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

pinkaditty · 7 months ago

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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 · 1 year ago

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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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maybeiwasjustjade · 3 months ago

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The High King theory truly makes me ill.

And knowing SJM and her obsession with making certain characters superior and/or have some kind of divine right to rule, I know she’ll try to make it happen at the expense of literally everyone else.

Moreover, I don’t see how it can happen without a major war. They just got out of 50 years under Amarantha, I doubt the courts are itching for another incompetent warlords’ attempt at HK/HQ.

Who exactly would bow to Feyre and Rhysand? The High Lords meeting showed that barely anyone tolerated them, nor did they have any actual allies that wasn’t Helion. And I doubt Helion would be so forgiving when he finds out about Lucien. Tamlin and Eris would never, so they’d have to die. Neither would Tarquin or Kallias agree, so that’s a given war with the Seasonal Courts. Dawn would stay neutral, or end up the rebel court. It really is the only toss up.

And even with Gwydion (which rightfully belongs to Nesta alongside the Trove) as some kind of divine symbol, feysand genuinely sucks at ruling. Conquer Prythian—yes, conquer because the other HL would never submit if they asked nicely—when they can’t even rule or play nice with their own people. Enough with the HK dreams, Amren; Rhysand would be lucky if Illyria and Hewn City don’t band together soon to stage a massive uprising.

(Y’know I’m not surprised nobody in the IC can empathize with the CoN citizens. They were all trapped in Velaris for fifty years, where they were free and the sun still rose. Imagine if they’d been UtM with everyone else; maybe then they’d get it. That life where even the sun and trees and anything worth living is out of reach at the whims of a dictator is no life at all.)

And I’ve seen theories floating around that the HK plot is set up for Nyx instead, because he’s destined to inherit all seven powers of the court. Yeah, that’s equally terrible. Divine right to rule and conquer is bullshit. Balance is something that should exist but doesn’t in Acotar. If it did, Feyre wouldn’t be as powerful as she is. 7 drops is not a lot of magic; so tiny and miniscule that each HL didn’t even really notice they lost it. It doesn’t make sense that she could go toe to toe with them with just a singular drop.

Which is baffling when the same author wrote ToG. Everything that was given was scraped together and fought for miserably, and even in all that power, they had to sacrifice so much. Aelin Settled and got her kingdom back, but at the price of losing almost all her fire and getting to keep one drop of water. Dorian still has most of his magic, but at the price of being made a demon slave, committing fratricide, and having the sole responsibility of redeeming his kingdom ala Zuko. Manon fulfilled the prophecy and united her people, allowing them the chance to return home for the first time in 500 years. All it took was losing the Thirteen, who would never see that dream come to life.

Nothing came without cost.

And while yes, Feyre deserved to be remade after her death saving Prythian, the amount of magic she wields is the issue. Nesta having so much magic made sense given she stole most of it; we have yet to really see how much is left. But where’s the balance if Feysand does end up HK/HQ, or Nyx does. What have they given up that makes them more worthy to rule the entirety of Prythian than literally any other character? Because I can argue that they’ve lost a lot lesser. Whatever rights feysand believes they have is no more than a lot of other characters.

And the bloodline of Theia? Yeah, I’m pretty sure the important ones are her female descendants, like Bryce. And Bryce gave Gwydion to Nesta for a reason. If SJM wanted me to believe Feysand was the best choice, she should’ve made Nyx be born full Illyrian. Or better yet, mostly High Fae but with no magic. That would’ve been a much more interesting story to follow, given that Nyx might not be the next inheritor of the Night Court. And what it would mean for the Hewn City. She’ll never do it of course, but it would be fun.

#acotar #acotar critical #sjm critical #feyre critical #rhysand critical #feysand critical #inner circle critical #anti feysand #anti feyre #anti rhysand #just in case to be honest #anti high king theory #tog spoilers

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lottins-only · 3 months ago

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I bet we’d have really good bed chem | aurélien tchouaméni

A/N: i wrote this on a whim lmao but lmk what yall think. inspired by the sabrina carpenter song obvi.

warning: nsfw ig. not full on smut but suggestive stuff

you see him before he does. he’s hard to miss, moving around the party surrounded by a herd of people, as if to not interact with the normies. it makes you roll your eyes. why do famous people have to make such a fuss everywhere they go?

it’s a packed house party that night in Madrid, hosted by some influencer who hangs around the rich and famous. no wonder a couple real madrid players are here. they roll red carpets for them wherever they go in these parts. you, on the other hand, have no business being at the party, but you’d slipped in as a plus one of a plus one.

now, you’re indulging in all the free drinks, moving your body to whatever beat is playing. you and your friend are dancing together, moving among the mass of hot sweaty bodies. you’re having a time.

that is, until some asshole steps on your foot, crushing your toes through your open toe heels.

