#and its got less varying length

[sometimesanalice]

For the Plot

Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Length: 7.7k

Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh

Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.

In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.

You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[dxrlingluv]

The Sea God

Pt. 2

A/N : I LOVE this request sooo much that I didn’t even noticed the length it has gone to. Uhhh have fun :3 Also if anyone wants a part two just comment! Poseidon art is from neil_illustrator! Thank you so much for requesting this ♒️🤍🤍.

WARNING : GN!Mortal!Modern!Reader, Poseidon is scary, Hermes lowkey became a babysitter, mentions of trauma, kidnapping, and violence. Not proofread.

Word Count : 3.8k

The world, in Y/N's experience, was varying shades of grey. Trust was a fragile commodity, easily shattered, and belief in anything beyond the tangible, the provable? That was a luxury Y/N couldn't afford. Past hurts had built walls around their heart, high and thick, but those walls had crumbled slightly for one person: Persephone.

They'd met Kore – as she'd introduced herself – in a quiet city park Y/N frequented to escape the noise. She had an aura of bewildered innocence mixed with a surprising depth. Y/N, usually wary, found themselves drawn to her gentle nature. They became unlikely friends, Y/N sharing cynical observations about the world, and Persephone offering surprisingly wise, sometimes oddly archaic, advice.

One late afternoon, strolling through a less savory part of town after visiting a small art gallery Persephone had wanted to see, trouble found them. A group of rough-looking men cornered them, leering at Persephone's otherworldly beauty.

"Well, well, what have we got here?" the leader sneered, stepping closer. "Lost, little flower?"

Persephone shrank back, her eyes wide. "Please, just let us pass."

"Oh, we'll let you pass," another chuckled darkly, reaching for her arm.

Something inside Y/N snapped. The low-simmering trauma, the ingrained need to protect the few good things left, ignited into cold fury. Before anyone could react, Y/N stepped directly between Persephone and the men.

"Touch her," Y/N's voice was dangerously low, devoid of its usual cautious tone, "and you'll lose your hand. Maybe more."

The leader scoffed. "Big words from... well, whatever you are. Get out of the way."

"No." Y/N didn't move, didn't even flinch as the man took another step. "You heard me. Back. Off. Now." There was a chilling certainty in their voice that made even the hardened thugs pause. When one tried to shove past, Y/N moved with unexpected speed, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard. A sickening crack echoed in the alley, followed by a howl of pain.

"I WARNED YOU!" Y/N yelled, eyes blazing with a ferocity that stunned everyone, including Persephone. The other men, seeing their companion clutching a broken arm and the sheer protective rage radiating from Y/N, scrambled away, dragging their injured friend with them.

Y/N stood trembling, the adrenaline slowly fading, leaving them shaky. Persephone gently touched their arm. "Y/N... you were incredible. Thank you."

"No one," Y/N said, voice still tight, "messes with you."

Persephone, back in the Underworld and occasionally visiting Olympus, couldn't stop talking about Y/N.

"—and then they just snapped his wrist! Like a dry twig!" she recounted excitedly to Hermes, who was lounging nearby. "Their eyes went completely cold, but fierce! You should have seen it, Hermes! Utterly devoted, absolutely fearless when protecting someone they care about."

"Another tale of the mighty mortal Y/N?" Hermes drawled, polishing his caduceus. "Honestly, Seph, you've told this story, or variations thereof, to nearly everyone. Father Zeus is intrigued, Aunt Hera is suspicious, Ares thinks they sound amusingly violent, and Uncle Poseidon... well, he just raised an eyebrow, which is high praise, I suppose."

"But they are amazing!" Persephone insisted. "So strong, so loyal, even though they don't believe in anything! They think we're all just stories!"

"Which, perhaps," came a deep voice. Hades emerged from the shadows, putting an arm around his wife. "Makes their loyalty even more potent. It is given freely, without hope of divine reward or fear of divine punishment." He looked thoughtful. "The others grow restless with your tales, my dear. Some are annoyed, some... deeply curious."

Y/N's next conscious thought was one of intense disorientation. The hard concrete of their apartment floor was replaced by... clouds? No, impossibly smooth, cool marble that seemed to gleam with internal light. Groggily, they pushed themselves up, head pounding. They weren't in their apartment. They weren't anywhere they recognized. Towering pillars soared towards a golden sky, intricate carvings depicting scenes Y/N's skeptical mind immediately dismissed as myth.

Panic began to set in. Kidnapped? Drugged? This was far too elaborate.

"Ah, you're awake! Excellent." A cheerful voice broke the silence.

Y/N spun around, instinctively falling into a defensive crouch. Standing there was a young man with winged sandals and a mischievous grin, leaning casually on a staff entwined with serpents.

"Who the hell are you? Where am I?" Y/N demanded, voice raspy. Their eyes darted around, assessing potential exits or weapons. Nothing but ridiculously ornate architecture.

"Temper, temper," the winged man tutted. "Relax! You're on Olympus. Big O? Home of the Gods? Ring any bells?" He gestured expansively. "I'm Hermes, by the way. Messenger, guide, currently assigned babysitter, apparently."

"Olympus," Y/N repeated flatly, disbelief warring with the impossible reality around them. "Right. And I suppose Zeus is about to pop out and zap me with a lightning bolt for jaywalking?" Sarcasm dripped from every word. This had to be a hallucination, a very weird dream.

"Well, Zeus is around, but lightning bolts are usually reserved for more serious offenses," Hermes chuckled. "Honestly, you're here because Persephone wouldn't stop singing your praises. Someone decided the best way to satisfy divine curiosity—or perhaps annoyance—was to just... bring you here."

"Bring me here? You mean kidnap me?" Y/N straightened up, fists clenching. The fear was being rapidly replaced by anger. "You can't just abduct people!"

"Technically," a new voice interjected, deep and resonant like the ocean depths, "we can do pretty much whatever we want."

Y/N turned. Leaning against a massive pillar, observing them with an unnerving calmness, was a man who radiated power. He had sea-green eyes that seemed to hold ancient storms, dark hair, and carried a large, ornate trident as casually as one might carry an umbrella. The air around him felt heavy, charged.

Y/N's skeptical mind screamed delusion, but the sheer presence of the man was undeniable. Still, defenses shot up higher than ever.

"And who are you supposed to be?" Y/N challenged, crossing their arms, trying to project confidence they didn't feel. "King Triton?"

Hermes winced slightly. "Uh, darling, maybe dial back the snark? This is—"

The man pushed off the pillar, taking a slow step towards them. He wasn't smiling. "I am Poseidon." He stated it simply, as if announcing the tide's turn. "God of the Seas, Earthquakes, Storms, Horses." He paused, his sea-green eyes fixed on Y/N. "And I believe you are the human Persephone finds so... compelling."

Despite the impossible situation, Y/N's ingrained skepticism and defiance kicked in. "Look, 'Poseidon'," Y/N said, making air quotes with their fingers, "and 'Hermes'," they gestured sharply at the winged messenger, "I don't know what kind of elaborate prank this is, or if I'm having a psychotic break, but I want to go home. Now. I don't believe in gods, I don't belong on... on 'Olympus'," the name felt ridiculous on their tongue, "and I certainly didn't ask to be abducted!"

Poseidon merely raised an eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible hint of amusement – or perhaps irritation – flickering in his ancient eyes. Hermes sighed dramatically.

"Oh dear," Hermes muttered, glancing between the fiercely defiant mortal and the immensely powerful sea god. "This is going to be even more complicated than I thought."

Y/N met Poseidon's gaze head-on, refusing to back down even as a primal part of their brain screamed about the danger. This was not how they expected their day to go, and they weren't about to be cowed, god or no god. "So, are you going to send me back, or do I have to find my own way off this ridiculous cloud?"

Poseidon's sea-green eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at Y/N's defiant question and dismissive tone. The air, already feeling strangely charged to Y/N, grew heavier, thick with the scent of brine and ozone, like the air before a massive storm breaks over the ocean. It wasn't an overt threat, but it was a palpable shift in the atmosphere, a silent assertion of power.

"Find your own way?" Poseidon's voice was deceptively calm, yet it vibrated with an underlying power that seemed to echo off the impossibly high ceilings. "Mortal, you are on Olympus. There is no 'finding your way' off, unless we permit it. Even he," Poseidon flicked a glance towards Hermes, "cannot simply ferry souls from here without sanction."

Hermes nervously adjusted the strap of his messenger bag. "He's not wrong, darling. Bit of a one-way street for mortals, unless you get the official divine taxi service, which, ah, usually requires not insulting the management." He offered a weak smile. "Look, I get it. It's a lot. One minute you're probably, I don't know, microwaving leftover pizza, the next, bam! Hall of the Gods. But this isn't a prank."

"Isn't it?" Y/N shot back, turning their glare on Hermes. "Because kidnapping someone, dragging them to... to Cloud Cuckoo Land, and expecting them to just accept that guys with tridents and winged shoes are real? That sounds exactly like some twisted, elaborate prank." They turned back to Poseidon, refusing to be intimidated by the atmospheric pressure. "Or a hallucination brought on by bad plumbing fumes."

Poseidon took another step closer. He was taller than Y/N had first realized, built solid like a sea wall that had withstood millennia of crashing waves. He stopped barely an arm's length away, forcing Y/N to crane their neck slightly to maintain eye contact.

"You speak of belief," Poseidon said, his voice lower now, more intimate but no less powerful. "You stand before proof, yet you cling to disbelief like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood. Is it bravery? Or merely stubborn foolishness?"

"It's called rationality," Y/N retorted, trying to ignore the way their heart hammered against their ribs. The sheer presence of this man... being... was overwhelming, but admitting that felt like surrender. "Show me something I can't explain away as a trick. Go on. Turn that fancy fork into a fish. Make it rain indoors. Do something other than loom and talk cryptically."

A flicker of something – annoyance, perhaps – crossed Poseidon's features. Hermes quickly stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Y/N's shoulder. "Whoa there, sparky! Let's not go goading the Lord of the Seas into redecorating. Trust me, the cleanup is a nightmare."

Y/N shrugged off Hermes' hand, fueled by a mixture of terror and indignation. "Why not? If he's who he says he is, it should be easy, right? Unless you're both just part of some elaborate stage play." Deciding direct action was better than standing here arguing with delusions, Y/N tried to push past Poseidon, aiming for the vast archway behind him. "I'm leaving."

It was like running into solid rock. Y/N stumbled back, their shoulder aching from the impact. Poseidon hadn't moved a muscle, hadn't even seemed to brace himself. He just stood there, immovable, ancient power contained within a deceptively humanoid form.

Y/N stared, momentarily stunned. No human could be that dense, that immovable. The air still crackled. The scent of the sea was stronger now. Doubt, cold and unwelcome, began to seep through the cracks in their skepticism.

Poseidon looked down at them, his expression unreadable. "Leave?" he echoed, the word rumbling like distant thunder. "You mortals are always in such a rush. Rushing towards your brief lives, rushing towards your inevitable ends." He tilted his head slightly. "Persephone spoke of your loyalty. Your ferocity in defense of her. She failed to mention your... startling lack of self-preservation."

"Maybe I just don't like being kidnapped and patronized by mythological figures!" Y/N snapped, rubbing their shoulder, defiance flaring back up to mask the dawning, terrifying possibility that this was real.

