgment. Speaking words is risky. She has learned to spit teeth at any who approach her, but she has to hold her tongue when someone is there to help. It stings her pride, but she wouldn’t have made it this long if she hadn’t learned to take some kindness. Scorpia gave her more of it than she deserved already when she let her in. The least she can do is not snap at her.

And listen to her ramble, apparently, because she goes, “Oh, this one time…” and then she’s off telling the story of how they got stuck in an awful storm like this while driving between towns and thought their car was going to get swept away. Catra grunts occasionally and shuffles to readjust her position so the other side of her can get more warmth before something she can’t feel starts getting burned. Scorpia’s story peters out around the time Catra is readjusting her arm, maneuvering it with her left hand and tucking it into her lap a couple of different ways before she finds something that she thinks works.

She can feel Scorpia staring. She can even see it out of her periphery. It doesn’t feel predatory or anything, like she’s cataloguing her weakness, but Catra still pulls her lip back to show her fangs. She doesn’t know why she bothers when Scorpia’s stinger could take her out before she even got close enough to land a hit, but Scorpia raises her pincers in surrender.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude! It’s not my business. I was just wondering if there was anything I could do? I don’t know if a sling would help or…” She trails off, already looking around the kitchen as if she will magically see a medical station appear. Catra finally speaks just because she thinks Scorpia is five seconds away from standing and rushing around to find something. Tracking her all over the restaurant again is going to start wearing on her nerves.

“It’s paralyzed. Nothing is going to make it better,” Catra grits back. She can tell Rose is listening, even if she isn’t looking at her. Rose seems just as nice as her daughter, but they could both be deceiving her. Catra is almost sold on Scorpia. Rose… Well, Rose doesn’t directly remind her of anyone she already trusts, so she’s on thin ice. That might as well be the Catra equivalent of a golden pedestal, though.

“A sling could keep it from getting in the way!” Scorpia pipes up, like Catra hasn’t thought of that. She has tried, once or twice, with an improvised scarf or something. It actually just puts her arm in the way and makes her feel more helplessness. It certainly makes her look it.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt, anyway,” she mutters back. Except when people touch it, she doesn’t add. That doesn’t happen a lot unless someone happens to bump into her, so it might as well not be weakness. She shifts to tuck in her arm a little more, like hiding it from view will change the subject. Scorpia just keeps looking at her.

“If you want to talk about it-” Catra growls, “-not that I’m asking! We’re going to be here a while is all, and… I get the feeling you’ve never talked about it. Talking about things usually makes me feel better. Sometimes my roommate will just sit and listen to me while I unload and it helps a lot even without her talking back or even looking at me,” Scorpia hurries to placate her before losing the plot. Catra grumbles, tucking her face down into her arms. Yeah, she doesn’t think talking is going to be anything like that for her.

She doesn’t usually even acknowledge it’s paralyzed. She has had to say it a few times, but the closest she has ever come to addressing anything that happened was when she ran into her old classmate, and even thinking about that makes her throat tight. The way he looked at her- How is she ever supposed to tell someone what happened when she’s just opening herself up to that? Scorpia isn’t looking at her with sick fascination, though. Her eyes are just big and soft, like A-

“I fell,” Catra replies, cutting that thought off before it can finish. Watching Scorpia light up when she realizes that she’s telling her and then her expression fall as she remembers what they’re talking about is kind of funny. Scorpia always seems so open and warm. The light in her heart felt near blinding the first few weeks that Catra ran into her. Okay, maybe she just reminded her of someone and it felt like someone pulling her ribs out of her chest when she looked at her.

“That’s, uh, quite the fall. I’m really sorry about that, Wildcat,” Scorpia says. Catra feels something that might be a trill rise in her chest and swallows it down, tucking in a little tighter. She didn’t realize she was starting to uncurl. It’s just a stupid nickname, she doesn’t know why it makes her feel anything. It isn’t even a nickname, just what Scorpia started calling her when Catra wouldn’t give her a name at first. She knows it now, and her moms use it, but Scorpia still calls her Wildcat. No matter what, Scorpia keeps trying.