“Ow!” you yelp, hands flying to your feet. “What the fuck?”

“Oh mon dieu, I’m sorry” a deep, accented voice says while a firm hand on your arm steadies you. you look up to find its owner, and lo and behold it’s mr. aurelien tchouameni himself, madrid’s resident pretty boy.

he has the audacity to smirk at you while you’re still wincing in pain, dragging his eyes up your sheer black dress languidly. eyes pause at your cleavage before moving up to your face again. you yourself take stock of what’s in front of you; it’s not everyday you see someone so famous, and you gotta admit, so handsome up close. he’s dressed in a white bomber jacket and a pair of dark skinny jeans. that second part alone should’ve given you the ick but his beautiful face makes up for his disastrous fashion sense: plump, full lips. high cheekbones. jawline that could cut glass. deep brown eyes. he smiles a knowing smile, licking his lips. he knows you think he’s hot, of course he does.

“what’s your name?” he asks, hand still on your arm.

“y/n”

“I’m aurelien”

no shit, you think.

you shake hands, eyes locked.

“pretty name” you say

“pretty face” He says without skipping a beat. you smile involuntarily.

someone shoves past you in that moment, pushing you forward. you try to steady yourself, one hand instinctively landing on his chest. you almost gasp; he might as well have been made with stone the way his muscled chest is hard. you fight every desire you have to move your hand around the ridges of his abs, feel him up a bit.

he smirks again, leaning down close to your ear.

“need a hand or do you just like what you see?” His breath is hot against your neck, making you shiver.

you quickly snatch your hand away, flushing hotly. he caught you red handed, like he read your mind. when he leans back up his eyes are twinkling with mischief. bitch, you think.

“y/n, do you want to –”

he’s interrupted by one of his people whispering in his ear. He turns to you, apologetic again.

“give me your phone” He says. when you just give him a confused look, he takes the device out of your hand and deftly puts in his contact details, sliding the phone back into your palm in seconds. your breath hitches at the feeling of your fingers touching.

“i have to go” he says, then looks down at your feet. “sorry again”

he winks, flashing you a smile. then he’s gone. you shift to the side as his entourage moves, trying to avoid getting trampled on again.

you stay up a little later that night, staring at his contact on your phone, wishing you’d been the one to give him your number so he could reach out first. no one left you tongue tied like that, but the thing is, he’s so hot. So, here you are.

a couple days go by and your friend lets you know that the person who invited her to party reached out asking for your instagram. apparently, a friend of that person's friend met you at the party and wanted to connect. your friend asks if its ok to pass along your handle, and you hesitantly say yes, hoping, wishing, it's him and not some rando you don't remember meeting.

you get the notification on instagram that night: aurelientchm has requested to follow you!

you wait an hour to accept his request, and his message is instant: what does a guy have to do to get a text from you?

you type back: not step on my feet for starters

touché, he responds within seconds. you keep texting, flirting. you find you have a lot of the same tastes in music, movies, and also the same humor, so it’s pretty easy to make conversation. another week goes by and you start texting daily and even sending each other voice notes . you try to meet up, but it never works out: you’re either swamped with work, or he’s busy with training or off at an away match.

not in your timezone, but I wish I was :( he texted once when you proposed meeting but he was abroad for a champions league game.

the trouble starts when you open his instagram live one night. there he is in his home gym, your breath hitching at the sight of him. shirtless and glistening with sweat, he moves along to the beat of the music, mouthing the words to the french rap playing. his chest is sculpted and chiseled, pecs and abs defined. his shoulders, broad and powerful, lead down to a narrow waist. you watch as he goes through his routine, mouth slightly agape and heart racing as your eyes track his every movement, his every flex of muscle. then it’s over. the notification saying the live ended interrupts your almost drooling.

you toss and turn in your sleep during the night. the way he moved, his beautiful body, it was all stuck in your head. you can’t help it, you think about him touching you. those deep brown eyes giving you bedroom eyes. how he’d pick you up, pull down your panties, flip you around. You can hear his deep accented voice murmuring sweet nothings while his head is buried in between your legs. you imagine how he’d look hovering above you, that damn silver chain dangling down between you two. would he have the same concentrated look he had at the gym when he’s inside you? eyebrows furrowed, biting his lip, forehead glistening with sweat? you’d move together in a steady rhythm, your hands clinging to his back. he’d maintain eye contact throughout. and then, after basking in each other’s pleasure, you’d both arrive at the same time. you can see it all in your head.

