#bec its familiar

[chaiaurchaandni]

therapy is not for losers, it is for the brave! imagine how strong you have to be to rip your beating bruised heart out and present it to a stranger. do you think you're brave?

.

ykw. i used to be a very sensitive little kid, a total crybaby. when i would get upset or frightened by something (like a honey bee that i couldn't differentiate from a wasp), my dad would hold me gently and call me a 'brave girl.' he taught me that bravery isn't about never feeling fear, rather, it is about understanding your own fear and finding a way to overcome it.

my dad passed away when i was almost 7. his absence and my grief have haunted me all my life.

but. god. isnt it amazing that i made a sad little post on the internet and added some bitter afterthoughts in the tags, like whispering my sorrow to the void, after days of experiencing the most intense suicidal ideation of my life, and a stranger read it and took the time to send an anonymous message

and isnt it amazing that you somehow picked the exact words that reminded me of the person i love the most, words that my dad might have said to me if he was here today

for most of my life, i have felt haunted by reminders of him. but this message felt like being held by him again. i feel like you have returned to me all the hope and strength that had been slipping through my hands

thank you so much anon

[seiwas]

hi hi! just dropping be blessed by your thoughts ✏️!!

also — your writing makes me think of thoughtful prose written with a fountain pen and reading it under candlelight. + of hushed “i love you’s” and stolen glances in crowded rooms. + it makes me think of comfort and security + of how love grows like ivy, slowly engulfing someone’s entire being (col!!)

augustine!! 🥺 thank you for playing 🤍

your writing reminds me of:

🥘🛋️🌳💌

coming home to freshly cooked meals, scent wafting through through the door; lazy sundays on the couch, blanket thrown over; sunshine during walks along the park; an old friend, one you always want to see again.

&

omg 🥺 ur description augustine i am !! so flattered and touched !! u put it so beautifully !!! thank you thank you thank you !! i am keeping that in my heart forever 😭 how love grows like ivy omfG heLp & stolen glances across the room (im a sucker for that!!) aaah

send me a ✏️ and i’ll tell you what ~~vibe i get from your writing! (alternatively, you can also tell me what vibe you get from mine!)

[acid-ixx]

brutus: out for blood (villain au concept)

ft. neglectful yandere! bruce wayne x gn villain! reader

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: did anybody ask for this? no! did i decide to write this anyways? abso -fucking-lutely. is this a rantfic? mayybee. anyways, this is not my best piece nor will anything i write be my best piece but i just love destroying my happiness with angst and altho writing a very anxiety ridden mc is fun, i also love to dabble in sadomasochistic traits for a main character. like i said, i am not proud of this but i figured i should post something. erm... leave comments bec i love reading whatever stuff u guys have in store hehe.

you've tasted blood on your tongue far longer than you've felt the loving touch of a family.

it's metallic. it's salty. it twists every vein in your gut.

it tastes of broken metal pipes in playgrounds, destructive tantrums and broken dreams, of skipped classes and detention rooms, of ripped test papers and missed diplomas. it reminds you of your bitter past every single time; one you swore you've buried six feet deep into the ground. a burning memory with nothing more than heartaches and heartbreaks.

you taste blood whenever they reject your advances for even a single moment of bonding time. you feel it pumping slowly, steadily, painfully whenever you stumble upon a room, only to see them, smiles and all, huddled together in a group with junk food in their hands and a movie playing in that stupid flat screen tv. you know it's the only thing accompanying you whenever he misses another event in your school. it becomes the only friend you have whenever you're alone, inside your too-small room, with shatters glass scattered around and bruised knuckles.

blood, for most, is vile, utterly repulsive. it reeks in every corner of a room, its scent is overpowering, it stains, it's hard to clean. it imprints. and it will always remind you it's there, in the depths of your body, curdling and boiling and ready to burst out of the seems every time you rip at your skin with a razor sharp blade. blood has always been your only friend, like a scar that will never fade away.

yet you embrace crimson like it was the color of your soul, and accept how it's the only color you allow in your grim life. black has never provided you solace, but red allowed for a mantra of emotions to trail into your very being.

blood. it's more homely than you let it out to be.

and you're far more familiar with it than anything else. you cradle it like an unwanted child, you kiss its wounds, allow it to fester and grow into an abhorrent disease that crawls like a lump in your throat that you could never get rid of.

in moments of solace, of quaint prayers and hours of kneeling into the floor— it is the thing that slides on cold, hard tiles. it is the warmth, the numbness, the thing that seeps out of your bruised knees, your scratched neck and your thighs with fingernails buried deep into flesh.

you've come to love blood, cherish it even.

especially if it's your own.

especially if it came from the punch of none other than your father.

left, right, left, right.

his punches were cruel and his kicks can easily crush bones into powder. he demands answers with every strike he delivers, he exudes an energy far more adrenaline based than yours. batman is methodical in the way he moves, the way he acts, and you're not; you're impulsive, you had no plans to counter the towering man— no counter for the brutal hits he lay upon you. you let him, you open every doorway world to beat your body black and blue, with red painting the canvas as a finishing touch.

he's stronger than you, and every time he bashes your head into the wall, the urge to spit into his face, to piss him off, to laugh at him and his Idiocracy; it all becomes stronger.

yet all you do was allow him multiple openings, denying yourself the pleasure of attempting to even take your abandoned gun at the corner and shoot at his cranium— you want him to suffer, even if it costs you your mobility by the near future, fuck it.

up, down, to the side, then an uppercut to your jaw and you're nearly depleted of anymore moves to counter. you want to seem like you've given up; but you want him pissed off, enough to punch you 'til blood seeps into the fibers of your mask. until your face starts bruising, until your nose breaks, until he finally rips your mask off and sees your face.

and he'll come to regret.

you shift to the side, and ignore the sting of your throat, the lull of your head and the soreness of your entire body.

because if you hadn't dodged, then your head would've left an imprint on the walls. you would've preferred that now, rather than the disgusting feeling of sentimentality that creeps into your heart at the implication that his blows were slowly, but surely, weakening.

he's holding back, you hold back a sneer.

as if he actually cares about you.

maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. you know he cares far more deeply for his enemies than he does you, and you hate how glad you are at the pride that finally, just finally are you being acknowledged. at the opposite end of his side, as enemies. but for once you can feel the care he offers others, most of which were nonexistent back when you were just some... nobody.

batman never kills; but he can hurt, he can injure, and he can destroy. and right now, you feel all the air leaving your body as the cloaked vigilante delivers the last punch to your ribcage.

you fall, on your hands and knees, a loud thump resounding through the empty abandoned building. all you hear are your crackling joints, and heavy breathing. heavy, like your eyelids, about to fall, about to shut until black encompasses your vision. if not for the remaining adrenaline coursing through your veins, you would've fainted— but you won't, you wouldn't, not until you see him, see his face.

the thumping in your heart beats louder, and your hands. god, they feel like jelly, it's burning, it's one step closer on collapsing under gravelly concrete and piercing skin into rocks. yet you're forbidden any time for grace, not when he lightly shoves you out of your position, and not when you fall to your sides, hands paralyzed, tears prickling against your cheeks at the pain that burns throughout your body.

"you don't deserve peace after shooting that family in front of that child, you know it."

his voice, domineering, absolutely fucking vibrating with a tremor of sheer anger. he directs his words at you, without empathy, without mercy. he wants you to learn to never mess with him in the streets of gotham. but you'll never... not until he notices you. fuck, you just want him to notice you. and now, he is, with utter vexation that causes a lump in your throat to form.

shit, you've never felt so happy.

it's when his tussled form — heavy, pitch-black boots slathered with crimson liquid — enters your sight that you cough, violently, out of breath, and you can feel it one second, then taste it in your tongue the next.

blood.

you grin, and slowly, ever-so eminently, did you spiral into a cackle. your throat gurgles crimson liquid, and yet it only builds into a cacophony of a broken record. you move your head, look through your nearly shredded domino mask, with so little strength to accompany you, to look at the man above you, eyes glinting with a glow never so alive until now.

you're genuinely so fucking happy.

batman, he who strikes fear into the hearts of gotham villains and civilians alike. he who protects the city at night. he whose name is said with wavering uncertainty— he's looking at you, only you.

'bruce wayne: my dad— is finally looking at me.'

and you! you're laughing, the sounds that emanate from your throat are so scratchy, so utterly decimated that it sounds like vultures feeding through a dead corpse; but you don't let your chuckles die down, because you're so, so happy.

he looks at you, with contempt, with disgust, you don't know; but you're still so overjoyed.

"y-yeah... it's me, i did it. are you proud of me...?" you ask as you look up, through the tears that flow out your eyes, through the grin that couldn't die down. he looks at you like you're insane, and you know he's confused, shifting uncomfortably as he gives someone a status update through the comms, his eyes never leaving your pathetic form—

you look at him like he means the world all throughout.

"call for red robin, i have one of the culprits," he orders through the intangible device, eyes squinting as he takes you in— you whose chuckles slowly calmed down, as your breathing finally becomes heavier, as blood, yours, seem to seep into clumsily made apparel. you, who bruce realized seem too oddly familiar, too small, too childish, whose moment of spiraling insanity is too damn innocent to ignore.

you're not like the typical rogue he encounters, no. and right before you finally allow sleep to overcome you, you muster the last of your energy, to stare back at him with shining eyes, expectant, and like a child's, you ask with the meekest voice.

"hey... dad, i have a surprise." scratchy, absolutely broken, yet spilling with joy, with... your last word right before you continue, bruce's heart thumps ever the slightest faster.

"take my mask off, please?"

crimson began to overtake your entire body, and bruce should've never complied with your... request, but as he kneels and finally gets a grasp of what you truly look like, he notices the frailness, the vulnerability, as if you were never built for... combat. with just how quickly you succumb to the depths of rest, with how oblivious you are to the fact that if it were anyone else, they would've killed you.

you're not properly trained, you fight out of impulse, and he knows it with just how swift you gave up midfight.

when he pulls the domino mask (which seems oddly inspired by the shape of... his vigilante partners, the robins...) off your face, did his heart finally hastened its pace, loud thumping crawling its way to his ears, his eyes registering your face: its form, its shape, your eyes, your nose—

all similar to his, all an amalgamation of your mother's, too.

no... wait, no.

it's not...

it's not his... child?

you?

your eyes, flickering one last time stared at him, softly, like that of a child who looks at their father with pride like nothing else. your hand, it shakes, it shivers, as your fingers find its way creeping to his hand, holding your mask. fingers so dainty, now pulverized bones lay atop his shivering hand, tenderly, as if trying to comfort the very same man who has nearly killed you.

batman— no, bruce looks at you. at what he's done, and only now did he realize his greatest mistake. a child, his child, one whose innocence retained through heinous acts, now a villain, whose actions were all a testimony to merely wanting their father's attention.

he failed you, his child. he failed to protect you, who he has never held up close until now— as your body is hastily taken into his arms. so small, so easily wrapped around his body, so unbefitting of committing criminal activity. now bloodied and laid into barren ground by their very own father.

bruce wayne never felt this much terror, for nearly killing his child.

this, this day marks his sin.

and you? dearest you feel like today is your greatest day.

crimson, nearly every part of you is stained with that putrid color.

yet blood has always been your best friend, no? and right now as you bleed into the arms of your father, you find yourself grateful that it is the last thing you see before a black cloak wraps around you, before black fills your entire line of sight.

short rant ahead: another author's note??? wow. yeah this was such a hard drabble to write. plsplspls leave a comment or some sort of input. anything will do. ive been so demotivated to write lately and i feel like anything i write is just, so bad 😭 like is my pacing good? are the emotions out of place? am i even doing this right ?? i don't know, and i feel like every time i post something i always put up expectations on myself that I should've done better so yeahh. is this attention seeking behavior? probably. but i don't get how people have come to like the stuff i write when i hate whatever i write hence why im in a constant cycle of hiatuses and short breaks. and really, it's just so hard to come into terms with things and i need input lest i accidentally get into a year or two of hiatus, lmaoo.