"Enough," Poseidon stated. The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the air, silencing even Hermes' next attempt at placation. "You were brought here because your actions, your nature, intrigued beings far older and more powerful than you can comprehend. Whether you believe is irrelevant. You *are* here." He gestured slightly with his trident, not menacingly, but as an indication. "Hermes will see you settled somewhere less... public. We," he paused, his sea-green eyes locking with Y/N's again, "will speak later. When you have perhaps grasped the reality of your situation."

Hermes cleared his throat. "Right then! V.I.P. suite – well, okay, maybe more like 'confused mortal containment room, Olympian edition' – this way, darling! Try not to insult any more major deities on the way, please? My nerves can't take it." He gave a hesitant nudge. "Come on."

Y/N hesitated, glancing from the now impassive face of Poseidon back to Hermes' expectant one. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to deny. But the immovable presence of the Sea God, the sheer impossibility of the place... it was starting to wear them down. With a frustrated sigh that felt utterly inadequate for the situation, Y/N took a tentative step to follow Hermes, casting one last wary, resentful look back at the god who claimed dominion over the oceans. This was far from over.

Following Hermes felt surreal. Y/N walked with stiff posture, acutely aware of the towering presence of Poseidon fading behind them, though the lingering scent of salt and storm seemed to cling to the air. Every instinct still screamed trap, delusion, dream, but the throbbing ache in their shoulder where they'd collided with the unyielding god was a stubbornly physical counterargument.

Hermes led them away from the grand hall, down corridors that defied Euclidean geometry. Archways opened onto balconies overlooking landscapes that shifted like oil on water – one moment a nebula swirled below, the next a sun-drenched Grecian coastline impossibly far beneath them. Pillars carved with glowing runes pulsed softly, and occasionally, shimmering figures would glide past, offering Hermes casual nods before disappearing through solid walls.

"Try not to stare too much," Hermes advised cheerfully, noticing Y/N's wide eyes despite their attempt at a nonchalant facade. "Some folks around here are a bit shy. Others... well, others might take staring as an invitation, and trust me, you're not ready for that kind of divine attention yet."

Y/N swallowed hard, tearing their gaze away from a fountain where the water flowed upwards. "Right. Wouldn't want to accidentally challenge Apollo to a staring contest or get turned into a spider by Athena for looking sideways," they muttered, the sarcasm less biting now, edged with a dawning unease.

Hermes laughed. "Something like that! See? You're learning! Though Athena's more likely to challenge you to a quiz bowl first. Arachne was kind of a special case." He winked. "So, questions? Concerns? Burning desire to know where the bathrooms are? Because divine plumbing is a marvel, truly."

"I have a million questions," Y/N admitted, the words feeling heavy. "Like, why me? Why drag me up here over some hearsay from Persephone? And how are you planning on sending me back?"

"Okay, easy ones first," Hermes said, ticking points off on his fingers. "Why you? Because Persephone's assessment – fierce, loyal, protective, surprisingly strong mortal – piqued interest. Gods get bored, Y/N. Novelty is appealing. Plus, your whole 'I don't believe in you' schtick? Downright fascinating to beings who've been worshipped, feared, and mythologized for millennia."

He conveniently skipped the 'how to send you back' part and gestured towards an ornate door inlaid with mother-of-pearl. "As for why drag you up? Efficiency, mostly. Easier than arranging godly field trips down to... what was it? Your little grey box apartment?"

Y/N bristled at the description but didn't argue. The sheer absurdity, mingled with the undeniable reality surrounding them, was short-circuiting their usual argumentative responses.

Hermes pushed the door open. "And voilà! Your temporary accommodations. Olympian standard, mortal-compatible."

The room wasn't a cell, much to Y/N's surprise. It was spacious and airy, furnished with plush couches and strange, beautiful objects that seemed to hum with low energy. One wall was entirely absent, replaced by a shimmering barrier that looked out onto a swirling vortex of stars. There was no bed, just a large, inviting nest of impossibly soft-looking cushions in the center.

"Comfy, right?" Hermes beamed. "Nectar dispenser over there – careful, small doses only for mortals, seriously. Ambrosia is probably off-limits, sorry. Wardrobe should auto-tailor anything you need. And the... uh... facilities are through that archway." He pointed. "Self-cleaning, naturally."

Y/N walked slowly into the center of the room, running a hand over the strange, cool fabric of a cushion. They looked out at the starscape. It was terrifyingly beautiful. "So I'm just... supposed to stay here?"

"For now," Hermes confirmed, his tone becoming slightly more serious. He leaned against the doorframe. "Look, Y/N. You made quite the first impression. Standing up to Poseidon like that? Mortals usually dissolve into puddles of terror. Or try to offer sacrifices. Your approach was... different."

"He's just a person," Y/N said, but the words lacked conviction even to their own ears now. That immovable presence...

"No," Hermes corrected gently but firmly. "He's not. None of us are just 'people.' Remember that. Especially with him. Poseidon's moods are tied to the oceans – vast, deep, capable of tranquil beauty and catastrophic destruction. He was intrigued by your defiance, I think. Don't mistake that intrigue for softness." He pushed off the doorframe. "Try to... adjust. Get some rest if you can. Someone will be by eventually. Probably."

"Probably?" Y/N echoed, alarm flaring up again.

"Olympus time is flexible!" Hermes said with a wave. "Could be an hour, could be a day. Just... try not to break anything expensive. Or yourself." And with a final, blindingly fast smile, he zipped out, the ornate door clicking shut behind him, leaving Y/N utterly alone in a room that shouldn't exist, in a place that defied all logic, with the chilling weight of Poseidon's final promise hanging in the air: We will speak later.

Y/N sank onto the cushion-nest, the silence of the room pressing in. They stared out at the swirling cosmos beyond the barrier, the ache in their shoulder a dull throb. Skepticism warred with the undeniable evidence of their senses. Kidnapped by actual gods. Gods who were annoyed, or intrigued, by them. And one, the Lord of the Seas himself, intended to speak with them again. A shiver, completely unrelated to the room's temperature, traced its way down Y/N's spine. This wasn't a dream, and it definitely wasn't a prank. It was terrifyingly, impossibly real.

Silence. After Hermes’ rapid departure, the silence in the strange, star-view room was profound. Not the absence of noise Y/N was used to back on Earth, occasionally punctuated by traffic or neighbors, but a deep, humming quiet that felt ancient and vast, like the void outside the shimmering barrier.

Y/N remained huddled on the cushion-nest for what felt like a long time, simply staring out at the wheeling galaxies. The initial shock was slowly, terrifyingly, being replaced by a cold dread mixed with reluctant awe. It was real. The immovable god, the winged messenger, the impossible architecture, this room overlooking space – it was all horrifyingly real.

“Kore– well… Persephone,” Y/N thought, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over them – warmth for their friend, confusion, and a growing ember of resentment. “Did you know they’d do this? Did you tell them stories thinking it would lead to… abduction?” It seemed unlikely; Persephone, despite her strange wisdom, possessed a core of genuine sweetness. She probably thought she was just bragging about her cool, tough human friend. The thought brought little comfort.

Eventually, restlessness overcame the paralysis. Y/N stood up, legs stiff, and began to cautiously explore the room. They approached the shimmering barrier that served as a window. Tentatively, they reached out a hand. It stopped inches away, met by an invisible, yielding force, like pushing against dense water. It wasn't solid, but it was impassable. The starscape beyond seemed close enough to touch, nebulae swirling in colors Y/N had never imagined. Looking down, they saw nothingness – just an infinite, terrifying drop into the cosmos. They quickly stepped back.

Next, the wardrobe. It was just a smooth panel set into the wall. Y/N hesitated, then pressed it. The panel slid silently aside, revealing… nothing. Just an empty space. Confused, Y/N thought, “Clothes?” Instantly, garments materialized on hangers – simple, comfortable tunics and trousers in soft, earthy tones, vaguely Grecian but practical. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Okay, less toga party, more… divine loungewear.” A flicker of their old sarcasm surfaced. They reached out and touched a tunic. The fabric felt impossibly soft, cool against their skin.

Curiosity overriding caution, Y/N approached the nectar dispenser Hermes had pointed out. It looked like a simple, elegant carafe filled with golden liquid. Remembering Hermes’ warning, Y/N poured only a tiny drop onto their fingertip and hesitantly tasted it.

An explosion of flavor unlike anything they’d ever experienced bloomed on their tongue – sunshine, honey, rain on warm earth, a hint of the sea – it was overwhelming, intoxicating, yet vanished in an instant, leaving only a pleasant warmth. No exploding, thankfully. But definitely not normal Earth-juice.

They paced the room, running through the encounters again. Hermes, annoying but seemingly not malicious. And Poseidon… The memory of his sea-green eyes, the sheer weight of his presence, the casual way he’d spoken of mortals rushing towards their ends… Y/N shivered again. He wasn't just powerful; he was ancient. What could a being like that possibly want with them? Intrigue? What did that even mean for a god? Was Y/N just a momentary distraction, like a human might watch an interesting bug before stepping on it?

“He said we’d speak later,” Y/N muttered aloud, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room. “When I’d grasped the reality.” Well, reality was definitely grasping back now, hard. The question was, what would that conversation entail? Demands? Threats? Tests?

A soft chime echoed through the room, startling Y/N so badly they nearly jumped onto the cushion-nest. It wasn't the door. It sounded like it came from everywhere at once. Was that the signal? Were they coming back?

Y/N’s heart hammered. They instinctively straightened up, trying to gather the remnants of their composure, hands clenching and unclenching at their sides. They faced the door, bracing themselves. Whether it was Hermes with more confusing advice or the formidable Sea God himself, Y/N wasn’t sure which prospect was worse. The waiting, the uncertainty, was agony. The silence stretched again, marked only by the frantic beat of Y/N's own heart against their ribs. Any moment now…

[signedeclipse]

Ooh, i found your page, and i saw your prompt post about the Multiple/All hashira have feelings for the reader who is the best swordsmith and all want their swords done by her, I think it be funny to also add Hotaru Haganezuka to the mix and him also being like "im not sharing my fellow Smith back off!" :D

I think all would be funny with all hashira, but anyone underage it's like I admire you and you are now my older sibling/parent now.

Giyuu | Gyomei | Mitsuri | Muichiro | Obanai | Sanemi | Shinobu [X Reader]

In which you are the best swordsmith, and the hashira you're assigned to adore you.

Giyuu

He never deserved any kind of special blade, special treatment, or anything above what the average person got

At least, thats how Giyuu thought about things

Recently, his swordsmith had retired, and while he had stated he didn't care who got the job, there was still pressure for him to pick since it was considered some kind of honour

During his visit to the village, he met you at an izakaya, where you were talking with the owner about your proposal for the 'hashira in town'

He felt bad for walking in, knowing you didn't intend for him to hear anything, so he immediately tried to hide in the corner and finish his food sooner

Unfortunately, the owner immediately pointed him out, and asked him to come over to talk to you

Both of you were red with embarrassment, and Giyuu had to insist you stop apologizing

You were nervous about talking about the design, but eventually he caught the gist that you wanted to repurpose another sword into his since older steel was more valuable

You'd clearly done your research because you knew of him and Sabito, and you offered to use Sabito's left-over ore to add to his for some more sentimental value

Giyuu was really keen about the idea, and before the choosing ceremony could occur, he presented himself to Lord Tecchin to request you become his permanent swordsmith

Gyomei

Nichirin blades were the most common weapon used by demon slayers

Gyomei had started with one, but he quickly found his attacks were focused on the impact, and less on the perfect point of precision

He needed something different, but he wasn't sure what

Being a bother was something he hated doing, but he took it upon himself to visit the swordsmith village so he could meet with Lord Tecchin

Even Tecchin was unsure, until one of his guards spoke about you, a budding swordsmith with a less traditional outlook on weapons

Gyomei was willing to try, and he was glad he did

You were a natural creative, he could hear your charcoal sketching along parchment even as it was hidden below melancholic humming

You were interested in his assessment of his inability to use nichirin to its best potential, and after considering several forms of weapons, you both landed on something that could act at various ranges

The flail was a deadly weapon on a stick, but you proposed keeping it on a chain would help him control it, since he could vary how much length he gave the flail to move

"It'll be heavy, though, and hard to know where it's going. How much can you lift?"