She doesn’t know why. Catra knows their family helps out other people who come around here – that’s how she found out about them in the first place – and yet Scorpia latched onto her for some reason and seems determined to fix her. Maybe she’s the most broken person that comes around. Maybe Scorpia isn’t used to people not immediately loving her. Maybe Catra is just her age. For some reason, she keeps trying to get Catra to open up to her.

I get the feeling you’ve never talked about it before. Is that all it takes? To look at her, see she’s alone, and want to fix that? Why? She has been alone for years. No one has ever really tried to help before. Give her a few dollars here, let her sneak into the bathrooms there, but in general, she has been by herself. Not that she has ever asked for help, but why would she do that? They wouldn’t give it to her.

Most people wouldn’t, anyway. Most people wouldn’t get hissed and snarled at and still come running to the back door to hand out food and try to make small talk while claws were flashed at them. Not that Catra ever raised her hand in a real threat at Scorpia, but she has certainly prepped her claws when Scorpia looked like she might get closer or got too chummy. Catra doesn’t know why she’s still trying, still being nice when Catra has never shown that kind of grace back. Adora’s mom used to talk about putting back out into the world what you wanted to be given. Catra has only ever given back what she got.

And right now, she isn’t even doing that. She wraps her tail tightly around herself and runs her fingers down her arm. Her fur is completely dry there. She probably showed it to the oven too long.

“I can’t feel it except when other people touch it. And then it just hurts,” Catra murmurs. She doesn’t know why. She just told Scorpia how to hurt her with explicit instructions, but all Scorpia does is nod with a sympathetic look on her face.

“Is that… normal for paralysis? Is that what phantom pain is?” Scorpia asks. Catra actually laughs, a dark chuckle that feels foreign in her chest. Yeah, big Adora energ-

She clears her throat.

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s just a me thing,” she replies. Scorpia looks concerned and it makes Catra’s chest hurt, but for once, it kind of feels good? She’s used to hollowness, or angry buzzing, or bitter regret, but this feels more like stepping outside for the first time on a cold night, a shock to her system and tightness in her lungs. Eventually the numbness sets in, but in this moment? It feels good.

There’s a warm oven right next to her. Frostbite doesn’t have to creep into her fingers.

“That doesn’t sound good. When was the last time you saw a doctor? I know it’s probably hard to, but there has to be a free clinic or something, right?” Scorpia asks. Catra snorts, her hand still on her arm. She squeezes. She doesn’t really know why. It’s lax beneath her fingers, no muscles flexing to harden it.

“Never,” she replies. Rose stops pretending to be busy, freezing as Scorpia’s jaw drops. Suddenly self-conscious, Catra hunches her shoulders. “I was- I was homeless right after- Actually because of-” She cuts off. She doesn’t owe them an explanation. So why does she feel like she should have one? Why are tears burning at the back of her eyes?

She doesn’t want a doctor. She knows this. Any time she gets near a medical professional, it’s dangerous and panics her. How much could they suspect this long after the fall, though, when everything would be healed over? When she can just tell them whatever she wants about what happened? They wouldn’t be able to help, she always tells herself, and she’s right, but the fantasy of someone being able to is so alluring. A fantasy of being cared for, and things getting better, and more warm ovens while she’s at it.

“I- You need to. I know you probably can’t afford it, but it can’t be that expensive, right? Just for an appointment?” Scorpia asks, twisting around to look at her mom as she asks. Her mom turns around and looks just as stressed. Catra’s throat tightens. No. No, she can’t even let them suggest spending their money on something that would never help.

“No. Once it’s paralyzed there’s nothing you can really do. Any money I’ve ever had has been better served going towards food, or new clothes, or a room for the night. Things that keep me alive,” Catra replies, shaking her head. Food, clothes, things they’ve already done for her. They don’t need to do more.

She isn’t expecting Rose to turn to her, looking like she is about to cry.

“You’re so young. How did this happen to you?” she asks, her tone distraught enough for Catra to know it isn’t a real question, just internal horror making itself known, but still her mouth opens and closes a few times.

There are tears in her eyes. That realization is the last wall crumbling down as she buries her face in her knees and allows herself to cry for the first time in a long, long time.

Catra hasn’t really been in a car in the last three years. Scorpia doesn’t question it when she curls up in the backseat, dripping again from the rain that came down on them as they made the run from the shop to the car. Catra is still wearing the employee t-shirt, her bag that never leaves her side on the floor of the car beside her. Rose said her clothes were still soaked and Scorpia could just wash the shirt and bring it back when it was time.