[earthtooz]

ik ur in ur reo phase BUT HEAR ME OUT EARTH ONLY YOU CAN DO THIS

rin ACCIDENTALLY publicizing ur relationship bec mf got jealous as hell when ur face appeared in the kiss cam IN HIS GAME??????? WITH A RANDOM GUY AND WAS HE FUMING??? YOU AND I KNOW HE WAS THROWIN HANDS

thats all

I'M HEARING YOU OUT. warning for unrealistic scenario, i wrote this in like 20 minutes so it's unedited :p apologies for any mistakes.

imagine being rin's secret partner, the one he keeps behind closed doors because he values you too much to let the invasive eyes of the internet see. he values your relationship too much to let it get tarnished by social media, so he hides any affiliation with you like his life depends on it, only to come home and shower you with the adoration and affection he wishes he could show to the rest of the world.

in the spotlight, he is itoshi rin, japan's prized striker, their golden player, but when he's out of the spotlight, he is your lover. the man who drapes himself over you when things get too rough and he needs a breather. he is yours to cherish, where you have to change your phone wallpaper every other week because there's so many good photos of you two. he is yours to love, he is yours to go to when you feel too lonely, he is yours.

but also imagine, itoshi rin's jealousy and possessiveness no longer being able to rest at bay. it'd been accumulating for the past few weeks, this desire to show you off and boast that it's him who gets to know you like no other.

then the cup overfills, his jealousy tearing him by the seams that he loosely stitched together to withhold this carnal beast resting within him.

all because of a damn kiss cam.

you had been sitting in the vip section of the stadium- where special members are granted tickets, and even though you tell rin that it's fine for you to just sit in the general area, he refuses and tells you that he's bought you the ticket anyway. leaving you with no room for arguments. well. not that there was any to begin with.

anyways, you'd just so happen to sit next to someone who bought vip tickets with no affiliation with any blue lock members. you think he's just a die hard fan, so when he asks you if you like them, you lie and say that you won these tickets at a raffle.

the guy wasn't the most favourable person ever, in fact, you found yourself awkwardly responding to what he was saying, sometimes giving him short and succinct replies because of how... weird... he was. not to be disrespectful but you did not like his vibes. you just hope these 90 minutes can be over quickly.

yeah well, how funny is it that the kiss cam lands on you and the insufferable guy beside you?

you're mortified when you see it on the screen but the person beside you doesn't warrant the same reaction. immediately, he turns to face you, anticipation heavy on his features. in fact, he looks rather... excited...

"no, no, i have a boyfriend, i-" you begin abruptly as he leans in and you have no choice but to helplessly lean back, evading his lips and delaying it as much as you can. you even try rejecting him by frantically waving your hands, panicked and unsure of what to do.

until you hear him.

"back. the. fuck. off!" comes a shout from the pitch; the voice very familiar to your ears that you can't help but instantly relax from hearing it.

your seat was relatively close to the field which meant that those around you could hear the distinct voice of itoshi rin ripping through the air, fury evident and baring its fangs as he all but punches the barrier with each word.

however, everyone in the stadium could see itoshi rin as all cameras pan to him, witnessing his wrath as he shouts from the top of his voice. everyone around you is silent and you don't know whether you want to shrivel up into the ground or run to him and embrace him as tightly as you can. to find sanctuary in his warmth, away from the pushy guy who can't wrap his head around the idea that no means no.

itoshi rin decides for you, effortlessly jumping over the (considerably high???) barrier and making a beeline for you, skipping some stairs. thank goodness for a side seat because he comes to a stop before you, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he looks at you with heated passion, huffing and puffing.

"rin?" you whisper. he doesn't hear it, looking up at the various stadium screens to see if the kiss cams were still on you. smirking in satisfaction when he realises they are, rin all but pulls you up from your seat and kisses you with so much intensity and fervour that you feel lightheaded. very much so.

the stadium is cheering but you can't focus on it, not when rin's holding you to him so closely, practically trying to meld you to him. not even trying to push him away is enough to snap him out of whatever primal instinct has taken over him, so you grab his face and jerk away from him, not wanting to get too carried away.

before you can utter a word, rin looks behind you, and the coldness in his expression says everything you need to know.

he doesn’t care about dignity at this point. he just needed the world to know that you were his.

"you're dead if you try that again, you lukewarm fuckface," he then turns to you. you shiver from the intensity of his gaze. "i'll kill him next time," he promises before hugging you close to him once again, practically glaring at the cameras. "i'll kill anyone who tries to get to close."

THANK YOU FOR THIS ANON would u believe me if i said i'd been waiting for an opportunity like this? well i'm speaking the truth and i'm so glad u gave me the opportunity i've been waiting for AYEEEEEEE COME BACK ANY TIME YOU ARE SO WELCOME ON THE EARTHTOOZ BLOG, PRETTY <33

—

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[mangoshorthand]

heyy could i maybe request a oneshot where sub five gets marked up by the reader like hickeys and bite marks all over his throught and collarbone as well as his lower torso😻 and as the reader progresses he whimpers and is whiny the whole time and at the end he looks himself in the mirror and hes just so inlove with it? 😩

sorry if its a bit messy😭 have a great night/day :))

Great prompt. Hope you enjoy :). I promise the next ask prompt I answer will be non smut.

Your Desperate Man | Five Hargreeves/ GN Reader 2.8k words, Rated E

There were no two ways about it: Five was hot. 

If you were to set him beside Diego, you definitely wouldn’t notice Five first, but he would be the one you'd leave the conversation thinking about. All Diego’s leather-bound muscles may as well not exist beside Five’s acerbic tongue, quiet good looks and the firm self-assurance in his intelligent green eyes. 

So you could hardly resent it when others noticed. Why would you hate someone for sharing your good taste? Whenever you noticed him turning heads, your first instinct was one of fellow-feeling. You almost wanted to say, ‘I know, right?!’ and share a high-five. 

So, no, you didn’t get jealous easily.

…But that bitch was getting on your last nerve.

It started a few months ago. She was a friend of Sloane’s who hung around the Academy like a bad smell. Ever since she met him, she latched onto him like a tick and, as soon as she could feasibly describe him as her friend, she came to spend time with him as much as possible, looking for his insight on some problem or another. 

She was a mathematician, meaning that she could follow most of his logic when he talked about his latest projects. She could flatter him by learning from him and coming back a few days later with an improvement to her own work. 

If you were jealous of anything, you were jealous of that. 

Despite how he might look, Five was not perfect: he had an ego, and Alex knew exactly how to stroke it. And that was fine, in your opinion- so long as his ego was the only thing he let her stroke. 

She nodded along and acted impressed and asked all the right questions and subtly flattered him and laughed at his jokes and made absolutely any excuse she could to touch his arm or his knee; to hug him hello and goodbye and she did it ALL while you were right there.

Fuck her!

But you trusted Five. He could see right through her, of course, but that didn’t stop him enjoying the attention. He rebuffed her with a perfect mix of politeness and friendliness, but he’d still leave most of his conversations with her with a swagger in his walk and an ironic smile directed at you. 

‘Old dog’s still got it,’ that smile said.

You trusted that he had it under control, and he did actually like her as a person for some unknown reason, so you contented yourself with telling him your concerns. He agreed that they weren’t unfounded and reassured you that her feelings were definitely not reciprocated. 

So, when you walked past the door of his father’s study one afternoon when she was over, you weren’t intending to listen outside the door, but the snatch of conversation you heard as you passed made you stop dead.

“I had a dream about you last night.”

“Something about invariant theory, I bet.”

“No,” she said, coyly.

There was a moment of silence in which she was clearly trying to get him to enquire what it was about, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction.

“Right. So this stuff is child’s play,” he said, returning to the math as if she hadn’t spoken, “it’s pretty much Hilbert’s thirteenth, which I’m sure you’re familiar with. We’ve got to think about whether these functions can be written as a composite-”

“Don’t you want to know what happened in my dream?” she interrupted him. 

There was a moment or two of silence before he replied.

“Not particularly. Now, would you like me to go on with the math or do you have somewhere to be?”

Satisfied, you continued on your path elsewhere. 

Apparently, she did have somewhere to be, because she passed you on her way to the front door only a few minutes later. Five did not follow her to say goodbye.

Smut below cut

***

That evening, you entered the bedroom to find him preparing for sleep. Unusually for Five, he was clad in a t-shirt and sweats rather than pajamas. His towel-dried hair hung messily in his eyes. He smiled when he saw you, wrinkling his face momentarily into the lines he should by all rights have except for a certain time-travel accident. 

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you said.

You closed the door and crossed to the comfortable reading chair, raising your legs onto the arm. Five, trying to neaten his hair in the mirror, spoke casually.

“I don’t think Alex will be coming over again.”

“How come?” you asked, wanting to hear the rest of what happened.

“Hmph,” he said, disinterestedly, “she came onto me and I told her to fuck off.”

“What happened,” you said, interested.

“She came on flirty, like she does, but this time she tried to kiss me.”

He inspected a patch of dry skin on his neck.

“What?” you ask, enraged.

“Don’t worry,” he said, placatingly, “she was told precisely where to go. It was pretty pathetic, actually,” he remarked.

“I think I heard some of it,” you admit, “she was talking about having a dream about you and you made it clear you weren’t interested.”

“Yup, that was right before,” he said, darkly. 

“Bitch.” you grumbled, “I knew she’d try something.”

“Well, you were right,” Five continued, applying a layer of moisturizer to his face, “but she won’t be trying anything again.”

You watched his face in the mirror, absorbed in his pre-bedtime routine. He was a creature of habit, you discovered: a man of little quirks and rituals, particularly when it came to personal grooming. As it had been so long denied him, he reveled in the luxury of even the tiniest routines: trimming his nails weekly, shaving his face daily and looking after his hair and skin.

The more intimately you got to know him, the less cool and caustic he seemed. Underneath it all, there was just a sweet old-young man crying out to be loved and needed.

…And occasionally fucked. 

“Don’t tell me you weren’t just a little bit tempted,” you smiled, standing up and approaching him from behind.

“Of course I wasn’t,” he said, mildly offended, “I’m yours.”

He said it casually, as if he hadn’t quite thought through what he was saying. He caught your eye in the mirror as you appeared over his shoulder. He smiled slightly sheepishly at the familiar gleam in your eye.

Your arms slithered around his waist. Beneath his shirt your hands traveled over the warm muscle and flat stomach. His skin felt like silk. As the very tips of your fingers breached the elastic of his waistband, your chin came to rest on his shoulder, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered.

“What was that?”

A fine blush appeared in his cheek, like a delicate drop of watercolor. 

“I said, I’m yours.” 

Your lips played about his neck, your eyes holding his captive through the medium of the mirror. 

He looked at you, expression open and anticipatory. He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing attractively. You ghosted your lips further down, towards the hollow between his neck and his shoulder. Mouth poised there, you spoke again, voice husky.

“Say it again.”

He shuddered with the knowledge of what was coming, and breathed:

“I’m yours.”

And you sucked a bruise onto his skin. Long, lingering and sudden. He let out a shaky breath as you did so, eyes drifting into a haze of pleasure. You pulled away and admired the mark, a port-wine stain spread on that delicate silk. His eyes were similarly engaged, looking at the new hickey in the mirror as if he’d never seen one before.

Taking the opportunity of his preoccupation, you looked at his face: the sweet, parted lips, the heavy brow and the jaw that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. By the time his eyes returned to yours, the look within them made the slow, crawling sensation below his waistband redouble. 

“Do you want more?”

He nodded slowly, but as you moved to mark him again, he abruptly turned his head towards you so that your lips met his instead. It was as if he couldn’t resist anymore, like a man dying of thirst finding a clear mountain stream. Leaning backwards into you, he sighed into your mouth and let your tongue roam. 

He was so sweet in this mood; uncharacteristically compliant. Every time it came upon him, you never failed to be enchanted by him. Everyone always looked to him for direction and authority and this was one way he could take a break from all the responsibility. You were more than happy to give him that, especially when it left him looking all undone and pretty like this.

When you broke away from him, your hands were playing beneath his shirt, fingers stroking up and down the soft line of hair disappearing into his sweats. He closed his eyes as you again pinged the elastic on his pants, but they shot open again as your teeth nipped at the flesh of his neck.

He whined as you bit and sucked, the mild pain only adding spice to the pleasure: the prickle of fired up nerve-endings and needful ache in the lowest part of his stomach. As you dug your teeth in fraction more, you compensated by cupping his crotch through his sweatpants and holding him where he was hard.

When you let the skin go and turned back to the mirror, his eyes didn’t even meet yours: he only had eyes for the deep red mark you’d made and the white, crescent-shaped teeth marks disappearing before his eyes. 

“You like that, baby,” you murmured, comforting his aching package with firm, circular rubbing motions. 

“Yes,” he said, voice slightly higher than usual.

“Do you want more? Wanna be covered in them?”

He nodded enthusiastically, like a shy child offered his favorite candy.

“Arms over your head then.”