"Several thousand kilograms."

"Ah."

You were at a loss for words, but you took him seriously and began working

Gyomei actually had a hand in helping make them, because you could barely carry the flail moulds, let alone the finished product

You instructed his hands on how to feel the weapon, gave him suggestions on use, and described its appearance so he could adjust the colours as he liked

Your patience was appreciated, and Gyomei took it upon himself to make sure you were treated extremely well after the week of gruelling work

Mitsuri

Mitsuri had a very special blade

It needed to be thin enough to bend, but thick enough to remain still when not moving

The only person who had ever managed this perfect precision was Lord Tecchin, but as he grew older, the task became harder

So, there was a contest for a replacement; anyone who wanted to could join

You were intrigued by the idea, but you'd had trouble in the past with your experimental blades, so much so that some friends of yours suggested you leave yourself out

But you wanted to give it a try, besides, you'd heard great things about the love Hashira, and you were sure she wouldn't be mean about it if it didn't meet her standards

Your best idea was to use something other than the scarlet ore to give it further reinforcement, so you created an alluminium-steel alloy that could be coated in scarlet ore by melting the scarlet crimson Iron Sand, which was more flexible than the ore

It resulted in a long, thin, and sturdy blade that could handle nearly triple the force of its original, though it wasn't as flexible as before

On the day of the contest, Mitsuri was extremely interested in your process, and you got to see your creation in its moving form for the first time

Mitsuri was extremely talented, and she had no problem bending the sword with her whipped movements

As it turns out, she had to be careful with her previous swords because she had gotten too strong for them and they got too loose

You easily won, and Mitsuri was beyond joyed to know her swordsmith was not only talented, but also extremely pretty!

She's always sketching herself with her sword on the letters she sends to you and often inviting you out to eat

Expect a lot of recipes sent your way, and a lot of sweet messages detailing how excited she is to see you again

Muichiro

Swords were the least of his concerns when it came to slaying demons

They should always be perfect, always kill without getting in his way; he shouldn't have to ever think about it

But after his run-in with Tanjiro and his previous swordsmith passing away, the concerns bubbled up

He didn't have time to spend waiting on some smith to make something comparable to what he wielded, he needed something just as good, if not better

So the search began, and of course, your name popped up a lot when he'd ask who was 'the best'

You were young, close to his age, and you were hard at work when he found you

Muichiro ignores every craftsman sword hung upon your wall, disregards every talent, and demands you take him on

But stubborn meets stubborn, and when you say no, hes taken back

What do you mean 'no'? Do you have any idea how much of a speck you are compared to him?

The challenge you present nags at him, and he decides youre not worth it; he can always ask someone else

But the idea of anything less than perfect, the annoyance of you denying him, it manages to peer through the mind fog several times to the point of annoyance

Fine, he'll say please and apologize, because your craftsmanship is worth it

When he does get his sword, he's even more irked that it never so much as scratches, and works extremely hard to try and break it just so he can tell everyone you aren't as good as they say

It never happens

Obanai

No one could get his concept right

A lot of people thought he wanted what Mitsuri had, which he thought was extremely well crafted, but it wasn't exactly what he needed

Mitsuri had the arm strength to handle a weapon that long and precise, but he needed something smaller, more sturdy, but with 'joints' of weakness

His concept was rejected by many, and his frustration was beginning to boil

When you came up to him, requesting to make it, he had already given up and mentioned he was leaving soon, and not to bother him

Even after leaving the village and resigning into using the typical blade, he was surprised when you found your way all the way out to his mission point just to deliver him a weapon he never asked for

He didn't like that someone had intruded on his mission, but when you were both attacked and he had a chance to use it, he had a hard time being mad

The weak points of the weapon started far apart and got closer together near the top, giving the blade a wave-like appearance that certainly looked odd

But when moved with enough force and velocity, the joints could be bent further to reach around corners in odd ways, following his movements with a latency that let him fit it through impossible holes and bends

It was everything he was looking for and more, considering he only proposed two joints and you'd delivered nearly twenty in a blade as short as seventy centimetres

Hes impressed, but hes still mad you made this journey and put yourself in danger, so of course he is going to take you all the way back to the village

Personally

With no one else

And listen to you talk the whole time

Yea

Sanemi

Sure, swords were important, but he didn't give them much thought

He was always getting new ones because his always chipped, snapped, and scratched with all the force he was putting on them

The blades were built for flesh, but he didn't care, he practiced cutting rocks and throwing the blade like it was some kind of toy

Eventually, his destructive tendancy drove his swordsmith to quitting, as many others had, and he was once again called into the village to find another

The choosing ceremony was skipped with him, since it often ended up with him insulting everyone and picking the person who cried the least

So now he just went from workshop to workshop, looking at what people could offer

Your workshop looked the newest, with freshly varnished wood and some construction materials still left on the side of the den you worked out of

It was just you in the workshop, with new bulletin boards already covered in sketches and schematics, and a shelf of ores labelled by size, strength, and purity

Sanemi figured since you were new, you'd take longer to break and give up, so he resigned to Lord Tecchin whom he had picked and challenged you to have it done by the next day

It was an impossible challenge, but that was the point

Even so, the next day you were at his door by the crack of dawn, not one, but two identicle blades ready for him to retrieve

They were perfect, left matte instead of shining, and sharp enough to cut a perfect lien through the most delicate and loose fabric

Sanemi hated to admit it, but he appreciated that you'd at least already prepared him a replacement

When he tried them out for the first time, he finds they last a lot longer, and it takes him several months for a chip to occur in it

Even then, he has a second one, so for the first time in years, he's been away from the village for more than six months

You're not perfect, but you're certainly good, and he's thrilled to see what more you can do with a few more years of practice

Shinobu

When Shinobu first started toying with the idea of wisteria poison as an effective killing method, the hardest part was figuring out how to apply it to a blade

Injection was most effective, but needles were chunky and harder to get into demons campared to something broad like a nichirin blade

So she was reffered to you, and you drafted up several ideas that you felt she might enjoy

Other swordmen felt it was an insult to the dark, to remove the central half of the blade, but it was the easiest way for her to have something light without shortening the blade or thinning it out and risking it snapping

The planning resulted in a very unique blade but an even more unique sheath

Shinobu hadn't asked, but you lined it with a spongy fabric so that she could fill it with the poison and automatically apply itself along the blade

It had a drain, anti-microbial and anti-rusting additions, and a beautiful handpainted pattern along its outside.

The amount of thought you put into it really astonished her, and while she never had issues with the design, Shinobu made sure to have a bi-annual trip to visit you

Along with the many letters she would send with news and treats from the butterfly mansion

Being able to share her experiences with you with other hashira or corps members gives her a sense of pride, especially when she gets to show off something she used to view as a sign of weakness

Authors Note - I have wanted to write this prompt for SO LONG!! Its a lot of characters, so I apologize but I left out Uzio, Kyojuro, and Haganezuka to focus on those I had the most ideas for!

Thank you for requesting, anon!

[dduane]

Hi! I'd love to hear ur take on the whole Spirk Canon discussion going on right now as someone who's written licensed Trek books. Like besides the whole "did Unification 765874 make spirk canon" thing, is it even fair to talk about spirk being canon or not? What would it take for spirk to "be canon"? It strikes me as a very fandom-y (positive) way to interact with media, which is funny since k/s invented fandom culture. But at the same time ur Supernatural comparison was right on the money and paramount has been VERY weird about addressing their relationship in nutrek. What are ur thoughts??

First of all: Despite the excitement of any given moment, people need to be careful about mistaking anything I reblog without further-amplifying comment, on any subject, as necessarily implying agreement or approval. Lots of times I reblog things just to direct attention to them (and sometimes because I think they're funny).

"ur Supernatural comparison" was not mine. It was somebody else's. I reblogged it to direct attention to it. (And maybe I thought it was funny.)

...Also, wut iz dis "nutrek" u speak of? When you've been working in this universe for long enough, with the necessary perspective to look up and down the length of it without idiosyncratically-added heat... then all Trek is Trek. The spectrum along which its varying species all coexist is ever more complexly and interestingly braided than it once was, sure. But that's all. I've got enough on my plate at the moment not to have time to waste trying to force different aspects of Trek into cage fights with each other.

And: "Paramount"? Who is that, exactly? At the pointy end, all corporations are made up of people. Which ones are we talking about? Which production entities? Which creative teams? Which execs, working under whose supervising auspices, and when? Working with whose (character/worldview/policy) decisions, and for how long?

None of this stuff is simple to work out, and it's not helpful to try to come at it as if it's necessarily going to be easy to tease out who's doing what to whom. Briefly: it's normal for it to look weird. But don’t mistake a Big Corporate Monolith for something actually monolithic.

Also, for the moment, ffs, let's all just step away from the business of defining what K/S and/or Spirk actually involves. Enough ink and electrons have been spilled over this whole spectrum of character relationship since the 1960s, and frankly, life's too short. Definitely too short to be trying to resolve it all in terms of something that dropped...when? About this time last night, or the night before? :) Jeeeez, people. Take a breath or three and let things settle.

So I don't think anybody needs to be hearing my deep cogitations about the new short film right now... because there aren't any. No question, Unification's beautiful to look at—and I've told Dave Blass he did nice work, about which i don't think there can be any possible doubt. (Not to mention the high-end technical aspects dealt with so seamlessly in such a small tight package, which have left my jaw on the floor.) The Giacchino score's also quite lovely, but that also is more or less a given.

As for everything else: I decline to spew opinion all over the joint until I've had a chance to assimilate what I've seen, and actually acquire a useful opinion from somewhere or other. Meanwhile, y'all just keep doing what you're all doing, and I'll go make some more tea. :)

[1-800-deactivatednearu]

click to see the first image at full size!