needless to say, you go to sleep that night with an unsatisfied ache between your legs.

the instagram live is just the beginning though. aurelien starts sending you gym videos that leave you hot and bothered pretty regularly, and now it’s pretty clear to you that he’s thirst trapping you. slow zoom-ins of his chest interspersed with some cute content of his dog fill your screen whenever you open his snaps; the man is truly a menace. the worst part is that it works: you spend an alarming amount of time thinking about him, or thinking about you and him together, doing nasty things. if his end goal is leaving you in a perpetual state of horniness, then he’s achieved it. it’s unfair really.

are you free next week?

when you receive his text in the middle of work, you don’t hesitate for a second before replying with an enthusiastic yes. you quickly arrange to meet him at your place after his afternoon match. he even sends you tickets for you and a friend to attend the game, which you both enjoy. but as much as you try to focus on the game, your thoughts are already preoccupied. you make a joke with your friend about manifesting that he's oversized. because that’s all you can think about during those 90 minutes. you have high expectations, but you bet it’s better than in your head.

before you know it, you’re back in your apartment, waiting for him to pull up. you jump when you hear a knock, and you quickly open the door. he’s standing there looking handsome and freshly showered in his real madrid tracksuit and smiling that pretty smile at you. you lock eyes, and they say things you don’t verbalize.

“hi” he says.

“hi” you say back, flushing.

he drops his bag to the floor, and he quickly sweeps you off the ground, his lips crashing onto yours.

it is indeed better than in your head, you later find out.

#aurelien tchouameni x reader #aurelien tchouameni imagine #football imagine #aurelien tchouameni x you

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aislebewithshu · 1 month ago

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𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 loveit?

x gender neutral reader.

wc: 468

cw: yandere, mentions of cannibalism (in a metaphorical sense), character death, dismemberment (but not too graphic), vomit/throwing up, dark content basically. DIRECT references to the song loveit? and love eat and also based on the revenge theory bcs ppl have different interpretations towards this song lmao (and it made a dent in my brain forever. thank u to that one that came up w the theory).

dead dove, do not eat.

author notes: hi it's been a while since i last wrote anything.. i mean anything at all.. this (obviously) might not be the accurate representation to the songs HNFF pls i tried considering other theories... thank u for reading!! scroll away if uncomfy <3

red. It is the color he could only see.

how putrid, he thinks. seeing so many people surrounding you, it irks him. how could you talk to these… lowly creatures undeserving of your presence? he eyes you like a predator, watching your possible next move. oh, how he loves that horrified look you have for a second the moment you laid your eyes on him.

“come on, eat it, darling."

he urges you as you hesitantly look at the ‘food’ served to you, then back at the male. what could he put here that he insists that you eat the meal he prepared? you take a bite, and he smiles.

it was the meat of the person you last talked to, he whispered. the moment he said that to you, you immediately threw up, not letting said human meat inside your system. disgusting, vile, even uncanny.

he was pleased, after all, you wouldn't let anyone in your life except for him, would you? the first question in your mind was, why? why, would he go lengths, as to butcher one's body just because you talked with them? he hates that you're giving all your attention and affection to that insignificant pest.

he also has to stake claims to you - a mark that you are his. that's why he proceeded to gouge out your right eye. it was excruciating, but what mattered to him is that he put a mark on you forever, and he plans to do more.

after all, love makes everyone blind, even to those who think they've seen what true love looks like.

"i'm going to eat you, sexually unrestrained."

oh, why can't you say anything? you're not fighting him back, so you must like the pain he's inflicting from you? poor thing, but he loves you too much to let you go. he promises to eat you up, deep into the marrow, flesh and blood.

that is, until you snap.

cupping his cheeks with your stained hands, you gaze into his eyes. it is uncharacteristically loving, to the point that it freezes him on the spot. what are you going to do next? he thinks.

bringing your lips to his, he indulges in the sick, yet passionate kiss, as you bring your hand to take his knife. you wrap your arms around him as he does the same, tracing lines at his back with the knife you're holding, bringing your beloved to his beautiful demise.