He complied, letting you peel off his t-shirt and discard it over your shoulder. You hummed appreciatively at the range of flesh now on display: at the pale, unspoiled skin you were about to pepper with burst capillaries. You weren’t a violent person, but you couldn’t deny the little squirm of sadistic glee at the idea of him covered with your marks.

The hand not engaged with his groin flitted up his stomach to stimulate the close bud of one nipple, making him buck automatically into your hand. The small noise he made went straight to the center of your own arousal; he was just so fucking aborable like this, all needy and pathetic. 

So you sucked at him again, hungrily, leaning over to mark his collarbone. This time, you couldn’t resist giving him more than a nip with your teeth, biting him enough to abruptly stop his little whimpers and cause him to suck in air over his teeth. Despite this, he still watched, transfixed, as you worked at him with his arousal aching in your hand.

You eased up, letting his skin go and kissing the deeper teeth marks, as if you might undo the pain with each kiss.

“Too much?” you asked.

“A little,” he whispered, eyes nevertheless devouring the sight of his third mark. 

You gave a little pout in sympathy with his plight and kissed his cheek.

“Shall I go easy on you?”

“For a little while.” he replied, that sheepish, coy smile on his lips. You knew what it meant: wind me up tighter first.

You were more than happy to oblige. 

He moved as if towards the bed as you stepped back from him, but your hands on his shoulders kept him in place.

“You stay there.” you said, “I want you to be able to see yourself.”

“Okay,” he whispered, facing the mirror again as you came to stand in front of him. 

His whines were music to your ears as you attacked your next target, sucking complementary bruises onto each pectoral. Then, bending to allow him to admire the new hickies, you moved further south. You grazed and suckled again and again at his subtly toned abdominals, his flank, and at the softer flesh of his stomach. As you did so, your hands explored the body they had explored so well, yet could never tire of exploring. You rubbed at his chest, hips, ass and thighs.

Each time you withdrew, he surveyed himself hazily, reveling with slavish pleasure in the cumulative effect of your claim on him: your flags planted on his body. The thought ratcheted his arousal to a higher pitch, and he felt his knees tremble as his heartbeat became evident in his groin. 

When you sucked at the v-shaped furrow running invitingly towards his pubis, his whimpers redoubled. One of his hands came to your hair, fingers massaging your scalp. His hips pulled forward, as if your face attracted them like a magnet. Wordlessly, he begged with more pathetic little sounds.

You ignored his little ‘suggestion’ and rose to your feet from the spot you’d been kneeling. 

Thwarted, Five let out a frustrated, high moan. His left hand immediately disappeared beneath his waistband, attending to his own need in a move of desperation. It made you smirk to see it, so you allowed him a few moments to pleasure himself while you admired his face:

His hair, starting to dry, was beginning to stick up at odd angles while the rest clung to his brow. His forehead was held a tight pinch with the intensity of his arousal and his lips were curled around gritted teeth, bringing the slight hook in his nose into greater prominence. Still in front of the mirror, his eyes were closed, his head tilted back. Muscles jumped in the neck beneath his thrust-forward chin.

As gladly as you could have watched him beating himself off beneath those sweatpants, it would have to be something to file away for another day. Today was about reminding him (as if he needed reminding), who he belonged to.

So, with this in mind, you licked one of his nipples with a deliberate, preparatory tongue.

“Oh,” he said, speaking half in exhale, “f-feels good.”

You sucked the nipple hard into your mouth, continuing to swipe your tongue over the hard bead between your lips. He panted, and then jerked as you closed your teeth around him.

“Oh shit!”

Experimentally, you tightened your bite around him and the speed of his strokes increased. Clearly, this was doing something quite profound to him. He let out a squeak that made your own nipples harden.

All of time could be at the mercy of Five Hargreeves, if he so chose, yet you could make him mewl like a newborn kitten.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “bite me. Fucking bite me.”

He whined again as your tongue continued to stimulate him, as you sucked his areola into your mouth and clamped your teeth down, marking him again. 

“Ah shit! Harder!”

But you didn’t want to hurt him, so you released his swollen nipple and took his wrist, stopping him touching himself. He huffed needily, but didn’t resist.

You came to stand behind him again, pulling his wrists gently behind his back and tugging on them so that his body was completely on display in the mirror. You kissed from his shoulder to his cheek, trying not to smile at his obvious discomfort; at the stretched fabric of the sweatpants around his perfectly-imprinted cock, sticking firmly out from his body.

“What do you see, Five?” you whispered, once more into his ear.

“Please,” he whimpered, shifting slightly. 

“What do you see in the mirror?” you repeated, more firmly.

He considered in a feverish sort of way.

“A desperate man,” he said, trying to nuzzle beseechingly into you, but unable to turn his head with his arms held that way.

“Whose desperate man?”

“Yours,” he said tripping over himself to satisfy you, “I’m yours, okay?”

“Look at yourself,” you pushed.

He did, lust-clouded eyes eating up the sight.

Marks. All over him. Fuck. 

Seeing himself this way made him shiver. He reveled in the feeling of safe powerlessness, here at your mercy. He was definitely yours. Yours to do with as you pleased: your bruises and bite marks all over him were proof. He knew at least one that would be visible above his shirt collar tomorrow, and the idea filled him with a whorish sense of satisfaction. His cock ached harder at the idea that everyone would know he was yours. Your man.

Your devotee.

Your toy. 

And he would submit willingly to whatever you chose to do next.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed): @thebearmage

Megalist

Request info + rules

NOTE:

I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See request info + rules for request status and more.

[ode2rin]

behind you

pairing. chigiri hyoma x gn!reader

at the tender age of seven, you understood that being left behind was not an option. in your innocent and pure heart, you knew that you belonged right by his side.

“hyoma, wait for me!” you called out, your voice filled with a mix of breathlessness and determination as you chased after your best friend.

chigiri slowed down and turned towards you, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. his glossy pink eyes shimmered with excitement, inviting you to join in his playful game.

“come on, catch up! or else i might just leave you behind!” he playfully challenged.

and so, with one single goal in mind, you poured every ounce of energy into your small legs, pushing yourself to run faster.

you had to catch up to him.

yet, you never did.

now, in your early adulthood, with longer legs that have grown along with you, you find yourself reflecting on those childhood races.

the distance between you remains, and all you can do is watch his back.

it has become your familiar scenery, an all-too-familiar ache in your chest that accompanies being in love with someone you can't have—your best friend, chigiri hyoma.

that's how it has always been, ever since.

you've watched his back as he is surrounded by countless girls in your school, professing their love for him left and right, while yours stays hidden like a sacred prayer in the chambers of your heart.

you've watched his back as he turns away from his locker, brimming with valentine's chocolates, while yours weighs heavily in your pocket, seemingly unable to contain everything you wished for him to know.

you've watched his back as he walks onto the field, his eyes fixed on the goal ahead. you feel a rush of pride as he scores, his agility and grace filling you with wonder. you want to shout his name, to tell him how amazing he is, but you hold back, afraid of breaking the spell that binds your friendship.

you've watched his back as you reach out your hand to reassure him that everything will be alright, that his injuries won't tarnish the striker within him, that in your eyes, he remains the best.

but in all those moments, all you can do is stay behind him.

because you're slow, and there's nothing he hates more than slowpokes.

you were slow to express your feelings, always a step behind the swarm of girls vying for his attention.

you were slow to place your chocolates in his locker, missing the chance for him to see them—and to see you.

you were slow to let your cheer be heard, holding back as your voice fell behind the screams of his name from others.

and you were slow to reach him when he fell, too slow to catch him before he hit the ground of hopelessness.

and so, all you can do is watch his back, silently chanting that perhaps, just once in your life, he will turn around and truly see you.

maybe he did notice, all those times you whispered your prayers into the wind. perhaps he caught glimpses of you, but each time, you were just slow enough not to meet his gaze before he looked away.

but as you yearn for his affection in return, you understand that the true beauty of your friendship lies in its unwavering support, in being the one he can always depend on. so you continue to stay behind him, holding onto the hope that one day, when the stars align just so, he will turn around, and the yearning in your hearts will find solace in a single profound moment where your eyes finally meet, and neither of you can bring yourselves to look away.

note. ik ik it's word vomit once again (it's my forte atp), was not really planning on sharing this but i was threatened/j . just thought abt it randomly bec i love love love bestfriends who are total idiots (look me in the eyes n tell me chigiri isn't meant for bffs to lovers) that pines for each other (and the angst that comes w it). but here goes nothing!

𓆩♡𓆪 for the ever so lovely, @angelchigiri

part 2 here!

[dirt-piper]

The TF2 problem

Don't take anything I say here as gospel - much of it is my own speculation and musings.

TF2 is my favorite game of all time. I started playing it wayyy back in 2012, and while I don't have that many hours racked up total (a meager ~1K), I can at least consider myself to be a few rungs above 'total n00b' in terms of familiarity with the game. I've experienced the best and worst eras of the game - from the Love & War update to the current botting crisis, and I have loved TF2 every step of the way.

But just because I love it, doesn't mean I think it's flawless!

Around 2015-2016 I noticed (alongside damn near everyone else playing TF2) that TF2 was changing, and not in a particularly good way. Love & War was in many ways a perfect update for TF2 - it gave attention and goodies to both the highly casual and the highly competitive ends of the playerbase, with a fancy new taunt system bundled with some pretty fun new weapons. At about this time, Blizzard announced the imminent release of their new game Overwatch, which was directly inspired by TF2 - and now presented itself as being a direct competitor to TF2 in its own niche. This, of course, turned out to be bogus - Overwatch is its own game with its own niche that has a playerbase nearly wholly separate from TF2's.

A common trend amongst the TF2 playerbase at the time was this sense of dread regarding Overwatch - either that it would suck up the entire TF2 playerbase, leaving the game to die, or that Blizzard would try their damnedest to manifest such a reality. Either way, a ton of die-hard TF2 fans began to absolutely loathe Blizzard's new game (before it even came out, I might add) for so much as daring to 'unthrone' TF2.

This entire premise is stupid. It's stupid now, and it was stupid then. But the fear became so pervasive throughout the community that, eventually, it seemed like VALVe was getting scared too. The tone and focus of TF2's updates began to shift far more heavily towards the competitive end of TF2's playerbase - which has never been the majority - as VALVe appeared to try to pivot TF2 into a stance where it could better "compete" with the upcoming Overwatch. Bits and pieces of this started showing with Gun Mettle and Tough Break, before Meet your Match completely revamped the game into a more competitive-focused format.

Why they would do this didn't really make sense - if VALVe wanted to compete against Blizzard's new AAA FPS with a competitive scene, then why would they try to remodel TF2 to position it as a "more valid competitor" to Overwatch when CS:GO was already a proven champion in that space? TF2 doesn't need to compete with Overwatch. It never did. So why would they expend so much effort to change TF2's course when, frankly, it was doing fine as-is?

Looking back now, with nearly a decade of hindsight and a bit more insight into VALVe actually works, I think the picture is a bit clearer, or at least the one I've formed in my head is. I don't think TF2's sudden drastic shift in focus was the result of VALVe scrambling to shore TF2 up against the onslaught of Overwatch - I think it was, rather, the TF2 team scrambling to shore TF2 up against VALVe.

VALVe is not a normal game studio. VALVe is not only lucky enough to be their own publisher (therefore making them a completely independent studio - yes, VALVe games are 'indie'), but also extremely lucky enough to be the de-facto publisher for nearly the entire PC game industry, thanks to Steam. VALVe makes money off of every single game sold through Steam whether they made it or not, essentially guaranteeing them a constant stream of exorbitant income regardless of their own output. They have a complete vertical monopoly of their own industry - they own themselves (VALVe has no shareholders whatsoever), they own their products, they own their publisher, they own their distributor - and now, with the Steam Deck, they own their hardware platforms too. VALVe answers to nobody but themselves, because they own everything that could possibly impact their business.

VALVe is, in a lot of ways, in a somewhat similar situation to AT&T (aka 'Ma Bell') back before the breakup of the phone company back in 1982. AT&T owned the entire phone network - from the switching equipment to the phone lines to the handsets plugged into them - and they charged every person in the country who leased phone service from them (you couldn't own a phone back then!) a subscription fee. AT&T, then, had basically infinite money to do whatever the hell they wanted with (though the government strictly regulated their commercial activities so they could not compete in any industry but telephony). As a result of this, Bell labs, the core Research & Development branch of AT&T, was in a very unique scenario - projects undertaken by Bell labs researchers weren't given budgets - they were given quotas.

AT&T didn't care how much money or time was spent on a project by a Bell labs researcher, so long as it ultimately resulted in something that benefited the company. And this model worked very, very well - Bell labs' researchers gave the world the transistor, the laser, the CCD, the Unix operating system, the C programming language, and received 10 Nobel peace prizes.