Catra isn’t sure when is going to be the time. She isn’t sure where they’re going really, or how long she’s supposed to stay there, or how long she’s going to stay there, but she’s so exhausted that she just couldn’t fight it or find a reason to say no when Scorpia offered for her to stay with her while she got herself sorted out. She thinks the offer is a few days, with the condition that she actually do something about improving her life.

She isn’t sure where to start. She isn’t sure she’s ready to start. But she is sure she’s tired of this. If she walks away from this opportunity, she isn’t likely to ever get another one, or at least not one as kind as this. She doesn’t know there could be someone kinder after she cried on their floor for two hours and unloaded horrific shit on them as she went through what she could – first the fall, and then the homelessness, and then further back with the “near” drowning, and by then they got the picture but they still flinched when she mentioned the window, and Rose was crying as hard as she was when she talked about Weaver.

She doesn’t know why they let her do that. She depressed them, she knows, but instead of telling her it was time to go, they started workshopping solutions together, looking at her for input and approval while she just sat there, stunned.

Her toe claws flex against the floor of the car and she watches them almost snag on the car mats. She doesn’t trust this, but she has lived every day of the last three years in fear anyway. Might as well be indoors while she stews in her discomfort, right? As long as they’re willing to offer it. If this can last just long enough for her to get in a program or something like they suggested, maybe she can get somewhere that she trusts is safe. She’s scared to exist again, but she keeps telling herself it has been three years. She has the paralysis to show as “proof” of injury from the accident. She can sell this lie. She had it half-formed in her mind already, from times when she has had to brush up against the story before, but she put together something coherent on the floor of that shop, she thinks.

They offered her a home, so apparently it was good enough. She just has to hope that whatever government employee gets saddled with her case thinks so too.

She tenses when they finally park. Scorpia’s apartment block is pretty big, but nondescript. She can’t really tell what it’s going to be like from the lobby or hallway, but when Scorpia opens the door for her, the apartment is in good shape. Nothing fancy or expensive except maybe the TV, but nothing is broken or stained at first glance, and they have enough furniture to fill out the space. The couch looks like it will probably be the most comfortable place she has slept since last winter, so she doesn’t really care what Scorpia’s roommate is like as long as she doesn’t try to make her leave.

“Entrapta! We’re home! I brought a friend,” Scorpia calls, her booming voice forcing Catra to pin her ears back. Friend is a bit of a stretch, but it seems to interest Entrapta enough for her to emerge from down the hall after a few moments. She cocks her head as Scorpia busies herself with closing the door and putting away her shoes. Catra considers waving and ends up grimacing instead as she drops her bag from her shoulder and cautiously bends to set it beside where Scorpia put her shoes. The thing is filthy.

Catra straightens up and leaps in the air when she turns around and finds the girl with pigtails right behind her. She hisses, her tail shot straight out and her fur fluffing up, but Entrapta doesn’t even look at Catra’s claws snapping out and her left hand stiffening into an attack position, she just bends way too close to inspect Catra’s arm, which obviously swung as she moved.

“Fascinating! How long has it been like that? Can you feel it?” Entrapta asks, pulling a fucking wrench out of her pocket. Scorpia steps up beside Catra on her left, waving her pincers a little frantically.

“Entrapta, you can’t ask that! It’s rude!” Scorpia tries to stop her. Entrapta looks up, blinking at her. Scorpia throws Catra an apologetic look. “Sorry, she really doesn’t mean anything by it, she just doesn’t interact with a lot of people-”

Then Entrapta touches Catra’s arm. She screams into her teeth, buckling until one of Scorpia’s pincers catches her on her left side and she manages to stumble onto her feet again. Entrapta watches her with fascination.

It isn’t a great first meeting.

#amlait #writing tag #fic extra #ficmeta #tbh im still undecided on sharing it this way so like. this is where it is for now #it may remain here forever. it may not. but it was not part of My Vision(TM) for the fic #and felt like it pulled it down as part of the main thing so. over here #no one look at my indecision just take the sad words #people who mostly post fic on tumblr how the hell do you format #this is hell #okay i've futzed with this for too long just fucking take it

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