"you're loveit in human form."

surely you haven't lost your mind? of course, love does make everyone blind, even him. your ultimate intentions— on why you had to indulge in his twisted whims, why you didn't fight back, it all made sense to him now. after all, he fell into the fake love you presented before him, a punishment you endowed on him for killing your actual beloved.

enstars - shiina niki, tenshouin eichi (hear me out), fushimi yuzuru, saegusa ibara, shino hajime, sakuma ritsu (honestly i cld put the whole niki's kitchen circle here)

twst - trey clover, jade leech, jamil viper

bllk - mikage reo, kaiser michael, bachira meguru (hear me out pt. 2)

hsr - jiaoqiu

+ your faves.

©AISLEBEWITHSHU on tumblr. do not repost / feed to AI.

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luffyvace · 11 months ago

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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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flowerbloom-arts · 28 days ago

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“It's for a comic strip I do called 'Grumble and Bumble,' Grumble likes to yell but deep down he loves Bumble like a son.”

Seymour sometimes has a creative side, whether it be accidentally plagiarizing Jurassic Park for a book he's been thinking about writing (s5 ep19) or writing a couple screenplays in the hopes of getting them to Universal Studios and winning an Oscar (s19 ep18), and likely due to a lack of an active imagination or minimal media consumption he tends to draw inspiration from his own life for his art.

The screenplays he wrote in Any Given Sundance had titles that he fairly obviously based on his life or desires - “When Edna Met Seymour” (this is 4 whole seasons after they broke up), “Ghost Willie” (Willie hates Seymour's guts like most of the school staff but how much Seymour hates him back I can't quite say, or this could be more metaphorical and Willie's hatred is manifested into a threatening ghost form), “Killing Seymour's Mother” (he's expressed a desire to kill Agnes multiple times throughout the show due to resentment and despite his seemingly unconditional love for her), and “The Principal Who Sold a Screenplay” (this is simply premature wish-fulfillment)

“Grumble and Bumble” is no different. If the designs of the characters didn't make this obvious enough, Grumble is Chalmers and Bumble is Skinner himself, and thusly he is speaking indirectly about his ideas of what his dynamic with his superintendent is by using Grumble and Bumble as an allegory. But why would Seymour believe that despite the sometimes abusive tendencies Gary treats him with, Gary loves him "like a son" deep down?

I've often thought how similar Chalmers is to Agnes in some respects, especially when it pertains to their treatment of Seymour, but to an audience they have their fairly obvious differences.

While Agnes' abuse stems from a mix of bitterness and a fear of abandonment from the only person who still loves her despite her behavior, Gary's abuse seems to stem from a deep-seated annoyance with Skinner's behavior. Chalmers doesn't like Skinner being his bootlicker, the few times Chalmers treats him with benevolence or fondness is when Skinner acts confident in himself, unburdened by Chalmers' whims over him, meanwhile Agnes actively kicks him down when he tries to stand up.

Of course, it doesn't really make a difference to Skinner, I doubt he himself sees the difference, all he knows is that they dislike him but he can sometimes win over their affection if he does... Something, anything, likely whatever they want him to do which is be obedient and successful at his tasks despite his nightmarish circumstances because that's what they yell at him to do. He can't differentiate between what Chalmers likes and what Agnes likes because he's so used to his mother and Chalmers is so close to that pattern of behavior they might as well be the same.

And just as Seymour loves Agnes, he also loves Chalmers. It doesn't particularly matter if that love is familial or platonic or even romantic on Seymour's end, really, because it all leads to the same result; that love leads to a desire to fulfill whatever harsh demand is given to him. He's a dog in that sense, and he never knows when to quit (as Bart says; "No matter how badly you get treated, you always come back for more! It's like your superpower!" - s32 ep8).

And despite everything Gary's put him through, he hopes desperately that he can achieve and continue to maintain any morsel of affection he may throw for doing a good job, just like Agnes would. He thinks the abuse hides an inherent affection Chalmers harbors for him; why else would Gary keep coming to school to see him? Why else would he seem to care about it so much? It must be similar to how his mother still keeps a roof over his head or cooks him food; she cares despite her hatred, because he is her son and there's an unconditional love there between them. Seymour knows this, and so therefore there has to be one conclusion, no matter what kind of affection Skinner feels for him:

Chalmers likes to yell but deep down he loves Skinner like a son. Just as Agnes loves him as a son.

“No he doesn't.”

— s26 ep11, Bart's New Friend

#the simpsons #simpsons screenshot #seymour skinner #principal skinner #gary chalmers #superintendent chalmers #should I tag this as a ship..#chalmskinn #character analysis #reading too much into Simpsons jokes is my specialty <33

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nuri148 · 7 months ago

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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 · 1 year ago

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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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silverofthunder · 9 months ago

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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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leclsrc · 2 years ago

Text

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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