VALVe, through Steam, has a free, infinite revenue stream. VALVe's staff, then, effectively have infinite money and time at their disposal to make whatever they desire - so long as it ultimately results in something that benefits VALVe. Or, at least, so long as the people who hold the most seniority at VALVe think it would benefit VALVe.

It's no particular secret that the old guard at VALVe are, largely, unenthusiastic about TF2. Remember - Team Fortress is VALVe's oldest franchise. The original Team Fortress mod was released in August of 1996 - a mere one month after the Nintendo 64's initial release - a full 2 years before Half-life. Sure, VALVe didn't initially create Team Fortress, but they bought Team Fortress Software for a reason - Team Fortress was insanely popular. And it's not just TF2 that has absurd longevity, it's the entire Team Fortress franchise; here's a match from a Quake Team Fortress competitive tournament that is currently ongoing as I write this post:

VALVe acquired Team Fortress software with the premise that the sequel to Team Fortress would become an expansion to Half-life, thereby increasing Half-life's desirability by attaching it to the sequel of one of the most popular FPS games available at the time. TF2, of course, took a bit longer than expected - so Team Fortress Classic, a more-or-less direct port of Team Fortress to goldsrc, was released in 1999 to satiate people until the real TF2 came out.

That took another 8 years.

When TF2 finally released, it pioneered the concept of games as a service - that you could buy a game once and it would receive new content, features, fixes, etc. indefinitely - for free. These were not paid expansions or DLC, these were actual updates made directly to the game that anyone could get access to so long as they happened to own the game. And, once TF2 went free to play, the deal became even better. This model was utterly groundbreaking in 2007 - it's the standard for how most games operate today, sure, but only because TF2 proved how well it could work.

The issue, of course, is that VALVe was eternally working on TF2. By 2015, Team Fortress 2 had been in development in some form or another for 17 years. With this perspective, it seems understandable why some of the more senior members of VALVe would have grown sick of Team Fortress - they'd been doing or dealing with the same game for nearly 2 decades.

But, of course, newer hires at VALVe would have nowhere near the same level of fatigue - many of them were likely still very passionate about the game, and eager to continue its lifespan - but when the people who sign their paychecks and review their employee performances are sick and tired of hearing about Team Fortress, it becomes less and less attractive to pour effort into the game, no matter how much they may personally wish to.

Under these circumstances, the tonal shift TF2 experienced around the release of Overwatch appears more as an internal struggle - the remaining TF2 team trying desperately to prove to their seniors that TF2 was not yet ready to be phased out, that the game could modernize and remain relevant in the modern competitive gaming scene, that just because they were sick of TF2 didn't mean that everyone was.

So, they gambled. They bet TF2's future on a new revamp to adapt it to the then-modern world of competitive e-sports... and fumbled it pretty hard with Meet your Match.

The problem with the TF2 team's attempt to make TF2 more suited to the modern world of competitive gaming was that they seemed to overlook that, to the average non-competitive TF2 player, the game as it was was perfectly fine. Through Quickplay, any player could be automatically placed into a server matching their desired criteria and just... play. A server would stay on a given map for roughly 45 minutes (though players could vote to extend the map timer) regardless of how many rounds there were, meaning that everyone got the same amount of time to play the map regardless of how good or bad either team, as a whole, performed. This game players plenty of time to just... have fun playing TF2. There was no rush or hurry or incentive to play the game in any way other than how you wanted to.

This made TF2 very unique in the FPS world - the truest example of a "casual shooter". There were no ranks or rewards or incentives to play every day beyond random item drops and the enjoyment derived from simply playing the game itself.

The TF2 team's attempt to 'modernize' TF2 in Meet your Match effectively ruined this.

In addition to the introduction of a new, dedicated 6v6 competitive mode, Quickplay was replaced with 'Casual' - a matchmaking lite that tried to find a middle ground between the chaotic ad-hoc freedom of Quickplay and the more rigid, competitive structure of Competitive. It didn't work. Most TF2 players just wanted to play TF2 - casual forced them to stop and wait for the matchmaking system to find a server for them matching its desired criteria, stop and wait every other round for the server to change maps, stop and wait for matchmaking cooldowns to run out if they left a game in progress - so much time was spent stopping and waiting to play the game that hardly any was left to play the game itself. Yes, some of these problems have since been smoothed over, but Casual still forces the play to spend less time playing the game than Quickplay did. In my opinion, Casual, as it was released, could have been perfectly fine if Quickplay was kept alongside it. Instead, in one fell swoop, the way the vast majority of people played TF2 was effectively removed from the game.

In fairness to the TF2 team regarding this gamble, they were under enormous pressure - not just from a TF2 community growing increasingly paranoid about TF2's future due to the imagined threat of Overwatch - but also from the higher-ups at VALVe they were trying to convince.

However, the TF2 team snuck a back-up plan into Meet your Match - the Heavy vs. Pyro war. By outright promising a future major update (or perhaps two, even!), the TF2 team could at least insure that, no matter what their 'bosses' thought, they could justify their continued work on the game as fulfillment of a promise made to the community. And, if the new update was enough of a hit, it could perhaps inspire their 'bosses' to let TF2 continue to live on, at least for a little while.

So, the TF2 team pulled out all the stops for the next update. Jungle Inferno had an animated short, new maps, new weapons, entirely new features (ie. the contracker), it had a massive hype-spiraling 4-day-long update announcement, major weapon rebalances and overhauls - they clearly tried their damnedest to make the best TF2 update possible.

Whether or not the team managed to convince their superiors is unknowable. Jungle Inferno was followed by the fanfare-less Blue Moon update in early 2018, followed by radio silence. The TF2 team may very well have still been hard at work on the elusive Heavy update, but the double-whammy of the all-hands-on-deck push to get Half-life: Alyx finished and released immediately followed by the COVID pandemic likely reset whatever momentum or motivation the TF2 team had left.

This scenario, as described, is painful enough. From the outside, it appears as though VALVe had rebounded from Meet your Match, and was doing its best to improve the game in the wake of their own missteps, only to suddenly drop TF2 with zero explanation given. TF2 was left in a state of indefinite limbo with no clear outlook whatsoever on the future.

What made this infinitely worse is that VALVe had left the game in a state that wasn't just unfinished, it was broken.

TF2 has literally always had a botting problem. For the first span of the game's life, this generally manifested as idling/trading bots, but later on more and more bots began to appear that sought only to disrupt gameplay. Micspam, false votekicks, aimbotting, speedhacks, etc. - purely for the sake of irritating real players. Until Meet your Match, these cheating bots were relatively uncommon - real players could very easily either kick them from the game or simply join another server via Quickplay. Their impact on gameplay was no more than a minor, brief annoyance, and thus they were considered a non-issue.

Meet your Match's new Casual system, however, dramatically restricted the player's ability to hop to other servers when bots arose. Not only this, but the ability to switch teams at will was disabled on Casual servers, meaning it was now impossible to deal with bots on any team but your own (previously, if the other team was too slow to kick their own bots, it was possible to just wait for an opening on the other team, hop over, and call a votekick against the offending bot that would usually end up succeeding). Now, the disruption caused by a single bot was far more impactful than it had been before - because it was a far greater chore to either kick the bot or find a different server. Moreover, Casual outright incentivizes players to stick to the same server until the end - awarding them extra points the more they play, and nullifying any progress they've made towards a given contract that match if they leave before it ends. Players are thus, in effect, forced to play even when bots have made the game unenjoyable.

This resulted in a feedback loop - bots were now more irritating, so people complained about them more, so bot hosters hosted more bots, making them even more irritating - and that feedback loop has continued nearly unabated until modern day.

The TF2 community has been begging for an end to the botting problem for ages - and there have been genuine efforts from the TF2 team to try and fix the problem, but they have been too small and too infrequent to make much impact. And, to be frank, there is no way to effectively, permanently remove the bots. Attempting to keep any and all bots from the game would require enormous, constant effort from the TF2 team - something which is a very tall ask given VALVe's attitude towards the game for the past decade.

What can be done, however, is to simply make the bots less impactful. To let players more easily avoid them, to let players enjoy the game for longer so the bots are no longer such a nuisance, to let players have enough freedom in how they play that they are no longer forced to suffer through games with bots. It won't outright remove bots forever, but it will make them so much less of a nuisance that bot hosters will likely lose the incentive to bother with them. As soon as that happens, the feedback loop will be broken, and the botting issue will decline in severity as their potential impact on players' enjoyment of the game is neutered.

The simplest way to do this is to make Casual just as free as Quickplay was.

45 minute map timers, extensible by vote.

An Indefinite number of rounds per map.

Ad-hoc joining, leaving, and team switching.

Progress on contracts not erased by leaving mid-round.

These are not overwhelming changes. If anything, it's something of a return to form - not outright bringing back Quickplay, but making Casual into a suitable replacement for it - at long last.

And - most importantly - it's a one-time fix. It does not require an eternal arms race against bot hosters, nor a full return to frequent, massive content updates (though those would be nice).

One update to make TF2 more fun, to make the bots less impactful, and to give the game a better standing for the future.

One update to fix TF2.

-DirtPiper

[leclsrc]

we need need neeed a charles variant of the media naranja fic :( just a multiple lives au even just a drabble or a headcanon auds audrey big a please only u do this shit justice

bec this has been rotting and i needed to practice writing :)

divine sense – cl16

Charles is always led back to you. title from this

“Your mole is nice,” he says, cutting himself off and thinking a bit more on his words. “It sits just there, on the corner of your eye.”

“Really? God.” You poke at it, rub over it even if it sits relatively flat and unassuming and a bit tiny. “I’ve always hated it. People mistake it for leftover eyeliner or mascara all the time, and it’s—whatever.”

“It’s pretty.” His gaze could light you on fire and water it down all at once. “It’s one of the first things I noticed about you. Granted, I thought it was a, uh, how you say? Mascara, yes, that flicked off your eye a bit, but now it’s just there. I like it.”

A slow smile creeps its way onto your lips and you bite it back, to no avail. “Thank you.”

“It’s the reason why you look so familiar to me.” My mole? You ask, your head turning to the side a bit. He nods. “I don’t know why, either. I mean, clearly we didn’t know each other then. But something about you—you’ve always felt familiar, I think.”

“I have?” 

The trees are greener in the spring, but they’re thin still, not yet too thick with leaves that will fade into orange and die and fall. It’s perfect, Charles thinks, because then the sun filters perfectly through the green of them and shines through the blinds and onto your face, smiling tenderly and warm and waiting. Your eyelashes cast a shadow across the rest of your face and he could stare forever.

“You have.”

—

“Did you get mascara on your eye?”

“What? Oh. Fuck, no. This—it’s a mole.” You turn quickly to the mirror. “I know, it looks a bit like it, yeah.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” 

“It’s all good. So, Charles, right?” You reread the application sheet and stretch a hand forward to shake his. “My new roommate… taking up Architecture.”

“Yep.” He smiles proudly, the emblem of your university front and centre on his sweatshirt. “I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but have I met you before? You just look a little familiar. Mole and all.”

“Oh.” Instinctively, you reach up to touch the area on which it sits. “I don’t think so, sorry. Um, but in my Lit class, we did have a discussion about how… like… moles are places where you were kissed in your past life.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah.” You smile up at him. The fall breeze filters through the open living room window, blowing tendrils of hair over your face that you’re quick to brush away. “Granted, I don’t know who would want to kiss an area like this.”

“You don’t?”

And maybe you’re a bit loopy from the drive, or hungry from waking up early, or maybe not at all. Maybe Charles the college roommate is messing with you, or maybe pulling a prank, or maybe not at all. The sunset today is beginning to tint the room and his pretty face a muted orange and you could stare forever.

“I don’t.”

—

Your first time in Italy is marked by a series of ugly firsts: first catcall, mistranslation, scam, blistered heel. But you make it, despite it all, to your foster family’s farm estate, all old vine-caked buildings and stables and lemon trees. You spot somebody poking their head out of the upstairs window but the mop of hair disappears just as quickly.

The door is answered by Pascale—the one you’d been corresponding with prior to today. With her is her husband, Hervé, and two sons, one of whom is somewhere in the house getting your room tidy, she says apologetically. You’re quick to quell her apology, sated by the ice water and bowl of fruit (Hervé says something about picking them all out himself; Arthur, the younger one, pulls you aside with a boyish smile and says it was actually him.)