[image description: two digital drawings. first is of scout's ma as a drag queen. she is posed like the engraving on the side of the ambassador, standing with one leg bent slightly and a smug smile. she holds one open fan in front of her thigh and the other behind her head, both blue and with "Bang!" written in white cursive. the front fan is slightly bloodstained. she wears a navy pinstripe sheath dress that buttons up the front and a detached shirt collar and bow tie. the collar is square, with lapels like a suit jacket. she has blue eye shadow, red lipstick, and sharply contoured cheekbones.

second drawing is of spy sitting at her feet as she lights his cigarette, holding his jaw in her hand. scout's ma wears a lighter blue dress with long sleeves and a back cutout, striped with yellow and dark blue. spy is a drag king is a large black furry coat with light brown trim, a straw hat, pink pants, and a leather harness. /end description.]

shes mama but she also responds to mommy ;)

(she/her pronouns for mama, he/him pronouns for james bondage (drag king spy)!)

the thought process talk got a little long, see more under the cut!

the main inspiration was honestly her beehive and the hand fans in the ambassador engraving and then i ran with it :) was looking at her and thinking that her design is so distinct its fairly easy to keep recognizable (for anyone curious, its the beehive, headband, mod dress, square neckline, belt)

the first design is based off spy films! the ambassador was an incredibly strong influence . i would not call this a masc look by any stretch of the imagination but i was aiming for relatively more masc . i was somewhat inspired by james bond i think? but its not too unique of a look . it can be any spy . it could even be tf2 spy! which is why she has a matching belt and watch

a bit of a relic of the past (as in ideas on the cutting room floor) is that her sleeves are so puffy because i was considering having her dress be made of a shiny material and i like how light looks on scrunchy shiny material :)

the fans say bang because i think it would be incredibly funny to snap them open . dont worry about the blood . i was planning for her to have a gun strapped to her leg but theres no space for it, unfortunately :(

the second is the result of challenging myself to vary her dress a little more while keeping the same silhouette . its not too exciting in changes construction wise! but the back cutout is because i love rendering skin and if the angle permits it then... i was leaning more into the mod dress look with the patterning this time around, its a lot lighter this time around in colors because i deserve more fun coloring this time around! tossed in yellow as the popular accent color of choice .

james bondage is far less inspired whoops . the plan was more or less "i want to make him look like an expensive cat" . the leather harness was realizing i have got to capitalize off the bondage part . i do not know how to feel about the wearing it over a jacket that big

with james bondage i went pose first, then clothes, then clothes on the pose. which is to say, this outfit is probably more exciting without the jacket . whoops!

[image description: digital sketch of spy's full outfit from the drawing of him with scout's ma. obscured details: his black gloves are at opera length with belts attached, the straw hat has a ribbon that match his pants, the pants have two buttons as opposed to one for the fly, and he is wearing ankle length boots with stilettos and red soles. end description.]

[breadvidence]

I'm going to table a two-pole concept as a useful tool when evaluating what you're building when you write meta/literary analysis.

So: say there's a distinction between what you can read out of a text and what you can read into a text: or, I'm going to use those prepositions as convenient shorthands for this post as I talk about one of many patterns in literary analysis. Both are the bread and butter equally of the academic industry and fan work, though I'd bet the former would pretend it uses reading into texts less, and I've seen fan work fail more genuinely to see the difference.

When we read out of the text, direct quotes, context, historical facts, etc. come together into a more complex idea or conclusion: one of my favorites in Les Misérables is the murder-suicide implication of Marius bringing Javert's pistols with him to his final (missed) meeting with Cosette at the Rue Plumet. It hinges on the context of Romantic tropes surrounding the death of lovers, his direct association with Ulbach via the Lark's meadow, his insistence that death will follow their separation, the fact of there being two pistols, and answers the otherwise puzzling question put to us when the narrator says "It would be difficult to say what vague thought [Marius] had in his mind when he took [the pistols] with him." (4.9.2). Now, whether Marius would have shot Cosette—or solicited her to commit suicide with him—is beyond what we can read out of the text, in my opinion, but the potential is inarguable.

What we can read out of a text is, I will note, haunted by the question of authorial intent. There's this guy named Barthes, I think it is, who fucked us up on that one.

"Why are you bringing up prepositions to talk about basic literary analysis, Bread?" I hear you ask. But wait! There's more. A preface this with: per my opening, I'm laying out a concept with two poles, and there's a gradient between them, nothing fits perfectly-neatly, and any analysis might be a blend of in and out—and almost all things read into a text must somewhat come out of it. That qualifier being said, I'll still argue for:

When we read into the text, while quotes, context, historical fact, etc. may spark the idea, ultimately the analysis begins with its conclusion, and we are seeking to find material to shore up a structure we've already built. So, so much professional queer literary criticism of works created without explicit queer intent fall into this category, bless 'em, and so does a lot of fan meta. Reading into a text is the entire game of fanfic, and it's a space in which creators can enrich the works of others. Often, what we bring into the text is ourselves—which is neat as fuck, particularly for a queer person like myself whose understanding of the world radically differs from an author like Victor Hugo (though of the ideas that I freely admit to reading into the text, my real darling is fear as Javert's primary emotional motivator [Hugo tells us at length about Javert's emotional motivation: I just think it's neat to ask why do we hate?, and find an answer that is less painful than for its own sake]). Analysis that has been read into the text can be intricate, built upon extensive evidence from the text and history, but ultimately it varies from what can be read out of the text in being indefensible: some portion, however compelling, relies upon an element that cannot be found in the text and its context: if the analysis could not be independently built by every reader possessed of the same basic facts, you got something read in. What we build this kind of analysis with often includes, without value judgment, our emotion, identity, and personal investments (ever-present in analysis of all types, but in these specific cases structurally integral). For a second example: to me, it's incredibly important that the bourgeois marriage at the end of Les Misérables is meant as a failure of the sociopolitical ethical argument made by the book as the whole, but I cannot read that out of the text. Trust me, I have tried to build that analysis, and I always find myself having to lean on feeling and inference and implication in a way that's so much air. To make Les Mis meaningful for myself, I stick to this idea of that failure: but I can't defend it to someone else.

I can still write an analysis of Javert motivated by fear or bourgeois marriage as failure, share that, have people read and (hopefully) enjoy it—that's meaningful fanwork (or academic work, for that matter; that's a thin line in literature). What I won't do is defend those points as definitive readings of the text, and I definitely ain't going to argue back if somebody tells me they have a different reading. Sometimes analysis can tip-toe right along the edge of being out of and into the text, but I can tell you when I'm doing the latter.

There are times when you can read into the text in a way that is fully indulgent in fan work in a way that academia generally avoids (or pretends to avoid): take, for example, building trans Enjolras out of canon material. There is precisely zero way to read out of Les Misérables that Victor Hugo wrote the novel imagining Enjolras had anything other than a dick—I am not altogether married to the question of authorial intent, but me and it are on friendly terms, and I'm dead confident here—but as fandom has made abundantly clear, you can read transness into the novel (which is not to say Hugo doesn't play with androgyny and gender in Enjolras' character—he's just not flying the pink-periwinkle-and-white). This is something that means a lot to a lot of people, and that's valuable. The fact that it's not in the novel does not invalidate the meaning. It simply means it's built on different ground (and, when we talk about the ways in which a text lacks or fucks up or can do more, we find going into it results in a more fertile reading than simply getting out of it).

There's no have to in meta or literary analysis—it's a game we're playing with stories that are themselves games—but I think this framework has a couple benefits as a tool to analyze analysis, particularly in a social environment. (1) If your goal is to make arguments about what can be firmly concluded from a text, recognizing that reading into it is a different style of analysis with a different level of portability to others is useful and (2) recognizing that what you have read into the text is refutable and idiosyncratic strengthens your ability to remain engaged with others who don't share or agree with your analysis. Now, sometimes you think you're reading out of the text, and additional information or a counterpoint prove you wrong: that's fine, inevitable, we all got our days where we didn't know the historical usage of a certain word or something, eh? On the other hand, if you're perfectly aware you're reading into the text, if someone tables a counterpoint or additional information, you can say: Yeah, cool, thank you, my investment in this idea is playful or personal or what-have-you, and its defensibility is irrelevant to its existence.

From personal experience? All beneficial.

[petvampire]

The original drabble I was working on that started this whole Cluedo prompt thing into motion. 🤣 A little gift for @anything-thats-rock-and-roll who pointed out that I somehow haven’t written Cat King x Edwin x Monty together yet! (What are we calling these three as a ship, anyway?)

So here we have them, in the library, with the rope. 💖

NSFW

~

Walking in on Monty tied up is not exactly how the Cat King envisioned his day going, but he’s certainly not complaining.

He’s rounded the corner into the expanded library of the Dead Boy Detectives’ office - with the influx of new volumes to their collection, the ghosts needed more space for their books. So the office has undergone some changes, a few mundane, a few magical. They occupy the whole top floor of the building now, and the library is its own room, to Edwin’s eternal delight. The change is recent enough that the ghost is often still found here just wandering, touching shelves and books with a proprietary sort of contentment. He’s very much in his element here, whether curled up to read in one of the heavy wingback chairs he picked out, or poring over the varied volumes to do research for a case.

Right now, he’s not doing either, but he’s still perfectly in his element. A length of silk rope dyed a stormy grey is held in his hands, half of it already wrapped around the crow in an elaborate web of knots. He’s frowning down at an open book laid out on the low table next to him, one with a diagram that he is presumably studying, trying to replicate.

Monty looks utterly calm and unruffled, even with his arms bound behind his back in a way that looks faintly uncomfortable. He’s still fully dressed, both of them are, which makes the scene a little less fun for Thomas - but then, it’s fairly clear at first glance that this isn’t some heated interlude he’s interrupting, but a bit of hands-on practice.

Still, both of them look surprised and just a hint flustered when he clears his throat, drawing their attention to him. Evidently they weren’t expecting anyone to walk in on this bit of… research.

“I’m guessing this isn’t for a case,” he drawls, amusement lacing his tone. A hint of pink crawls across Monty’s cheeks, but Edwin just raises a brow; he’s become much better at maintaining his composure.

“And how can you be certain of that?” His voice is as cool and crisp as ever, though there’s a hint of a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Perhaps I’m attempting to find new ways to subdue potential threats.”

The shapeshifter’s eyes scan over the complex series of loops and knots, more decorative than functional, and he smirks. “Sweetheart, if you start tying up your clients, you’re going to end up with more business than you can handle.” He paces closer, trailing fingertips along the rope where it loops around Monty’s arms. The crow tilts his head, flashes him a teasing little smile, and Thomas can’t resist the urge to brush a quick kiss against his mouth.

He’s too fascinated by the rope to be distracted for long, though. Edwin has certainly got a knack for this sort of thing, those elegant hands deft with the elaborate ties. Thomas is more than a little amused to see that he’s been researching, practicing, since the first use of this particular skill set. He peers over the other’s shoulder to look at the diagram he seems to be trying to replicate, and grins.

“Looks like you’re only about halfway done,” he says almost conversationally to Edwin, running his fingertip up Monty’s spine, the back of his neck, feeling his crow shiver. “Want a hand?” He’s not offering to help with the rope, not really. There are more entertaining things to do than fuss over perfect knots, since he’s here.

The ghost presses his lips together, suppressing a laugh. Thomas is insatiable; he’s not the faintest bit surprised that the other wants to make what was simply a bit of an exercise in improving his skills into something more… salacious. “I suppose Monty is owed a reward for allowing me to practice on him.”

“Lucky me,” the crow murmurs with a smirk. He’s baiting the Cat King, all three of them know it, but the man rises to the occasion with pleasure.

He may not be as adept with rope as Edwin is, but he knows very well how to work with it once it’s on somebody. A tug on the ladder of strands lacing Monty’s arms behind his back forces him to arch, making a small sound low in his throat. “Maybe one of these days you’ll learn not to mouth off when someone’s being nice to you,” he drawls, but there’s no real reprimand in the words. They’re just an excuse to tease, to play.

A little more pressure in just the right places, and Monty is sinking to his knees, spine still arched, head tilted back. Edwin eyes him like an artist surveying a canvas, and kneels down beside him with the rest of the rope. It seems to take him little time to draw more loops and knots around the other’s limbs, wrists bound to ankles by another series of elaborate coils, forcing him to stay in that bent-back position. It would certainly be uncomfortable to remain in for too much time, but neither of them intends to keep him that way for long.