“Lorenzo is off at university for summer classes,” Pascale explains when she’s putting the second spoonful of pasta on your plate. “So I am stuck with Arthur here, and Charles. He’s about your age, yes? Twenty-two in October.”

Charles descends into the kitchen talking in rapid Italian to his mom, that only tapers off when he sees you at the table. You smile, dopey, raising a careful hand to wave.

He stares. 

“Vieni a sederti,” Pascale says, pointing to the empty seat beside you. Shyly, he takes a seat and fills up his glass with water—then yours. 

“Oh,” you say. “Thank you.” Your gaze travels to him, and find he’s already looking—at the corner of your eye.

“It’s a mole,” you clarify with a quiet, pretty laugh. “Are you excited to take me around? Pascale says you’re my tour guide.”

“Sure, sure.” He laughs. “Where do you want to go?”

Hervé has played some Italian music on his vinyl, so it’s what scratchily plays through the dining area, accompanied by the scent of garlic and lemon and olive from the trees outside, blowing a gentle breeze through the archway of the house.

You turn away from his green eyes to answer one of Arthur’s questions, peppering chili flakes over your aglio olio to twirl and deposit into your mouth. One red flake stays on your lip and he imagines swiping it off with his thumb. Your eyes meet his again, gaze amused and gentle and Charles could stare forever.

“Anywhere, really.”

—

“Oh, honey,” you whine playfully, letting your husband crowd you against the counter of your kitchen, peppering kisses all over your face. “Missed me that much?”

“You know I did.” He parts from you, and even if he's taller his gaze seems to convey looking up at you, adoration and love crowding his green eyes. A hand caresses your jaw, cheek; his thumb rubs over the corner of your eye. The blank skin there, unmarked, unblemished.

He kisses it. His favorite spot. “I woke up this morning thinking about you,” he says fondly.

“About how I left you in charge of changing Mila while I slept in?” You tease lowly, forehead pressed to his.

“About how in love I am with you,” he says honestly. Your heart pulses. It was never a whirlwind of love for either of you. It was slow, warm, familiar. Hey, you.

Despite that, he means it, you know he does, he’s never failed to show just how much. When he wakes up early to change Mila, or when he takes charge of the stove when you’re sleepy. When he lets you walk him around the winding avenues of Manhattan to get cookies or a good coffee or a better beer. When he watches you sing karaoke tipsily, Billy Joel or The Smiths. The way he memorizes every part of you, the way he knows you. Any and all of the love Charles ever had and ever felt always answered to you. 

Lips meet the corner of your eye again. “You know that? I love you. You changed me. You know that, right?”

You could stay forever, in the dusk of the city, questions suspended in the air to be lovingly answered in the lifetimes to follow. They will come, though. You can stay for now—you’ve done your waiting for a love like this.

You smile. “Right.”

[mononijikayu]

what are you doing new year's eve? ― nanami kento

The cafe was long behind them, and the echoes of jazz lingered in the little hums from her lips, accompanying them in their steps as they ventured into the winter night. In that quietude, they began leaving behind the remnants of that dance in the summer and that night in the jazz bar, stepping into the unscripted chapter that awaited them. Tomorrow was a new year, and in the cold winter streets of Copenhagen, both of them were certain—it was made for being together.

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Canon Convergence;

WARNING/s: Gen, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Husband and Wife, Friendship, Husband! Nanami, Reader! Wife, Fluff, Drama, Comfort, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fix-It, Humor, Domesticity, Family Life, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Idiots In Love, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Pining, Nanami Being A Great Husband;

WORDS: 5k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i hope this makes up for the overtly sad sad stuff i write on here. this is a new year chapter for the new years!!! happy new year everyone!!! thank you for your support throughout 2023!!! let's be together happily in 2024 too!!!

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malmö i mitt hjärta | what are you doing new year's eve

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HE THINKS HE SHOULD HAVE WORN A WARMER COAT. Nanami Kento could feel his nose numbing as he tried to breathe air into his already exasperated lungs. He knew it was far too cold to wear this sort of coat. But he did not feel like going back into the house and scrambling through his winter clothes. He also did not want to see his grandmother fuss over him. She worries as much as his mother.

As much as he loved them both, he did not want them to worry too much about him. The cold could be bearable. But perhaps his restlessness was not. He needed to get out of the house. He just couldn’t take the four walls of his room anymore. He wouldn’t be able to bear it much longer.

The bitter wind, crisp and biting, meandered through the labyrinthine streets of Copenhagen, weaving its way around the ancient architecture that bore witness to the city's rich history. Each gust carried with it the distinctive scent of the nearby sea, a salty whisper that spoke of untold tales and distant horizons. In this Nordic city, where the air was charged with the essence of maritime adventure, Nanami Kento walked with purpose.

A year had passed since Nanami made the daring decision to sever ties with the tumultuous world of jujutsu. The echoes of battles fought and sacrifices made lingered in his memory, but the decision to leave it all behind had granted him a newfound sense of freedom. Seeking solace from the haunting shadows of his past, he found refuge in the comforting embrace of his grandparents' home—a haven nestled in the heart of this foreign land.

The cobblestone streets beneath his boots whispered tales of centuries gone by, and the vibrant hues of the buildings stood in stark contrast to the monochrome memories Nanami had left behind. In the midst of this cultural tapestry, he discovered solace, a respite from the constant turmoil that had defined his life.

As he walked through the city, the wind tugged at the collar of his coat, a reminder of the world he had chosen to leave behind. Yet, there was a promise in the air, an intangible current that hinted at new beginnings. Copenhagen, with its fusion of tradition and modernity, offered Nanami a canvas on which to paint the next chapter of his life.

Arriving at the doorstep of his grandparents' home, he felt the weight of the wooden door, weathered by time and stories. It swung open to welcome him, and the warmth within enveloped him like a familiar hug. The walls whispered tales of his own childhood, and the aroma of his grandmother's cooking wafted through the air, grounding him in the present.

In this foreign land, amidst the echoes of harsher winters than that of his own, Nanami discovered the beauty of starting anew. The bitter wind, though relentless, became a companion on his journey of self-discovery. As the sea-scented breeze caressed his face, he couldn't help but feel that, in Copenhagen, he had found a sanctuary—a place where the echoes of the jujutsu world could finally be drowned out by the soothing symphony of a city that embraced him without judgment.

It was a crisp winter morning, the kind that painted the world in hues of silver and white. Nanami Kento ambled through the narrow, quaint streets of the city, a foreign canvas upon which his footsteps left imprints of newfound freedom. The Nordic air, crisp and invigorating, filled his lungs with each breath, replacing the dense, suffocating atmosphere of the jujutsu world with the promise of serenity.

As he meandered through the snow-covered landscape, the weight that had burdened his shoulders for so long began to dissipate. The Scandinavian calm enveloped him like a soothing balm, soothing the wounds inflicted by battles fought and choices made. The city, adorned in its winter finery, seemed to cradle Nanami in its embrace, offering respite from the storm he had weathered.

Yet, in the quiet moments of solitude, Nanami couldn't escape the specters of his past. The thought of Mikoto Nobuhiko lingered in the recesses of his mind—the glistening eyes, the unspoken emotions that danced between them as they parted ways in the dorms. The memories of youth, now distant echoes, resurfaced, particularly the haunting image of standing before a cobblestone tomb where a dear friend rested, taken too soon. Nanami often found himself plagued by self-blame, haunted by the belief that he could have done more, that he could have altered the course of fate.

In the quiet of Copenhagen's winter, he couldn't shake the dreams of Yu Haibara and his infectious boyish smile. The gentleness that once defined Yu, stolen away by the unforgiving hands of the cruel world, haunted Nanami's subconscious. Yet, like a mantra, he reminded himself that those days were gone, a realm he could never revisit. The past, with its joys and sorrows, had become an unalterable tapestry that no amount of yearning could unravel.

Copenhagen, with its cold tendrils caressing his skin, became a sanctuary where Nanami sought solace. The chill, instead of biting, cradled him tenderly, a reminder that he had escaped the clutches of a world he could never truly leave behind. The city, with its ancient charm and modern allure, became a backdrop for Nanami's journey forward.

It whispered promises of a new beginning, a life unburdened by the shackles of the past. In the heart of Copenhagen, Nanami found relief, and as he navigated the snow-kissed streets, he embraced the present, determined to forge a path ahead—one guided not by regret, but by the gentle touch of a city that offered him a canvas upon which to paint the chapters of his rebirth.

The familiar street greeted him like an old friend, its cobblestones beneath his feet whispering tales of summer days gone by. Just a few months ago, Nanami Kento had wandered these same lanes during the summer break. The memories of those warm days lingered, woven into the fabric of the city's essence.

His grandfather, a jazz musician with a passion that spanned decades, had been a regular attendee of the music festival that graced the city every summer since the '70s. Kento, in tow, became a witness to the traditions that bound generations together. It had been a family affair, with his mother, equally enamored with jazz, usually accompanying them. However, that particular summer, his mother opted to spend time with his grandmother, leaving Kento with his father and grandfather.

As he traversed the familiar route, Kento couldn't help but reminisce about that summer day when the vibrant world of jazz had captured his senses. The infectious rhythm and soulful melodies had beckoned him, and he had surrendered himself to the music, if only for a brief moment. Little did he anticipate that this impromptu decision would act as a catalyst, altering the trajectory of his life.

The memories of that summer warmed his heart as he strolled through the well-trodden path. The city, once again alive with the spirit of jazz, seemed to echo with the tunes that had left an indelible mark on his soul.

And then, as if the city itself orchestrated a serendipitous encounter, he found himself standing in the same spot where destiny had intervened months ago. His gaze fell upon a young woman, her beauty transcending the ordinary. A wide smile graced her face, and her infectious laughter mingled with the music that enveloped the space. Her dress swirled around her as she danced with a partner, the joyous energy radiating from her like a beacon.

She fell into her partner's chest, laughter bubbling forth like a melody, and when she turned to face Kento, her eyes sparkled with an intensity that rivaled the sun. Before he could fathom what was happening, she took him by the hand, her eyes silently urging him to join the dance. 

A playful gleam lit up her eyes as she extended her hand toward him, the vivacity in her voice cutting through the ambient jazz notes. He felt hesitant for a moment, turning to his father and grandfather with sudden panic. He did not know how to react. They nodded at him, smiling and urging him forward.

The air was charged with excitement and vibrant wonder, and as the first notes of a jazz tune enveloped them, Kento couldn't resist the magnetic pull of the music and the enchanting woman who had chosen him as her dance partner.

"Come on, don't be shy! Let the music guide you," she urged, her grin infectious, and in that instant, Nanami Kento felt a magnetic pull that transcended both time and space.

Without a word, he took her hand, and as their fingers intertwined, an unspoken connection ignited. The jazz, a melodic symphony that seemed to resonate from the very heart of the city, served as the backdrop to their impromptu dance.

The crowded space with its eclectic mix of jazz enthusiasts faded into the background as they swayed and twirled to the rhythm of the music. The world ,with its indifference and worries, ceased to exist within the warmth of the shared moment. In the heart of Copenhagen, surrounded by the echoes of jazz, Nanami Kento and the mysterious woman moved in perfect harmony.

The music, like a benevolent guide, dictated their steps, leading them through a dance that felt both spontaneous and rehearsed. As they spun and dipped, the energy of the jazz festival enveloped them, creating a cocoon where the troubles of the past and uncertainties of the future held no sway.

The woman's laughter, a melody of its own, echoed through the cobbled streets, interweaving with the jazz notes in a harmonious dance. Nanami, typically reserved and guarded, found himself surrendering to the rhythm, losing track of time and space. For those fleeting moments, the weight of the jujutsu world, the ghosts of his past, all seemed to dissipate in the cadence of their shared dance.

As the final notes of the jazz piece resonated through the air, the applause of the café's patrons brought them back to reality. The woman, still caught in the joy of the dance, turned to Nanami with a bright smile. 

"That was amazing! Thank you for dancing with me," she expressed, her eyes reflecting genuine appreciation.

Nanami, a rare warmth lingering in his eyes, met her gaze. "No, thank you. It was a pleasure," he replied, a sentiment that transcended mere words. 

He tried not to be embarrassed as he stepped away from her and back towards his father and grandfather. They continued to clap and laugh and praise him for doing well. Father even bragged about having taken a video and promised to show it to his mother later. He groaned about it as they continued to walk off and go to the path towards the other jazz musicians.

He did not know if it was the Danish sun that was hot all summer that made him feel so warm.

But as he turned back, seeing the young woman smile and giggle.

He was certain that the warmth he felt would stay with him throughout.