The crow’s eyes are slightly glazed now in a way they weren’t before, when Edwin was approaching the ropework in a far more clinical manner. The long, pale column of his neck is on display in this pose, and Thomas can’t help but take advantage. His mouth wanders lazily over that soft skin, biting and sucking sharp red marks here and there. Monty swallows any sound he might have made, but his pulse is rapid, the scent of arousal far too obvious to the shapeshifter to hide. Not that any of them are trying.

Edwin has pulled back after finishing the last tie, just… watching, but there’s a quiet hunger in his eyes. Thomas meets them and grins again, nuzzling against Monty’s throat. “You know, this really would look better on him naked,” he purrs.

“I was hoping to make sure I could execute this tie perfectly before using it properly,” the ghost shoots back, tart as ever. “But since you’ve decided to move up the timetable, perhaps you could oblige me.”

It’s all he has to say; Thomas flicks a hand, and Monty’s clothes have dissolved into nothing, the crow making a softly startled little noise. The ropes have just a little more slack without the barrier of fabric in the way, but not enough for him to so much as relax. No, he’s still well and truly bound, and now the center of both men’s focus.

The deep grey of the rope looks lovely against his skin, the forced arch of his back emphasizing the lean line of his body. Thomas slides away from him to stand and consider the view from all angles, before slipping an arm around Edwin’s waist. “Looks pretty perfect to me,” he murmurs teasingly into the ghost’s ear.

“You’re a bit biased.”

“Even so.” The teasing exchange cuts off as his mouth settles over Edwin’s, the kiss slow and heated. Thomas deliberately draws it out, knowing Monty is watching - knowing he can’t do anything but watch at the moment.

He can’t help but enjoy every opportunity he gets to tease one of his lovers with another, to play their desires off each other. It’s doubly delectable with Monty bound and practically helpless at their feet, though the hunger in his gaze is nearly palpable. Thomas can feel the heat of it like a hand brushing over his skin as he lazily unbuttons Edwin’s shirt, unknots his bow tie.

He hears Monty’s soft little groan when he finally gets the ghost at least partly undressed, the glimpses of skin beneath all those layers fanning the flames of desire. Thomas’ hands run up Edwin’s chest, and he laughs against his mouth, finally drawing back from the kiss, glancing at his crow.

“Of course, the problem is, he’s no damn use down there.” It elicits a dry laugh from the ghost, his gaze sliding over Monty in that slow, appreciative way.

“Perhaps not. He is rather fetching like this, though.” He bends, and now it’s his lips skimming over the crow’s neck, almost delicately kissing over the marks Thomas left behind as his hands are busy with the ropes. This time Monty moans in earnest, arching into the other even as the ropes go slack, urging more contact.

That, they’re both quite happy to give.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, since Edwin has left Monty’s arms as they are, firmly bound behind his back. But they get the crow back on his feet, then across the room to one of those fancy chairs the ghost likes so much. It takes more time than it should, largely because they’re distracted by touches, kisses, by shedding bits of clothing along the way. Still, since they eventually end up with Thomas settled in the chair, Monty in his lap, Edwin kneeling in front of him, no one is complaining in the slightest.

No one is doing anything resembling speaking anymore, in fact. Thomas is too busy devouring his crow’s mouth as Monty bounces on his cock, whimpering and groaning messily into the kiss. Edwin is too busy with Monty’s dick halfway down his throat, fingers digging into the other’s thighs when his movements grow too quick, too erratic. He’s as slow and methodical as he was with the rope, keeping the other on the edge but not letting him come.

At least, not until Thomas has, spilling himself into Monty’s ass with a guttural groan. Only then does Edwin apply himself fully, bringing the crow to orgasm in what certainly feels like record time.

He sits back on his heels with a smirk, primly wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He’s still hard, but doesn’t seem to be paying attention to that fact at the moment as his eyes find Thomas’ again. The Cat King looks smug and pleased, but nowhere near sated - par for the course for him, really.

“Now, is that sufficient to keep you from distracting me from my practice for a little while?” Monty raises his head with a start, apparently surprised that Edwin is right back to business, but Thomas just laughs at the faint note of teasing in his ghost’s voice.

“Just how many diagrams did you find that you were going to talk Monty into letting you try out?”

Edwin’s smile is nowhere near innocent. “One hundred and seven.”

Both of them blink at him, astonished, and then Thomas bursts out laughing. Monty rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “When were you going to spring that on me?”

The ghost doesn’t reply, just smirks, and Thomas shakes his head. “Well, I think we’re going to be here for a while, then.”

[iolite-flames]

OK FUCKERS ITS TIME: OC LORE TIME BABYYY

…Yikes…

OK LORE TIME OUGH OUGH I AM SO SORRY IF THIS IS INCOMPREHENSIBLE, i have never done this before!!! Ever!!! In my 10 years of oc development!!! So heres a bit about my goofy lil oc story “Ommetaphobia”!

A SMALL DISCLAIMER!

This post in particular is a little niche, as its not really about the story at large but a facet of it: villainy! Or more so the funky little cult the protagonists must deal with throughout. Warning for cult mentions and body horror (sorta).

WHAT TO EXPECT!

OC refs (with notes; without color)

Discussion of cult shenanigans INCLUDING:

Cult hierarchy

Transformation logistics (sorta)

How members transform (sorta)

Discussion/analysis of something called PR1-S4P and what it is!

Ok! With that outta the way… lets tear off the bandaid!

Sorry there’s so much 😭

WTF IS PRI-S4P???

PRI-S4P, otherwise referred to as primordial sap/ichor or "forbidden lifeblood", is a mysterious liquid taken from the fruit of a strange, gnarled persimmon tree in the forest just outside the large town of Ignorsis, location of royalty and a bustling city. It is a dark, viscous liquid that visually looks like molasses. The smell is terrible, but taste wise isn't bad (sweet and robust). Consumption of PRI-S4P can be difficult, as the thick, foul-smelling liquid makes for a poor olfactory experience that can easily be choked on if not careful. Because of this, shots taken by syringe are available but are usually somewhat discouraged due to frequent complications like blood clotting. Successful consumption, however, results in altercations to host and the "awakening" of strange, inhuman abilities. No one know why it happens, but significant concentration brings about physically transformative properties that are even more of an oddity than the existence of "powers". Concentration only increases if more PR1-S4P is consumed by host. It is guarded and controlled by an elusive cult nicknamed SCLERA, only identifiable by their groups symbol: an eye trapped in a double helix.

TRANSFORMATION? HOW?

Transformation mechanics are widely unknown. They seem to "activate" when the host is agitated, scared, and/ or extremely exhausted. Transformation is not permanent, but is incredibly taxing on mind and body, not to mention painful! It takes many days for a host to heal from just the physical stress of transformation.

Intensity and duration of transformation (and by proxy the length of the healing process) seems tied to PRI concentration, though caps at a certain point where healing is no longer possible (and transformation is nearly permanent).

Transformation will not occur in hosts with a concentration less than 30% of their body mass and will be nearly constant at levels above 80%.

ANY WARNINGS A TRANSFORMATION WILL OCCUR?

Yes! Warning signs do occur in hosts before transformations. Such include:

Mood swings

Hunger

Aggression

Increased heart rate (BPM)

Darkening of sclera from white to black

Soreness/physical pain

Restlessness

Heavy breathing

Hot flashes

Chills

Intense headache/migraine

Lack of focus/eye contact

Involuntary shaking/tremors

Drooling

Insomnia

Dizziness

Nausea

Temporary blindness

Increased sensitivity to smells, sounds, bright and/or flashing lights/colors

These signs are also present in the healing process. Intensity varies from person to person and is not inherently associated with PRI concentration.

TELL ME MORE ABOUT CONCENTRATION. WHOS GOT THE MOST?

As previously mentioned, PRI-S4P concentration is dependent on consumption of it either orally by eating the fruit of the gnarled persimmon tree or through supplemental injections. When it comes to whos concentration is the highest, we must look at arous hierarchv: the higher vour "rank", the more PRI-S4P inside you.

OK, THEN TELL ME ABOUT HIERARCHY!

SO SCLERA, the aforementioned cult has a group hierarchy reliant on membership duration and individual effort. There are 3 regular ranks (R) and 2 "special" ones (S). They are as follows, in order of least to most important:

GRUNTS (R): Most common, underlings of leaders and at the bottom of the food chain. Often new and the most easy to replace and most "normal". There's about 10 to 15 grunts for every leader. Concentration of PRI-S4₽ typically lies between 10 and 15%.

LEADERS (R): Underlings of heads, slightly more seasoned members; not very many of them, only 2-5 per head. Concentration of PRI-S4P typically lies between 20 and 30%.

HEADS (R): The big guns, hand picked by the Prophet for their exemplary performance. Typically control particular cities and recruit members. Concentration of PR1-S4P typically lies between 50 and 60%. There are only 3 Major Heads: Evander, Cypress, amd Oraida. Max, while not considered a head, shares the same amount of concentration, but for a different reason.

PROPHET (S): The head honcho himself. Organizes the cult, inacts experiments, and officiates new members. Is the only one to communicate with the medium directly. This is Otmars role, with a PRI-S4P concentration of 70%.

MEDIUM (S): A vessel for means of communicating accurately with the spirit of the gnarled tree. This is Hazels role, with a PRI-S4P concentration of 90%.

There are about 60 active members of SCLERA at the time this story takes place.

Members usually only communicate with people within their own rank or the rank just above/below them.

ANYTHING ELSE ABOUT HIERARCHY? OR SCLERA IN GENERAL?

Sure, heres some miscellaneous stuff:

Both the Medium and the Prophet don't leave the base (only if like, something REALLY bad happened) Max doesn't either but, again, for an entirely different reason.

Each Head is in charge of a different area of the land. Their grunts and leaders run around said area and do various tasks like supply trips, espionage, etc. Heads don't usually do any running around unless its on their own volition. They will if something bad happens that needs their presence though.

The general public didn't know of SCLERA until they made their self known during an event refered to as "The Night of Heretics", where a battalion of members, 5 years into the group's conception, unleashed havoc on the local population on all fronts. The main story takes place a year afterwards and the main characters are all survivors of the rampage (or participated in it).

REFS AND ABILITIES!

EVANDER:

Physical/body distortion:

Full control of limb length, including neck and fingers

PRI enhances this, causing unnecessary duplication of arms, fingers, and hands and less "control of length (causing him to, by default, appear more "stretched out" and uncanny)

Mimicry:

Primarily vocally, can briefly mimic physically but requires more energy, decently accurate and can get better with some practice

PRI diminishes this, causing errors in mimic accuracy, physical distortions are signiticantly worse, appearing uncanny and unhuman (especially coupled with the physical abilities mentioned prior)

CYPRESS:

Flame wielding:

Ability to control flames in a small radius

PRI enhances this, causing greater control and greater control radius

Increased strength:

Just as described, greater physical strength than normal. Can lift and fight with an unnatural vigor

PRI enhances this, causing even greater physical ability

ORAIDA:

Hypnosis:

Ability to cause short term control of individuals through intense eye contact

PRI enhances this, through use of pheromones on secondary appendages (when stimulated)

Plant manipulation:

Ability to control plant growth/generation in a mid-side radius

PRI enhances this, causing greater control and greater control radius

MAX:

Telekinesis:

Ability to move things using mind within a mid-size radius

PRI enhances this, causing greater control and greater control radius

Telepathy:

Ability to read others mind/communicate with others mentallv within a mid-size radius

PRI enhances this, causing greater control and greater control radius

OTMAR:

Possession:

Ability to forfeit control of his body to control another temporarily (if bitten, think a snake bite giving poison damage to affected person, or zombie bites)

PR1 enhances this, causing greater control of victims in a shorter period of time

Necromancy:

Ability to raise dead for a short time in a small radius.