The spellbinding dance in the heart of bright, sunny Copenhagen had not only offered Nanami an escape from his past but had also kindled a connection that felt destined—a dance of a lifetime that he would carry with him, a cherished memory of a summer's day in a city that had become his unexpected refuge.

Restlessness gripped Nanami Kento with an unyielding tenacity, casting a pervasive shadow over the edges of his solitude. Within the confines of his own thoughts, dark tendrils of contemplation writhed like wildfire, unwelcome and intrusive. He loathed this emotional turbulence, an unwelcome companion that had persisted, refusing to release its hold on him even after the passage of time.

Seated with a cup of hot chocolate in hand, Nanami took deliberate, deep breaths, attempting to quell the tempest within his mind. The warmth of the beverage offered a comforting contrast to the internal chill that clung to him. It was a battle against the relentless onslaught of thoughts, a struggle against the emotions that threatened to consume him.

In this moment of quiet reflection, he pondered the futile hope that distance could sever the ties to haunting memories. He had sought solace miles and miles away, yearning to escape the accusatory gazes that whispered tales of abandonment and the painful eyes that spoke the language of goodbyes.

As he sighed, the warm breath escaping his lips seemed to carry with it the weight of unresolved emotions. Nanami couldn't escape the relentless echoes of the past, and even in the sanctuary of a quiet corner with a steaming cup before him, the turmoil within persisted. The hot chocolate, a feeble antidote, offered temporary respite, but the battle against the haunting shadows of his thoughts endured.

It was a struggle against an invisible adversary, an emotional warfare that unfolded within the confines of his own consciousness. Nanami, with each deliberate sip, attempted to find solace, seeking refuge in the simple act of indulging in the warmth of his drink. Yet, the restlessness, like an indomitable force, continued to linger, an ever-present companion on his journey through the labyrinth of his own emotions.

The familiar walls of his grandparents' home, while comforting, seemed to close in on him, urging him to escape the confines of his own thoughts. Sensing his need for reprieve, his grandfather, a sage figure of wisdom and understanding, suggested a simple remedy—take a walk.

The time-worn walls of his grandparents' home, though steeped in familiarity and the embrace of cherished memories, now seemed to tighten their grasp on Nanami Kento. Despite their comforting presence, they took on an almost oppressive quality, closing in around him like silent witnesses to the turmoil within his mind. The quietude of the rooms, once a haven, now echoed with the resonance of unspoken thoughts, urging him to seek refuge beyond the confines of his own contemplations.

His grandfather seemed to recognize the restlessness that brewed within Kento's being. Perhaps his mother has felt this way before too. Grandfather smiled at him tenderly. He was like a sage whenever Kento looked at him. It was as though he was someone who years carried the weight of experience and the gentle wisdom of time. 

Certainly, he sensed the need for reprieve in his grandson's troubled heart. It was amidst this silent acknowledgment that the elderly patriarch offered a remedy as simple as it was profound—take a walk and relieve your heart with the sights of something else.

The suggestion hung in the air, laden with the unspoken understanding that sometimes, the remedy for a restless soul lay not in grand gestures or complex solutions, but in the simplicity of a deliberate step outside. The labyrinth of thoughts could often be navigated more effectively under the open sky, where the vastness of the world provided both perspective and solace.

Nanami, sensing the gravity of his grandfather's suggestion, nodded in silent agreement. It was a tacit acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that transcended generations—the understanding that, in the face of internal struggles, the wisdom of an elder could guide one towards a path of renewal.

As he stepped out into the crisp air, the creaking door behind him seemed to release not just his physical form but also the weight of his emotional burden. The world outside, bathed in the soft hues of daylight, became a canvas for introspection and healing. 

Nanami's footsteps echoed the rhythm of his contemplations, each stride serving as a subtle declaration of his intent to navigate the labyrinth of his thoughts with the simple act of walking—an age-old remedy, whispered from one generation to another, under the watchful eyes of time.

The winter air greeted him coldly as he stepped out onto the cobblestone streets of Copenhagen. With earphones in place, the soothing rhythms of bossa nova provided a backdrop to his aimless journey. Each step resonated with a silent yearning to untangle the threads of his restless mind.

The city unfolded before him, a tapestry of ancient charm and modern allure, and Kento wandered through its labyrinthine streets, losing himself in the rhythmic cadence of his footsteps. As the city whispered tales of its storied past, he meandered through the enigmatic alleys, the bossa nova notes acting as a companion to his contemplations.

However, fatigue eventually set in, and as if guided by an unseen force, Kento found himself standing at the entrance of a familiar courtyard. The air seemed to shimmer with a sense of déjà vu, transporting him back to the vibrant days of summer. It was as if the city itself conspired to lead him to this very spot.

Without much thought, he stepped into the charming café tucked away in the corner of the courtyard. The ambiance was a sensory symphony, the warm notes of a saxophone enveloping him like a gentle embrace. The air buzzed with the lively laughter and animated chatter of cafe-goers, creating an atmosphere that felt alive with shared joy.

Nanami chose a seat near the small stage, drawn like a moth to the enchanting voice of the singer who held court before a captivated audience. The music, a melodic potion, seemed to weave a spell around him, momentarily quieting the restlessness that had plagued his thoughts. The singer, with a voice that resonated with emotion and grace, commanded the attention of everyone present, casting a spell that transcended the ordinary.

In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the café and the entrancing melodies of the festival, Nanami Kento found himself once again caught in the embrace of the city's magic. The saxophone's soothing tones and the singer's enchanting voice served as a balm for his restless soul, providing a sanctuary where the worries of the world outside momentarily ceased to exist.

It was her, singing as though an angel sent from above.

Nanami Kento felt his lips part, but no words could come out.

He felt that same warmth, just as he had that summer's day in her arms.

As the musical crescendo reached its zenith, the singer's gaze, like a beacon in the dimly lit cafe, found Nanami Kento's eyes. In that ephemeral connection, a knowing smile graced her lips, a silent acknowledgment that transcended the audible notes and resonated with the unspoken language of their shared musical experience.

In that moment, it was as if a secret pact had been forged, sealed with the mutual understanding that they were both voyagers on a sonic journey, each note a stepping stone leading them to the heart of the melody.

The singer, bathed in the golden glow of the stage lights, seemed to surrender herself to the intoxicating passion of the music. Her eyes, illuminated with a spark of something indefinable, drank deeply from the chalice of its harmony, as if she were communing with a force beyond the tangible. It was a transcendent communion, where the boundaries between artist and art blurred, leaving only the essence of emotion that permeated the air.

For Kento, the allure of her presence became an irresistible force, a magnetic pull that tethered him to the heart of the performance. As he watched her, he felt not just the music but the very essence of her being infused with the atmosphere.

It was as though she and the music were indivisible entities, two sides of the same coin, each note an extension of her soul. In the canvas of the cafe, where the air hummed with the residue of melodies, life unfolded before him in the form of this captivating songstress.

The symbiosis between the singer and the music was palpable, a dance of mutual surrender. It was as though she embodied the very spirit of the composition, becoming the living, breathing manifestation of the melodies that cascaded around her.

The passion that emanated from her was contagious, and in that intimate space, Nanami Kento found himself caught in the intricate dance between artist and audience, the boundaries between their worlds momentarily dissolved.

In the presence of this goddess, life seemed to harmonize with the cadence of her voice. It was as though the cafe itself had become a sacred space, where the divinity of music and the essence of existence converged, creating a symphony that transcended the ordinary. 

In those moments, as the singer basked in the afterglow of the song's climax, Nanami Kento couldn't help but feel that he had witnessed not just a performance but a manifestation of life's profound beauty.

As the minutes stretched into hours, the atmosphere of the cafe transformed into a timeless realm where Nanami Kento found himself ensconced in the spell of both music and the captivating presence of the singer. The rhythm became a pulse, and time, a fluid entity that seemed to elude the constraints of the clock. She sang, her voice a melodic river that coursed through the air, and Kento, a willing captive, lost himself in the undulating waves of sound.

Her singing was a continuous offering, a stream of prayers that flowed from her lips, each note like a sacred incantation. Kento, seated in the audience, listened with a reverence that bordered on the worshipful. It was as though he paid homage to a goddess of music, and in the repetition of the praises, he found himself entranced by the enchanting cadence that echoed through the space.

In a serendipitous twist of fate, Kento learned that she was a last-minute replacement, a sudden vacancy in the band leaving them without a singer.

Her brother, a member of the jazz band, had called her at the eleventh hour to fill the void. She chuckled at the unexpected turn of events, downplaying the praises that showered upon her. She waved them off, saying she was no singer. That she was no professional.

Yet Kento, a discerning listener, recognized the truth in those praises. They all ring true. Her voice, a celestial melody that resonated with his very soul, had woven itself into the fabric of his being.

When the final notes of the last song melted into the ether, the cafe erupted in applause. The singer, basking in the aftermath of her musical journey, cast a gentle smile in Kento's direction. It was a moment of acknowledgment, a silent exchange that transcended the applause and connected them on a level beyond the tangible.

As she prepared to leave the stage, she thanked everyone for coming. She started to say goodbye to members of the band and grinned at them, joking with them for a bit and kissed her brother's cheek and left the stage. Her brother was doing the next set as just jazz music, and so the claps and cheers finished and began anew as the band started to play once more. The cafe had turned into the bar it was at night.

The warmth of the cafe–bar gave way to the chill of the outside world. Opening the door, she let out a disgruntled sound and started complaining about the winter cold with her thick She started to stepped out into the cold, fumbling with the buttons of her winter coat. In that transitional moment, as the boundary between the magical world of music and the reality of the winter night blurred, Kento felt an unfamiliar impulse surge within him.

Seizing the opportunity, propelled by a courage he hadn't known existed, he stepped forward to bridge the gap between their worlds. The cold air hung heavy with anticipation as he took a chance, driven by an urge to break free from the silent observer and become an active participant in the unfolding drama of the night.

"Wait," the words escaped Nanami Kento's lips, a sudden impulse that caught even himself off guard. The singer turned towards him, her eyes a curious but kind inquiry, as if the melody of his voice had woven its own verse into the lingering notes of the music. "I think I know you."

Her gaze studied his face for a moment before recognition sparked in her eyes, and a smile began to blossom on her lips. "I met you, this summer. Didn't I? We danced together, just nearby!"

A nod from Kento, his heart resounding with each beat, a rhythm echoing the memories of that summer encounter. "Yes, I just... I just thought I was mistaken."

Her grin widened, a playful glint in her eyes. "Well, you weren't. Good for you, hm?"

"I, uh... I didn't expect to see you here."

"Me neither," she responded, her hands finding refuge in her pockets, the winter air lending warmth to her words. "But my brother needed my help, and it's his last gig for the year. I thought I should help him out."

"I see."

"What's your name?"

"Kento," he replied, the syllables escaping almost too quickly for his liking. "Kento Nanami."

"Oh, you're Japanese?" A moment of realization crossed her features, and she gracefully bowed to him. Switching to Japanese, she continued, "It's nice to meet you."

Caught off guard, he reciprocated the bow, his face reflecting a mixture of surprise and astonishment. The unexpected reunion and the sudden switch to their shared language in the heart of Copenhagen added an unforeseen twist to the unfolding moment.

She giggled as she shared her name, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as if Nanami was attempting to etch it into the recesses of his memory.

"I think I should go, Nanami—kun. After all, it's getting late."

"O-oh, uh... of course."

With a casual wave, she added, "Happy New Year, Nanami-kun."

"Happy New Year," he replied, the exchange marking a momentary farewell. Yet, just as she began to turn away, an inexplicable force pulled at him.

He called out to her again. That was what stunned him. He called her name by the pure, unexpected impulse. He did not know if she will turn around. But when she turned, still smiling, he could feel his heart pound so hard in his chest. It hurt to feel so warm inside, so almost exposed to the echoes of life. 

Yet he knew he wanted to be greedy, at this moment.

Nanami Kento thinks he will not be able to not speak his heart aloud.

Because deep within, he found himself reluctant to let her slip away. 

Scratching the back of his head, heat flushing his face, he mumbled, "I don't really do this, and I... I don't really know what will happen after I say it. But I just had to ask."

Her grin persisted, "What is it, stranger?"

"Would you like to have a meal with me?" He mumbles out, barely coherent. "Not here....just. Let's look for a place to eat at."

The question lingered in the air, suspended between the notes of the fading jazz melody, the enchantment of Copenhagen's winter night, and the thread of connection woven through their shared history of a summer dance. 

It was a daring proposition, an invitation that transcended the boundaries of the ordinary, as if the cafe–bar itself held its breath in anticipation of her response.