PR1 enhances this, causing greater summoning radius and duration

HAZEL:

Clairvoyance:

Ability to accurately predict events; only applicable if relaxed and typically isn't very strong (visions are almost "out of context" and resemble foreshadowing, think Until Dawn totems)

PRI diminishes this, causing even more difficulty to obtain visions and decreased clarity of said visions

Hallucinations:

Ability to cause false perceptions/sensations through exhalations

PR1 enhances this, causing even greater sensory misinput and stronger sensations

Note: Hazel form shown above is her OFF PR1, this is how she looks normally thanks to long term use… yeesh.

Thats it! If you read the whole thing then woah! Im genuinely amazed! Thank you for your time ☹️❤️‼️

[cheriemariii]

part 3/5 of the sihjr yuri au look book yay

(2)

takano

-if i had to describe her with two words……… twilight character

-skin has never been touched by the sun in her entire life, unfamiliar with the concept of colorful clothing, emo bloodsucker maniac………

-what if edward cullen was a bisexual woman and also based as fuck basically

-heavily inspired by canon and dark academia wanabees on pinterest (so canon?)

-closet entirely consisting of black and shades of grey, with the occasional dark purple or maroon for a pop of color :)

-only owns black shoes. designs vary from one to the other (not pictured bc i refuse to draw feet properly sorry), but they all are black

-looooooves knitted sweaters and turtlenecks bc they dont look too informal (so ideal for a very serious and respectable editor in chief) but still are very comfortable

-takes that stupid black cloak (3rd picture) everywhereeeeeeeeee its like those babies that drag the same dirty ugly rag everywhere until one day it just evaporates into thin air. And shes had it for as good as a decade and remains as new somehow

-second shortest top, not to mention the difference between her and onodera is the smallest. but dont let that make you think shes not tall as fuck and insufferable about it

-very skinny also. skinnier than onodera despite having better eating habits than her

-has consistently had the exact same haircut since high school, up to the point she has more or less learned to cut it herself (not that its too hard, is a very straightforward thing).

-fun fact actually!!! the mini bangs (they are mini bangs i swear) are smth she did to herself once when she started living alone bc she was bored. her mom hated them :D

-has 7 diopters myopia, so the glasses stay. on. (rip to her ig but the look eats)

yukina

-see people dont just randomly stop her in the streets to take photos with her bc she is drop dead gorgeous. they also do it bc she dresses like a fashion model all the damn time

-like how youd expect any arts student coming from a monetarily stable background to look like really ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-its honestly kinda hard for me to pin a very specific style on her (or maybe i just suck at describing it idk). it can vary a lot; the only fully consistent thing is that she is gonna look good no matter what

-so yeah lots of different patterns and colors and textures and shapes…… she is gonna use whatever piece of fabric she saw and thought would look cool, AND shes gonna make it work

-very much into layering, plus an insufferable amount of accessories at ALL TIMES. it made the alone time with kisa a little awkward at first, but its part of the foreplay atp

-dresses a little bit more basic when she goes to work, and even then, there has to be something *extra* in her outfit

-technically speaking she is the shortest among the tops (still very tall tho), but those chunky ass shoes she wears ALL the time make her look a lot taller than she actually is

-killer figure. she actually has the time energy and motivation to go to the gym semi-regularly i hate her……….

-the fluffiest, most beautiful curls you have ever seen in your life. She likes styling her hair in many different ways whenever she has time, but it looks good even if she doesn’t

-she doesn’t dye or use heat on her hair tho, despite what youd expect from her. the desire to try different styles is strong, but the desire to not damage her hair is even stronger…..

-has one of those pretty lower back tattoos, which she got as a “rebellious streak” when she turned 18 (xd). surprisingly enough its the only tattoo she has; she would loooove to get more (and even has some ideas in mind) but it hurt :(

-(also why yes kisa is obsessed with that thing)

hatori

-so tori is a bit tricky to style…

-bc heres the thing: 99% of the time she looks like the far right look: a black (or dark blue or dark gray) knee-length skirt with its matching blazer, a tapered fit white shirt, skin colored thighs and simple dark heels. The only possible variation is that she switches the long sleeved shirt for a short sleeved one during the summer

-0.9% of the times (i.e. when she is supposed to be “chilling” at home, which translates to doing housework at chiaki’s or veeeeeeery rarely at her own place) she looks like the far left look: a basic ass jeans and long sleeved t-shirt look + her trusty slippers + an apron and a kerchief in her head so she doesn’t get dust and whatever other stuff on her hair and clothes. The point here is to remain as comfortable as possible within decent levels (unlike others………)

-(are these ridiculously specific descriptions necessary? Well hatori is clearly very consistent with the way she looks, as she is with everything else. who did you think we were talking about?)

-and the remaining 0.1% of the time (those little moments she has free time to go out or have a date) she dresses like the middle looks, which are the ones im gonna go into some detail now :)

-thing is, you really wouldnt expect this woman that wears the exact same boring ass office look every single day to have a particularly interesting sense of style.

-But oh she does. she has a very refined sense of style, and is gonna let it out whenever she does have the liberty to actually dress how she likes…..

-….it is a little hard to describe tho…. a lot of the time the thought process was just looking at a beautiful woman anywhere, analyzing her outfit and going “yeah tori would wear that :)”

-ANYWAYS. even if she really likes them, she very rarely wears a skirt on casual settings, mostly out of practicality reasons. She keeps those for when she has a date or smth special, and it's never anything above the knee🙏

-SO its jeans most of the time. She particularly likes flared jeans, specially those that are bejeweled and have those very elaborated embroidered designs. Its not the kinda thing you’d expect from someone as serious, but she has this sort of artistic? appreciation for the designs

- (I tried to draw those, god knows I did. But a girl can only do so much before giving up >~< idk imagine a pretty design of the back of the jeans, something pretty in the front too if ur really nice, idk)

-you also wouldnt expect a woman as sober as her to like any particularly interesting necklines (i.e. off-shoulder, sweetheart, illusion, that jazz…). But she does, she (i) just really likes the look

-also lace, she really likes lace. artistic appreciation again, kind of, but yeah a good amount of her clothing have any manifestation of lace on it

-her clothes are rather well fitted too, and they tend to accentuate her body pretty well. I would love to give some very deep on brand explanation for this, but the real reason is that I just love the excuse to draw her silhouette (mari didnt it take you like an hour to get one (1) of these silhouettes alone right??? yes, yes it did 🙂)

-speaking of which, she obviously has the most beautiful, typically feminine body known to man, this in contrast to how canon hatori is supposed to represent this very masculine and ridiculously gorgeous male archetype. Either way, yoshino can't stand (loves) how effortless this is for hatori.

-AND she is very tall, to nobodys surprise. I even wanna say tallest among the four characters here, but tbh the difference between her and kirishima is rather despicable

-straightest hair in the world for the straightest woman in the worldBAHAHAHAHAHAHYJKSHFB

-SPEAKING OF HAIR (I love hair symbolism :3) I like to use her hair as a way to strictly delimit her work life and her private life (as she likes to do........) essentially, she has her hair up when she's at work (in a ponytail when she is at marukawa or in a braid when she's doing housework), but she gets to let it down (LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY) when she's on her own and can have a bit more liberty on how she looks :)

kirishima

-(I HAD TO DO THAT ONE GAY ASS POSE IM SO SORRY KFHSHDSHGDHDF)

-trying to evoke either heavily inspired by canon or the most annoying masc u have ever met in your life (canon, again :))

-to me she was a tomboy during high school and it never really left. it just evolved

-legend says the only time she has even worn a dress was her wedding. and it probably only was to, for once (1) in her life, appease her parents

-ANYWAYS very into colorful very maximalist patterns, like the ones you'd find in a bowling alley. To this day it remains unknown if she wearing them to work every single day is some sort of unrecognized fashion genius or just wanting attention

-on that note, hiyori loves getting her more and more shirts like that for her birthday, and she actually has a very good taste for them

-however, she will tone things down significantly whenever she has to go formal or is chilling at home and there is no point in getting a shirt dirty. In such cases it's rather similar to what we see in canon. she usually goes for shades of brown and earthy tones (~it goes with her eyes~ she says), and it's not rare for people to comment that she barely feels like herself anymore

-also! except for the necklace in the second look, all the jewelry pictured above was made for her by hiyori :)

-actual biggest curls in all of marukawa, AND they are natural 💅 it does come with the price of being kinda hard to style on the daily, so most of the time she doesn't even try

-despite being considerably taller than average (made even more evident by her robust figure, as described in canon actually), she looks quite short next to yokozawa, but that's just bc yokozawa is a fucking lamppost xd

[solar-sunnyside-up]

I’ve also always wanted to do co-opt appts, my state has really good squatters rights so it’s honestly doable I’d just need a few partners to keep rotation while we each work; but that level of discomfort isn’t easy to find volunteers for.

Either way if you have the collective willing to spend few years in a place, while fixing it up at the same time, y’all could own it. (highly suggest looking into the squatters rights in your space, and there’s a lot of gray-space with local laws, so varies case by case def)

100%! It's a group activity!

Def look into it for yall!

A big thing for me about squatters rights is also that they came up as a way of stealing land from indigenous groups under the guise of "they're not even using the land!" Generally, I have found a pattern between the length of whatever the rights are (say Australia where often its about 5yrs) and a little less then how long the walk from one spot and then back again so that they could argue "they where gone too long/didn't use it properly/didn't farm/etc.." so it's got this big glaring history of being used as a tool against certain people.

That being said, sometimes you gotta use the tools of the system against it and if a landlord legit doesn't check up on a place for that long you def do deserve the property bc at least.your using it. But when we use their tools we must understand the history and weight they cost too yk?

[jewishrat420]

Eddie Munson doesn't know what he looks like.

Sure, when he looks in the mirror, he sees a guy with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes to match. He sees two arms and two legs and a scar-crooked smile.

He sees all the parts that he has, all the parts that he knows he's supposed to have.

And he's capable of recognizing that they belong to him. It's not like he thinks he's inhuman, some beast of otherworldly nature.

(At least, not on good days.)

It's just... well.

Sometimes, when Eddie looks in the mirror, all he can really see is his face.

Like, sure, he can see the rest of his body. He knows his face is attached to the arms and legs that he's capable of recognizing in some separate, distant sense at some separate, distant time.

But when he tries looking at himself as a whole (after buying himself a full-body mirror to hang on the back of his door), it's like his face alone is magnified a hundred times over.

Like all he can see are the hollowed-out sockets where his eyes sit, the heavy flush of his cheeks, how stark it is against the rest of his pale skin.

It's like he zoomed in too far and got stuck there, unable to refocus and look at the picture as a whole.

All he can see is each individual pore that travels like a lightning rod through his skin. All he can see is the curve of his nose and how big it looks when his brain doesn't recognize its place on the rest of his face.

It's like he sees each feature individually. His eyes are miles away from his lips, his chin and forehead a stretch farther than that of the sun to the moon. Hopelessly revolving around each other in the desperate attempt to cross paths, understanding the inevitable and fighting against gravity to change it.

He recognizes that he has a face. That his eyes and nose and mouth and cheekbones and pores all belong in the same place, on the same body, to the same person.

But it's like there was a wire cut somewhere in his head. Like the connection that reminds him that all those separate parts actually go together was severed. That reminds him he's more photograph than Picasso, less alphabet soup and more a well-structured sentence.

It's worse when he looks at his body.

Because there's so much more to it than to his face. There are so many parts, so many varied pieces that somehow fit together and make him the gangly, skeletal, off-center human he knows himself to be. The sack of bones and blood that moves when he tells it to.

He looks in the mirror and sees his arms, how they hang and where they fall. And then it seems like they keep going, and rather than focusing on where they end (just above the jutting curve of his waist), all he can see is how little space there is from the tips of his fingers to his feet.

And then his arms look ten feet tall, stretched out to fit the entire length of his body, and when he turns away from the mirror, he swears his nails are going to drag along the carpet.

He doesn't know why he feels like this, but he knows he's been this way since he was a kid. He didn't know it was any different than how everyone else felt, assumed in that childlike way that he was just like all the other humans on this planet.

And then, one day, Wayne told him he should probably trim his hair. Said it was getting real long.

And Eddie had looked at him, confused, because his hair hadn't really grown for as long as he could remember. Kind of just stayed the same length, always at the same place on his body.

So Wayne led him to the tiny, clouded mirror in the yellowed bathroom of the place he'd learn to call home, his calloused hands big on Eddie's shoulders. He'd trailed a path with his finger from Eddie's scalp all the way down to the middle of his back, drawing a horizontal line where his hair ended.

"See, Eds? S'all the way down your back."

And Eddie remembers seeing this, even today. Remembers how confused he felt trying to connect what he saw in the mirror with the image his brain was showing him. Fighting reality with his own imagination— a battle he would soon learn cannot be won.

Because his hair did fall halfway down his back, objectively.

But it was also three feet off the ground, too, and that's pretty high up.

So it must not have been too long after all.

Because it still didn't look long, not to Eddie, not until years later when he and his uncle would bring out one of the scrapbooks and he'd finally see what the rest of the world did, if only for a moment.

It was then that Eddie learned he'd never quite see the world the same as everyone else. The way it was meant to be seen, by people who were meant to see it.

He'll see what's really there, eventually, but only after that version of him is no more than a fleeting memory. Only after he's adjusted to the way he looks in the present, to the vision his distorted eyes show him when he enters the hallway of mirrors.

It gets worse with the scars.

Because now his brain has something else to play with. Something else that convinces him that the thing whose limbs move around when Eddie tells them to isn't actually the person he calls "himself."

That they're actually three separate entities:

Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson's body, and the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.

Three separate things, none of which have ever existed in the same world, let alone in the same person.

It doesn't bother him. Not always.

He doesn't need to know what he looks like, as a whole, the way other people see him. That's not for him.

No, Eddie Munson's Body is for the people that turn away when they see it in the grocery store. For the people who will peer upon its pale face in an open casket and mourn the thing that was inside it. The thing that Eddie knows to be himself, the thing that's begging to be seen for what it is.

But there's not much that can be done about it.

And most of the people in Eddie's life are there for him, for his brain, for the thing that floats inside Eddie Munson's Body. They don't care about what it looks like, only that He's in there.

Still, sometimes when Eddie looks in the mirror, he thinks he sees it. Him.

Eddie inside Eddie Munson's Body, hidden behind the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.

He thinks he sees it, him, buried somewhere deep. Small, naked, crouched in the corner. Shaking with its hands clasped in front of its chest like it's praying.

He wishes he could do something. Wishes he could reach in and grab it, hold it in the palm of his hand (the one that really belongs to him, the one that he can see) and nurture it until it's bigger than the Thing, bigger than the Body, bigger than the whole world.

Big enough to be seen.

But every time he tries, it disappears like sand between his fingers.

So he gives up.

He drags his nails on the carpet and cuts his hair when Wayne tells him to.

He fills the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body and plasters a smile on the face he thinks is his.

x

original post

[ask-postcrash-curly]

Hello again, Mr. Curly!

I bring you Odd Creature Lightening Round 3! This one's got some real weirdos, ha!

First up, a spooky fish friend that's after my own unbeating heart with its many names

Creature: Chimaera, also known as Ghost Sharks (they're not really sharks, but a r e distantly related to them.) Other names for them are Ratfish, Spookfish, Rabbitfish, and Water Bunnies due to their varying characteristics.

Size: Up to 4.9 ft in length

Habitat: Temperate ocean floors as deep as 6,600 ft deep

Bonus Information: They are a group of deep-sea fish with no bones! Instead they have a cartilage skeleton. They glide when they swim, which contributes to their ghostly reputation.

Next is one of the cutest species of bats I've ever learned about in my travels (and I can't even think of a species of bat I don't find adorable right now!)

They're small enough to sleep in plants, goodness I love them!

Creature: Honduran White Bat

Size: 2 inches

Habitat: Central America

Bonus Information: They cut into plant leaves in order to make temporary resting places during the day. They are one of only six known bat species (in my era) to have white fur! Their diet consists almost exclusively of a specific type of fig (from a tropical tree species native to South and Central America,) along with other fruits on occasion.

Next is a beetle that resembles a prehistoric species! Although this seems to be more of a coincidence

Creature: Trilobite Beetle (Scientifically known as Platerodrilus)

Size: Females are 1.5-3 inches while males are barely a quarter of an inch

Habitat: Tropical Forests in India and Southeast Asia

Bonus Information: These beetles are yet another genus of various species! And because of the stark differences between females and males of the genus, it took a long time for male Trilobite Beetles to be properly classified. Unlike the males, female Trilobite Beetles do not go under a major metamorphosis, and instead retain a form more similar to their larva state.

Next is a species of wasp! Wasps do tend to be intimidating, but I think these guys are pretty cool

Creature: Common Blue Mud Dauber (a type of mud wasp)

Size: A little less than an inch

Habitat: Americas

Bonus Information: These wasps are menaces to other insect and arachnid species, but they're otherwise non-aggressive. They're also considered a solitary species, so they don't typically swarm or live together in hives

Last is another blue (appearing) insect friend, and one I'm very fond of in general

They're quite dear to me

Creature: Blue Calamintha Bee

Size: Less than half an inch

Habitat: Central Florida

Bonus Information: During my era, these bees are very endangered as the flower they rely on, Ashe's Calamint Flower, is endangered itself within their shrinking habitat. They've been feared extinct on multiple occasions, but they just keep popping back up like the miraculous enigmas they are. They're a very striking and unique species in their pollination habits, and I-

I really hope the ongoing push for conservation efforts centered around them succeed and that they've made it to your time Mr. Curly...

And that will be all for Odd Creature Lightening Round 3, ha-

Sorry I got a little sappy there, I just care a lot about all these creatures and I hate the thought that some of them might not make it past my era

The least I can do is try and keep their memories alive, along with supporting their conservation efforts

Music before I go

https://youtu.be/x2feeDyDZzA?si=MH47cTqgVku3LQqN

Haunt you later Mr. Curly

-Ghost👻

Hey, Ghost!

Wow. Quite the shape on that fish. And that eye...

Holy fuck those things are small.

What kind— That's a beetle? Huh.

It's weirdly shiny. ...There's wasps that don't live in hives?

Wait, wait, that's a bee? It's lovely, yeah. I've got to look them up when I get the chance. I hope they're still around.

No, no, perfectly okay. I get it. You're doing a good thing.

Thank you for the music. Talk soon.

[mjrtaurus]

Monkey D Urpi headcanons (source: Oda shared it with me in a dream)

- She’s gotta be atleast 6 or 7 feet tall for logistic reasons yes but also because Tall Women ❤️

- Idrk how face claims work but I imagine her to look something like Simone Ashley

- As all other members of the Monkey family do, she’s got a scar on the left side of her face

- A tattoo that wraps around her wrist, almost like a bracelet

- Her and Garp are 2-3 years apart in age (they’re beating the weird age gap grandparents allegations fr)

- Hips length hair. At least 25% of Garp's paycheck gets put into hair care, hair ties, combs/brushes and lint rollers, he'd never ask his family to change but god does it get EVERYWHERE.

- She was the one to make the first move officially (had asked Garp to accompany to a cafe she had gotten a flyer to, face turned away to hide the flush settling on.)

- Big reader, mostly on the varying plants and ecosystems of the different islands on the Grandline and occasionally dips into the mythology of the Blue Sea (just to see what else they got wrong)

- Do not bring up Noland the Liar around her, whatever’s in her hand will shatter and she’ll begin to mutter very quickly under her breathe

- Skilled fighter but actively hates having to fight. It’s less about being scared for and more perpetuating a cycle, violence will only bred more violence. It has its uses but she’d rather not use it at all

- Garp made the mistake of asking her to join the Marines exactly once. The look she gave him was so venomous the topic of enlisting wasn’t brought up again until Dragon was born.

- Has possessed Mantra/Observation Haki from incredibly an early age and developed Armament Haki through training with Garp

- Instantly goes into mother mode around younger people. Physically cannot help it. She just has to dote on them. Definitely takes it up a notch when she’s grandmother age

- Would certainly approve of the ASL's dreams of being pirates/revolutionaries. Who is she to stand in the way of their search for Freedom?

- She and Crocodile get along swimmingly! They discuss mushroom foraging and she shows him all the best for it on Elbaf!

- Consistently refers to Kuzan as her ‘second born’ before someone (usually Sengoku) reminds her that she did not in fact birth him. She would agree and then do the same thing the very next day.

- Big fan of the newspaper since it keeps her up to date on the happenings of her family. Keeps all issues they are mentioned in pristine condition and chronological order.

- Gets intense waves of guilt for ‘leaving her people behind’ and would often wonder if she deserves that happiness she found here.

- Has no inherent ill feelings towards Gan Fall anymore but definitely didn’t like him back then. She’s still a little taken aback when Luffy mentions what a help he was during his time in Skypiea

- Is relentless in her pride of Dragon and everything he has accomplished. She had watched him grow from a sweet little boy who cried when a Den Den Mushi had to be decommissioned to a man who was out to save the world. He is her every wildest wish come true.

Taking down these notes because I might just have to put her on a canvas at some point.

Some additions I would also like to add!

- her surprising proficiency for Mantra/Observation Haki was inherited by Dragon, and she helped him train it.

- When Dragon found her on Elbaf (and let’s say after the WG falls to hell where it belongs) he makes time to take her and Garp to Shandora to hear the Bell that their grandson reclaimed.

- While up there, she reunites with her little sister Nina, and meets her grandnephew Wyper.

- she always had mixed feelings about Dragon joining the marines, but she understood his heart was in the right place. Shame the rest of the Navy couldn’t say the same.

- Dragon’s desertion was a hard time for everyone, but they all knew it was inevitable. Her boy would climb higher and higher in the ranks, and his eyes would have less and less of their warmth. By the time he attained the rank of Admiral, there was hardly anything of her sweet, gentle soul of a son left. It tore her and Garp’s heart to shreds.