Her eyes, still carrying the sparkle of their shared memories, held a playful curiosity as she considered his invitation. The cafe and bar, wrapped in the quietude of the aftermath of the performance, seemed to wait with bated breath for her answer. 

The allure of possibility wafted through the space, a subtle hum in the air that resonated with the unspoken possibilities of a shared coffee, a continuation of a story that had begun in the rhythms of a summer dance.

She tilted her head, the smile on her lips carrying a hint of mischief, "Well, Kento—kun, I suppose it would be a shame to let such an unexpected reunion end so quickly, wouldn't it?"

Nanami Kento felt a surge of relief and excitement, the uncharted territory of possibility stretching before them. It was as though this moment just felt right. Everything he felt was right. Everything he felt about life shifted and changed and merged and broke. Everything in this moment was beyond comprehension. Everything about tonight was a once and a lifetime miracle.

"I'd like that," he replied, a sincerity in his voice that mirrored the warmth that had been kindled within him. "Very much."

She hums back, happily. "Hm, me too."

Their conversation, a delightful blend of laughter and shared memories, intertwined seamlessly with the enchanting atmosphere of the night. The lamplights cast elongated shadows on the cobblestone streets, creating an intimate tableau as they meandered through the city's silent alleys.

It was a dance of words beneath the glow, a choreography of sentences and responses that mirrored the ebb and flow of the moonlit waves on a distant shore.

The moon, a silent sentinel in the celestial expanse, bestowed its tender glow upon them, as if lending an ethereal blessing to this rendezvous. Its silver light, filtered through the winter night's breath, painted their silhouettes against the backdrop of Copenhagen's timeless beauty.

Underneath the moonlit canvas, they strolled with a leisurely pace, navigating the labyrinth of streets with no particular destination in mind. Each step was a sentence in the unwritten story of their night—a story that seemed to unfold organically, propelled by the magnetic pull of shared laughter and the quiet understanding that words could convey.

As they wandered, the city's pulse seemed to quicken, echoing the cadence of their conversation. The facades of historic buildings, adorned with tales of centuries past, watched over them like ancient guardians privy to the secrets exchanged in the moonlit embrace of the night.

The chill in the air did nothing to cool the warmth that radiated between them. Their breath mingled with the winter mist, creating an ephemeral veil around their steps. It was a dance of tenderness, orchestrated by the moon's watchful gaze and accompanied by the distant symphony of the city—footsteps on cobblestones, the occasional rustle of leaves, and the murmur of waves caressing the nearby shore.

As they continued to amble through Copenhagen's nocturnal embrace, the moonlight etched a silent poem in the sky, an ode to unexpected reunions and the timeless beauty of shared moments beneath its watchful eye. The city, in its slumber, whispered its approval, its ancient heart beating in harmony with the melody of their conversation. And in that tranquil interlude, two souls found solace in the delicate dance of words and the moonlit romance of a winter night in Copenhagen.

The cafe and bar was long behind them, and the echoes of jazz lingered in the little hums from her lips, accompanying them in their steps as they ventured into the winter night. In that quietude, they began leaving behind the remnants of that dance in the summer and that night in the jazz bar, stepping into the unscripted chapter that awaited them.

Tomorrow was a new year, and in the cold winter streets of Copenhagen, both of them were certain—it was made for being together.

fact about nanami and his wife this chapter: nanami's parents visited and attended a jujutsu sorcerer christmas party. his parents showed gojo the video of young nanami dancing with his wife in copenhagen. needless to say, nanami is not pleased. nanami's wife often comes to her brother's rescue when the singer of their band makes excuses. she has a really good singing voice and it helped nanami during sleepless nights or after a nightmare. she's been recruited a couple of times to be a professional singer, but she prefers writing! nanami's wife can speak japanese because her favorite uncle married a japanese woman. she wanted to be able to speak to her, so she and her aunt learned japanese and danish together. i always imagine nanami's wife's voice be like narumi from wotakoi while i write her dialogue. she sounds soft spoken but energetically bright to me. she was played by arisa date. here's a sample of narumi's voice. nanami's top three favorite music genre is hard rock, alternative rock and jazz. but he would listen to all types of music too. nanami's wife likes a lot of sorts of music, but she grew up around jazz, pop and ballad. the day of their wedding, gojo's present to nanami's wife was a giving her a flash drive of second year nanami kento singing and jamming out to evanescence's bring me back to life. his wife calls it the best video ever. nanami has tried to take the flashdrive but his wife has made subsequent copies! copenhagen is nanami and his wife's favorite city to be in whenever they're in denmark. its everything to them to be there on july, when the jazz festival happens when they first met and near new year when they had they met again. the years after this, when they confessed in snow flower, on new year's eve, when he and her came back to the jazz bar and ate at the same place as their first date as a couple.

[thewertsearch]

There is something familiar about this.

WV isn't familiar with Bec's symbol, so it's something else about this situation that's jogging his memory.

Perhaps it's the decapitation of the Frog Temple, which is becoming something of a pattern in the Sburb sessions we've seen. Could it have a deeper meaning?

You have not inspected your treasure in years. You have spent ages guarding it without understanding its purpose.

You saw it in action, though!

Are you saying that you don't know what it does, or that you don't know what it's for?

Its only purpose you have understood has been to remind you of things you have taken care to forget.

I can think of two ways to read this.

WV genuinely doesn't understand how the Ring works. As far as he's concerned, it's a dangerous weapon that slaughtered his allies, and nothing more. He's never used it, because he has no interest in weapons of mass destruction - and therefore, its true abilities are unknown to him.

WV knows exactly how the Ring works, but still refuses to use it, even to save his own life. Sure, it can turn him into a demigod - but doing so would turn him into the same monster that ruined everything on the Battlefield. His refusal to use or even acknowledge the Ring is a principled stance against a device he perceives as evil.

Jade's final kernel is turning the chessboard into a fractal.

The game is probably trying to stack four or more dimensions into 3D space, so it make sense that we'd get something screwy.

[eisukevint]

eisuke ichinomiya x desi!reader headcanons !!

im so bored so here are some headcanons bec i love being desi

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

• he hates it when he has to wait and initially when you started dating you tried your best to be on time whenever he paged you but as your relationship progressed, its game over. whenever u have to go out, you ALWAYS leave at the the desi time and he slowly got so used to it, the one and only time punctual eisuke was late to events.

• eisuke has a massive sweet tooth so when you first made him kheer, he absolutely loved it although his only words were ‘not bad’. He definitely asks you to make it again so you feed him other ‘mithai’ (sweets in urdu/hindi) like gulab jamun, rasgullay, JALEBI etc and he loves it so much.

• you make him desi food from time to time and actually requests it like you him ask ‘eisuke what do you want for dinner today?’ and he just says ‘you made nihari last time, it was good. make it again’ he finds it very flavourful.

• he’s very familiar with other cultures since he’s a businessman and often interacts with foreign businessmen. he knows about the clothes and customs of your country. imagine eisuke in kurta or sherwani EISUKE IN A KURTA A BLACK KURTA AT THAT (i would actually die). Whenever you go to family events, you always wear traditional clothes and once eisuke is invited to them, he initially just wears his suit but after some time he starts to indulge you and actually wears your traditional clothes.

• he finds it very sexy when you talk and swear in your mother language.

• eisuke is multilingual (as its mentioned in the story) so if he doesnt know your mother langauge he would DEFINITELY learn and boy his pronunciation would be so good (thats a perfectionist for you)

• he says he hates bollywood movies because theyre so extra but thats a lie. whenever u play something like ‘kabhi khushi kabhi gham’ or ‘kal ho na ho’ he always watches it with you because he’s intrigued but ALWAYS says ‘this movie is so bad i wonder why you waste time watching this stuff’

• you go around singing bollywood songs or songs in your mother tongue around the penthouse and he just enjoys it so much but he definitely wont say it out loud

• eisuke was FLABBERGASTED when you told him or rather showed him a desi wedding like why is everyone wearing such fancy clothes ??? and he’s even more surprised when he finds out there’s actually three days to a wedding and even more pre wedding events.

• he loves it when you wear mehndi on your hands, he sees mehndi as something that adorns your hand and whenever u apply it, he brings your hand up to his face and smells it because he loves thr scent.

• when you told him about all your family and by that i mean family on your mother’s and father’s side, he has to do a double take because why the fuck do you have SO many cousins? he’s trying to keep up but there’s just so many.

• your parents love him more than you. they literally said it to your face ‘oh my, such a handsome boy, how did you ever end up with our incompetent daughter’ you cannot convince me that this wont happen.

• baba asks you to teach him bhangra and other desi dance steps and you, ota and baba have the time of your life dancing to chammak challo and nach punjaban in the penthouse lounge and eisuke just looks at you like youre comitting a crime

a little something for myself bec im a self indulgent bitch (not exactly a desi headcanon but i wanted to add this)

• every eid you spend with him, he makes sure to spoil you thoroughly. he gives you so much eidi (literally) like he straight up handed you car keys once and went ‘eid mubarak ___, i know you’ve been waiting for your eidi’ and then he just smirks while you think what did you do to deserve so much. he enjoys eid festivities with you and eid ul fitr is his favourite eid.

[thegoodthebadthealternative]

The Good, The Bad and The Alternative: a homestuck fanfiction. Chapter 37, an excerpt.

John narrowed his eyes at Rose as well, and Rose glanced between him and Jade. After a second, she broke, letting out a defeated laugh.

"I believe I see the family resemblance now." she said. "Thought I'm curious when you all found time to plan th-"

Dave let out a choking noise that sounded somewhere between a hiccup and a gasp and a burp.

"Woah, dude, are you alright?" John asked, taking a step towards Dave, who'd doubled over.

He held up a hand, taking a deep breath.

"What'd you just say?" Dave asked, looking at Rose. She blinked a few times, confused.

Jade realized it a split-second before Rose did.

"Dave! We never told you!" Jade shouted, catching the attention of some passerby. She winced at herself, continuing at a more reasonable volume. "Gosh, I guess with everything happening, we forgot."

Dave's eyes were wide, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Forgot... What exactly? Just run that by me real quick." he said.

"Dave, me and Jade are related." John said, gesturing at her. "Her dad was my grand-uncle. We're, uh, demigods."

"My grandmother is the Empress of Magic." Jade said quietly.

Dave's expression was unreadable.

Rose's expression was... Frighteningly curious. She was staring Dave down like a snow owl watching a mouse decide whether or not to leave its burrow.

"You made no remarks upon their physical familiarity with each other, Dave." she said. "What did you believe was occurring?"

Dave coughed, then disappeared in a blur. He reappeared a short distance away trying to reenter the apartment building, frantically jamming the code into the keypad. He was too slow. In three long strides, Rose was on him, blocking the doorway with her wingspan.

Jade looked at John. He shrugged.

"Nothing! What's some bicep stroking between long lost friends! Get your hands off me!" Dave struggled against Rose's implacable, pneumatic social pressure as she herded him back to the group.

Jade looked at Dave expectantly, though he seemed to be more worried about John's concerned stare by the way he pointed his shaded eyes away from her cousin.

"Well," Rose prompted from behind him, "tell us. You're among friends."

Dave glanced around for another escape route.

"Dave, what's wrong?" Jade asked. At her side, Bec barked, in a way Jade thought was encouraging, but Dave jumped at the sound.

Any guesses why Dave is reacting like this? Check out Chapter 37: My Friends (Part 1) and find out!

[catprinx]

I know art is all about practice and trying out new things and not being afraid of using references, but do you have any advice for newer artists about areas to focus time on? Especially for learning digital art/colouring? I've always loved your art style so any advice you have would be valuable.

hi anon!!! Thank you for the kind words :)

There's no one good answer to this because art is about a lot of things. So rather than give you clear-cut actionable items to do, like a checklist, I'll just write down my own philosophies about art exploration. I've also been thinking a lot about this in terms of my own improvement.

(Also for everyone reading this I am by NO MEANS a teacher so take everything I say with a grain of salt. I'm simply someone that just enjoys thinking about art)

I think art is a lot about the combination of technical skill + visual language + concept.

Practicing technical skill, as you said, involves using reference and doing studies. I think an important thing to remember is you need to know what you're trying to learn. Here's a good example the former is a traditional still life of grapes, the artist probably intended to make a piece with a good composition and an impressive rendering technique. While the latter is definitely more of a value/color study. I'm certain this artist could have gone into detail rendering those grapes but being realistic isn't their intention/style. So when you're doing your studies I think simply asking "what do I want to work on?/what am I trying to communicate" can be helpful.