- Dragon’s desertion was a planned thing. He had been stationed at Ohara to oversee an expedition, and he had seen the archaeologists be given bounties for the sin of doing their job. He showed up on his parent’s doorstep in the dead of night to tell them he was going to have to be on the run from now on. Urpi gave him her earrings. They are the only thing she had left that had survived her fall from Skypiea and her journey across the seas. They would go with him now on his journey.

- The bounty posters that had been released of Nico Robin following Ohara’s destruction gave her pause. Dragon had mentioned working with a Nico Olvia during this expedition, this child certainly looked like her mother if you looked at the bounty posters side by side but… her complexion, the coloration of her hair… a quick tally of the dates and she can’t help but wonder if she inherited her father’s wings, too.

- when she saw Dragon again after so long, she hugged his neck. His eyes were warm again. He had his hope again. It was tempered with Nika knew how many trials, but he was still the loving little boy with the downy wings that she sang to sleep every night so many years ago…

- she was intrigued by Crocodile. She had heard these “devil fruits” could do wonderful things, but to change a body to match the soul within it… it was incredible. To know her son had helped set this man on that path to change made her wings fluff up with pride. She wishes she could have met Olvia, too.

- after coming to Elbaf, she NEVER covers her wings. She cuts holes in the backs of her clothes for them to fit through, sews clothes using patterns and stitches she knows by heart… as much as she lover Garp, Goa had been stifling. Upon seeing the cuts and mends in the backs of Dragons shirts when he visits, she can tell he suffered the same.

[tia-amorosa]

Episode 61: Little Worries

While Mortimer and Lazlo were still talking animatedly, Cassandra continued to spend some time with her little brother and his new companion. “So, are you going to take good care of her?“/”Yes, Dad said I can even have a dog bed in my room. And whenever I come home from school, I'll play with her"/ ‘Just don't forget to do your homework, eh?’/ ‘Nah, I want to go to sixth form with a good grade.’/ ”That's good. I always crammed until the end too, oh boy”.

Lazlo watched the two siblings talking and always had a slight smile on his lips. “And what does the future hold for you? Do you only ever want to catch ghosts?”. Distracted by his words, Laszlo looked over at Mortimer again, “You earn really good money doing it… I never had any career aspirations as a little boy. The whole family has always been involved with the stars somehow“/”but you're not that interested?“/”Not so much. Hehe, but stargazing with Cassy is always great".

“You go to great lengths for her, you can tell every day”. Lazlo smiled, almost a little embarrassed. “I saw her and… wanted her. But I didn't want to take her from anyone, so I immediately put it out of my mind because someone else was waiting here.”. Mortimer also smiled and looked over at his daughter. “That turned out differently. “/,,You're really a nice guy, Mortimer, you know that? I was afraid of you at first because of your stern look“/”hey, I can't help it…haha. ”

Later, “Hey, that looked good with you two”/ “What do you mean?”/ “With you and my dad, I mean. Oh you, sometimes you're a bit slow on the uptake, but it's kind of sweet"/ ‘Do you love me for it?’/ ”Oh yes. Dad is about to go home with Alex and the new doggy. What are we doing?"/ ‘Cinema?’/ ‘mhm, sounds good’.

A little later, “and you really want to watch the movie with me? It's actually something for children“/”so what? There's a child in all of us,” he winked. “You're probably right. “. The range of movies on offer wasn't exactly very varied, so they decided on something simple.

Autumn showed its wet side. But fortunately, the bad weather didn't affect the mood of the building's residents. The mood couldn't have been better. Now that Bella was back home and a new addition was soon to join the family, everyone was looking forward to everything else.

---------------------------------------------------------

About four months later. It's the depths of winter in Pleasantview. It has been snowing incessantly for a few days now. What is always the best thing for the children is more of a thorn in the side for the adults. You can't get from A to B quickly enough by car, and the weather can also put a damper on your mood. But for Cassandra and Lazlo, it's not so much the weather that's weighing heavily on their minds at the moment.

Cassandra's pregnancy did not progress as it normally would. At her last visit to the doctor, it turned out that the baby was slightly underfed. However, the doctor was able to allay her concerns and said that this often happens during the first pregnancy. Since then, she has been going for check-ups about every two weeks. But she also needs a lot of rest. “Did you sleep well?” / “Hardly at all”.

“You heard the doctor, you shouldn't worry so much."/ ”Aren't you worried Lazlo? this is our baby… I'm already trying to distract myself, okay? I've already had some work sent to me from the institute. At least I can do something on the computer"/ ”yes… That's all right. Are you hungry, you know…"/ ”I need to eat well, yes. What's for dinner?"/ ‘First the leftovers’.

“Your mother called earlier, she and your father are coming over around 1:00 p.m.”. Cassandra looked at the clock hanging in the kitchen. “1 p.m.? But that's in less than an hour? Why didn't you tell me something earlier?“/,,When I went into the bedroom after the phone call, you still had your eyes closed, should I have woken you?”/Yes, you could have,,/,,but I wanted to let you sleep. You hardly got a chance last night.“

“I'm sorry, I… Sometimes it just pulls me out of my sleep, this fear…. That the baby is no longer there“/”I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I want you to take it easy. And I'm glad that your parents are coming over, I can have a chat with your father again“/”well, you two are like a pot with a matching lid anyway, my father would never have had such a good relationship with Don as he has with you.”.

Not only was it almost a compliment for Lazlo, it was simply a fact. The sympathy between him and Mortimer harmonized very well right from the start. Even if it wasn't immediately apparent. Now they were just waiting for the visit, and Cassandra was glad to have her mother around right now with her little fears.

@greenplumbboblover , @solorisims , @honeywinesims

[spinningbagel]

IM ALIVE HELLO!!!!!!

I have a gift! In the form of art and rambling!

So this is for MB rework (take 3 I think. Idk it's been a ride trying to do this 😭🙏) and I'm going into this not just with a wish and a prayer!! I'm going into this with a wish, a prayer and and planning.

At the moment, I'm working on the characters but I've also got part of the lore for the world and areas written down; but we'll work on that full later down the line.

The order in which these characters are getting reworked is the same order they appear in in the show. So we're starting with Sheriff! Big surprise there...

So, design! It's pretty different to his canon self.

I liked the idea of a bomber jacket (I got the idea from @dem0nguy and his redesign of Sheriffs flight school outfit!) and I also liked the idea that it had originally belonged to Ryan and Sheriff took it in order to feel as though he was following his older brothers footsteps. It'd be something he would've taken after losing Ryan and being bitten before fleeing the military base they had been at at the time the apocalypse begun.

The scarf acts as a mask as Sheriff isn't good with or fond of anything technological (like the masks) and tries to avoid it when possible. That and Brutux is the one in control of all of that sort of supplies and he's in enough debt as is. So, scarf it is. It has varying levels of protection against smells and the air but for the most part, does the job it needs to do.

Tried to make him less obnoxiously blue, I get it's his colour or whatever but it burns my eyes/j

Ah no, aside from his shirt, the blue on his shoes and pants is darker and leans more towards navy than anything.

Uhhm I think that's the most notable things to say about his change in design, just the fact he's got the addition of the jacket and bag and is less obnoxiously blue!

Now, his mutation..yay,,

So that's the same, story wise and practically design wise. Still gets bitten when the apocalypse starts and still keeps it from fully mutating him by devouring carrots.

The only real difference in its design is the colour, less of a darker green. And the fact that it's actively dripping. He has to wrap up pretty tightly so it's not getting everywhere and blowing his cover.

His arm isn't quite solid nor is it fully a liquid, it's some odd mix between both. There's not much feeling in it either, was talking to a friend and mentioned how if you stabbed it, it'd just kinda go through and be nothing but a dull ache. And if in a fight, the mutated arm becomes a shield; Sheriff putting it in front of himself to prevent getting hurt anywhere it'd actually hurt.

In terms of things the mutation affects besides his arm we have:

- Sharper teeth, especially his canines

- It's pretty annoying for him, and he usually has an intense urge to bite and chew things to get rid of the uncomfortableness of it

- Accelerated hair growth

- He tries to keep it at an acceptable length, one that won't get in his way but he might just eventually give up. His hair is denser and it's a nightmare for him to try and do anything with it. It's a mess most of the time and usually is thrown into a ponytail where he just hopes for the best.

- Enhanced strength

- Sheriff has a base of 3/5 for his strength but occasionally has bursts of extra strength that'd bump that to a 5/5 (because yknow, he's held up a one tonne metal door with his bare hands). It's only ever in short bursts of strength and he 100% feels the consequences once that fades. But yknow, not the worst thing.

- Prone to aggression

- Not too much of a reasoning for this one other than the fact the mutants are just typically aggressive creatures

- Hoarding

- There is no explanation for this one

- Faintly picking up on orders directed to other mutants

- So, I like to think that the mutants are controlled as a hive, receiving orders from more conscious mutants like Wart. And even then, Wart is getting orders from the SM. Sheriff picks up on the SM's orders- the further he is the fainter it is. I also like to think the SM holds some control over Sheriff. Not a lot but enough to cause problems.

So I think that's it? I can't say much on his actual backstory as that's still a WIP but it pretty much follows canon, if only some minor changes here and there.

Uhhh, I guess just don't hate me for doing another rewrite of this show- there's going to be an actual commitment to this one but I do warn it is going to be a looong, slow project. I want to take my time with this one, especially because it's just for fun :)

Shooters next! Feel free to ask questions and I will try and answer o7

Bagel out!

[meddwlyngymraeg]

Thing with Duolingo and stuff (TTS essentially) is there's no way you're going to pick up accents. It's often not about the way words themselves are pronounced: in Welsh for example, penultimate syllable is stressed. But the length of that stress can vary depending on where in the sentence the word is placed, I think.

E.g. just saying 'hoffi' usually places a short stress on the first syllable: /'ho-ffi/. But if it has followed a few other words with only minimal emphasis, some of which regularly occur before 'hoffi' in certain kinds of sentences, then I hear that change a bit.

'Pa un wyt ti'n hoffi?' 'Wyt' has a fairly short stress, and 'hoffi' is near the end of the sentence too, so in some accents, I've heard that manifest as a much longer 'ho' in 'hoffi', along with the raised pitch coming down to its lowest pitch before going back up on the final syllable. How long the stress is does feel like an accent-dependent variation, though a TTS like Duolingo's can't pick that up at all. I think their text-to-speech is AI that was trained somewhat on real people's speech, but I think there's definitely a larger volume of data available to it in more widely available languages like English, French, Spanish, German, etc. The data is also, likely, less rich in variety. So a TTS can't pick up all the nuances of an accent.

I know that the Duolingo moderator team used to make an effort to go behind the scenes and hardcode exceptions to the pronunciation, like when the TTS used to get stuck on words like eisiau, and they did their best, but now Duolingo has heavily cut back on what the volunteers that built those courses (for free) are allowed to change. Apparently they aren't allowed to improve the courses anymore, I imagine so that the company doesn't have to maintain a team to update the course. So other things, like the pronunciation of gyda, which has been wrong on the new TTS for ages, cannot be changed. It's a shame that despite the best efforts of volunteers who basically donated their time to a community resource, their final work must be enshittified like this, but that's a discussion for another time.

I just suppose this is why you can't just rely on an app like that to learn a language. You've got to hear real people speaking, you've got to turn on your radio, check out learner-oriented channels like Dysgu Cymraeg, watch telly, talk to people n all. You won't pick up nuances like that just by knowing the words.