If your goal is working on color specifically I think it would be important to practice values, hues, and temperature control. Those things are the basis of color and after that you can play with more stylistic color. In the end my advice is to do a lot of studies, and look at a lot of art! Doing these studies digitally is just a matter or practicing and familiarizing yourself with the art programs (it takes time). If you have an artist you like you can probably look at their work and breakdown what you like about it. For example the narumitsu art I was working on here is kind of a study of @/rei_17's art (from twitter). I love her use of non-local colors and colors that are very close in value but the depth comes from the hue/temperature shifts in color. It's so masterful to me!!! So, now that I know what I'm looking at it becomes easier to break down and put it into practice for my own art.

Visual language usually refers to "style". To me, it can mean a lot of different things but for the sake of this long ass text post let's say it's just about "art style". My tip is to...copy! Copy what you like and figure out what it is you like about it. I feel like your hand will guide you towards your own art style in the end. I don't view myself as someone with a particularly interesting or unique art style but I can breakdown my influences a little. I'm someone who grew up with anime/shoujo influence but also copied a lot of popular tumblr styles back in the day lmao. I want my anatomy to "feel" correct even though it's rarely realistic and I don't really exaggerate form too much because I don't have a preference for it. I'm someone who values drawing speed and clarity of form over details. And all those things added up are the reasons I draw like I do. You can totally make a style by more intentionally riffing off others, and you can also develop a style just by doing your own thing. Your art will always have an identity of its own even if you don't know it at the time!!!

Concept is just your idea/intentions/narrative etc. I really think concept can be anything you want. Some people can go really in-depth with their concept with studying and research and etc, and other people can make something visually interesting simply by going "I want to draw a cute girl". Everyone is different! I wouldn't take concept advice from me personally because I don't make original illustrations. Fanart is easier to work with because usually you're interpreting someone's existing narrative and you can churn out something cool from that. Maybe my advice is draw more fanart???

[movedto-mrs-bluemarine]

VASILY CONTENT!!

Ik I have a whole ass blog for this shit but I know it won't get any attention over there (lol) so I'm posting it here 🫶 minors dni please and thanks, content warning for guns and um. Um. (No sex just extremely suggestive) I like to imagine Vas gets very antsy when he's flustered. It's my new favorite thing. I love torturing men.

Oh yeah um normal text in speech is English, whereas italics is meant to signify Russian. Until friends come in, in which case normal text is Japanese. She's a multilingual queen ok. (And I hc Vasily knows very little English)

“Dobroye utro, Vasily.”

The man's head immediately snapped up upon hearing her kind voice. The blonde woman was making her way through the trees, smiling down pleasantly as the Russian man was settled on the ground, rifle in hand. Her deep blue eyes took notice of the gun. The butt rested on the snowy floor, the barrel pointing at the sky above, while Vasily tinkered with something on its side. Curious, the German woman joined him, watching and teasing him as he worked. “Playing with toys?”

The redhead huffed, ignoring her little comment which made her giggle. She leaned in closer. Her hand rested on his knee. “Why, it's certainly a pretty toy… I think I've seen it before, Mosin-Nagant, ja?”

Impressed by her knowledge, Vasily nodded. His silent praise only made her smile widen. “I'm not too familiar with weapons, but my father being the man he was, he was very interested in what was used in the war, he talked to me about some of it… ah, but I'm rambling. You barely understand a word I'm saying.”

Her eyes traveled lower down his rifle. What amused her was the position of it, settled between his legs the way it was… it reminded her of another weapon of his she had the pleasure of seeing just a couple nights ago. How lucky she was to have such a caring, giving man to keep her warm in that cave…

Vasily didn't seem to notice her darkened gaze as fire licked at her insides. Oh, she couldn't help herself. She was a needy woman. The snow around them, the silence of the early morning forest, it all did little to pull her out of her fantasies. She was painfully aware that it was just the two of them again. Shiraishi and Sugimoto were nowhere to be seen, probably still out searching for that precious “white”.

One of her soft hands touched his on the grip of the rifle. He wasn't wearing his mittens, so she got to feel the warm, rough skin of his fingers. These same fingers that were on her when they-

“Is it loaded?” She asked as a precaution. Brows furrowed, Vasily shook his head with a low grunt.

Her fingers drew apart from his, caressing the magazine and traveling up the forestock of the gun. “Pretty… Not as pretty as your other gun.” Her words confused him. However, the way her hand moved… it gave him a suggestion of what she was talking about. It was terribly… sultry. The idea of what she was hinting at made his heart flutter in an foreign, uncomfortable way.

Her mind searched and searched for something more she could whisper to him in that unfamiliar language. She cursed herself for getting lazy with her Russian, who knew that she'd need it for something as important as him.

She leaned in closer, resting on her palm, ignoring the frosty bite of the ice beneath it. Her hand started moving, slowly pumping up and down the stock of his gun with a ghostly touch, her deep blue eyes pinning him down. “You're a good shot, not just with a rifle, y'know.”

That slow, quiet voice of hers speaking in his tongue, it did things to him. His mind was spinning, eyes fighting between her hand and her beautiful face, and trying not to peek at the collar of her button-up from the new angle.

Vasily huffed, a cute splotch of color coming onto what of his face she could see peeking from underneath his hood. She wasn't sure he even noticed how his own thighs lifted, spreading slightly, giving her more access to his weapon. The blonde purred, stopping her hand where the wood of his gun became metal. She firmly grasped the barrel. He acted like he felt her touch, thighs abruptly clamping shut, eyes unable to look away from her hand now. Her thumb rubbed the smooth cold metal, making its way to his tip. “...I'm not a fan of getting shot by bullets, but I wouldn't mind if you shot me with something else.”

A little giggle left her mouth as she heard the redhead curse, sounding like a garbled mess due to cloth and his ruined jaw. While his eyes were occupied, her face leaned in closer to his neck. She could feel his heat, could practically hear the drumming of his heart.

“You should teach me how to shoot someday, ja? I'd like to get some more practice with you. I'd love to feel it in my own two hands.”

Her hand touched his gun with nothing but affection in every caress. Even as her index finger reached the bottom of the long muzzle, circling it with her fingertip. Her eyes didn't leave his, watching desire and embarrassment and excitement all swirl behind those beautiful bright irises of his. Vasily's finger felt the biting cold of metal burning into his finger, slowly getting oh, so close to losing his damn mind. She decided one last little tease is what she'd give him. Putting on a sickeningly sweet voice that feigned embarrassment. “I do have some practice, but not a lot… Can you show me around, sokrovishche?”

Then there was the sound of a soft, familiar click. Seemed like the sudden sound got Vasily to snap out of his daze, his eyes lowering and focusing on his finger wrapped tight around the trigger of his rifle that was hitting the inside of the guard. Getting to see him so flustered got a laugh out of the woman. She leaned in closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “What do you say, dear? Please? Oh, don't make a girl beg.”

“Franz! Hood! Where the hell are ya’?!”

Siraishi’s voice bounced off the fresh snow, defeat and irritation present in his tone while he and Sugimoto came back to Heita’s hut empty handed.

“Ah, there you two are.” Sugimoto chimed in, watching Vasily practically drag the German woman behind him over a hill, huffing and puffing, face nearly as red as his hair. “What the hell’s gotten into him?”

“I suggested he teach me how to shoot his rifle, and he got so excited!” Franziska beamed. “I guess he’s really eager to show me!”

“I’ll say.” Shiraishi eyed the Russian man pulling Franz away from the group. “Maybe we should go with you-” Sugimoto tried to suggest.

“Oh, that’s okay! Vasil tells me he’s a better teacher when it’s one-on-one” Franziska smiled, showing teeth and closing her eyes. She called out before getting too far– barely fighting the man pulling her away from the rest, “We shouldn’t be gone for too long, I’m sure we’ll be alright on our own!”

Sugimoto waved them off. “Okay, don’t go too far! Hey, and be on the lookout for any bears!”

“And bring back something to eat!”

The blackhead turned, noticing the new, devious look on his friend's face, “Something wrong, Shiraishi?”

“Hmph, just thinking. I think I know that look. Hah! Haha!” Shiraishi skittered away, laughing evilly to himself. “I'd know it all too well…”

“...Is there something happening that I should know?” Sugimoto questioned while following him.

“Heh.” Shiraishi scratched his nose. “Nothing you should worry about. I'm sure Franz and Riding Hood will be okay, and if I'm right, we won't be missing them for too long.”

[cannoliparty]

talking about rustbloods

I LOVE RUSTBLOODS!!! im a fan of a lot of trolls and bloodcastes but the way rustblood characters are portrayed in the comic is just too cool for me to NOT call out!!! this post will be an overview/me prattling on about the rustbloods in homestuck, and even the caste as a whole!

quick overview on time! its an aspect connected to mechanics, inevitability, death and so on. it can even be connected with music, due to the timing in bars of songs or the progression of time as music plays.

furthermore, to talk about rustbloods as a whole, theyre connected to the original sgrub players of alternia, which would be aradia and the handmaid. its important to give explanations on these connections and thats exactly what ill be doing! i havent read hiveswap or played the friendsim so i will not be using those rustbloods as a reference to look at.

the beta troll rustblood is aradia, maid of time. she embodies the time in her session, and as a maid she keeps her aspect "tidy"! aradia was especially connected to the death in the time aspect. she had died, been trapped in a body not hers, been a sprite and so on. for a while, she WAS made of death and therefore that was a way of being made of time. but when they were at the universe gate and aradia sent out all her different aradiabots, that was her way of roleplaying as a witch of time (her ancestor!), as she manipulated previous timelines to CREATE (maid word!) more time for her friends to act! though maids are considered an active class, they "prepare others with their aspect" and otherwise tend to stay in the background always tending to their aspect themselves, helping the session grow. aradia did this in multiple ways. first was when she first died, and worked with the spirits to get her sgrub session started. and we all know death/the dead are very related to time.. then, after godtiering, she travelled to countless dream bubbles, keeping those memories and times afloat, doing the "housekeeping" a maid does with their aspect. and theres also aradias off-screen timeline travels, as at one point she says shes been through hundreds of years worth of doomed timelines! all of these actions are inextricably linked to time, and even sometimes the death in it, and further proves how aradia is made of time. in the end, aradia has always been maid/made of time, and the inevitability of time allowed her to accept her challenge of self-relying easily, and shes a solid character!!

so i believe how rustbloods connect to aradia is through that "made of time" play on words! this means rustbloods can be heavily related to any part of the time aspect whether its death/spirits, mechanics and routine, or just a sense of inevitability. its loose, but rustbloods take what aradias putting down, and relate to it how they can. they also carry the self-reliance of maids, and are usually very powerful in that same sense!

the rustblooded ancestor is the handmaid, one of the 2-3 ancestors who made it off alternia. shes also a witch of time! witches are naturally rebellious of their aspects rules, which brings about their nature-changing powers. the handmaid rebelled from the timeless inevitability of having to serve lord english, and tried to overcome it as hard as she could, but doc scratch unfortunately guaranteed her fate. its also of note that witches tend to have familiars (jade with bec, feferi with her lusus) and so the handmaids would be lord english!

the beforus counterpart of the handmaid is damara, also a witch of time! she embodies her classpect in a fuller manner, as she had some free will of her own. of course, she has the alpha troll curse (NOT GETTING ANY SCREENTIME...) T_T;.... but its obvious shes very rebellious against inevitability and instead does things her own way, which is not caring too much about anything!

this connects rustbloods to doing what they want with the sense of inevitability, death, etc... time is of the essence, and they inherited the witch's powers of doing whatever they want with that essence!

overall, i hope this makes sense!!! i know aradia has like 300 more words dedicated to her but she IS the one with the most screentime..... but damara & the handmaid are genuinely some of my favorites in homestuck and if they got more to themselves as characters i can guarantee itd be QUALITY stuff to talk about!!! as usual feel free to leave feedback or add on to rustbloods however youd like ^_^

[ribbittrobbit]

me n my cousin as dnd characters:

i’m a wizard (rob) but like… a self taught bumbling, reads more like a hedgewitch “wizard” with a little bird familiar named gerald who insists on wearing a hat and snarks at me constantly. (potato the cat’s just a straggler, we think he might want to eat gerald)

the cousin (em) is a druid with a dog familiar, her name is blue and she has absolutely no thoughts in her brain.

we r both level 2 characters and that’s as good as its going to get, we’re just here for the vibes with our animal companions. adventures? us? hah! at most we’re good at foraging (when my sister the ranger comes along)

honestly we’re only level 2 bec we got roped into going one town over to find a goat my grandpa lost.