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moodymisty · 4 months ago

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𝕴 𝖉𝖔𝖓’𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐, 𝖆𝖘 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖘 𝖎𝖙’𝖘 𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖒𝖊

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Part 1, part 2, Part 3

Author’s note: Time for the dicking, enjoy.

Summary: Cato Sicarius continues to fume over Primarch Guilliman's diplomat, unable to hide his disdain; But neither you or himself are wise to how he truly feels.

Relationships: Cato Sicarius/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Degradation, Sexism/misogyny, Choking, Size difference, Toxic relationship, inadequate foreplay and aftercare, Dubious consent, Sicarius is a virgin because like... he's a space marine but also he's not going to admit that to you lmao, Please remember this is not me like slandering Sicarius or something this is just my kink

tWord count: 5240

Cato Sicarius makes his way down the main thoroughfare of the Macragge’s Honour, helmet tucked in the crook of his left arm. His cape flows behind him just barely dusting over the ground, the shine of his sword catching every glint of light. He walks with purpose, head held high.

Cato Sicarius is ever the epitome of Ultramarine valor.

His dutiful walk is interrupted by something catching his eye however, as he looks out towards a myriad of docked ships. One is being refueled- an action that in and of itself is not wholly unusual - and he sees Ultramarines preparing to board it.

Second Company, Ultramarines. He recognizes their regalia, and some of the men armoured and prepared to be loaded in. Titus is among them; A face and set of armor he instantly recognizes despite his preference not to.

But... What are Second Company Ultramarines doing preparing to board a landing ship without his leadership, or at least knowhow?

With a newfound haste, he approaches the landing ship and catches the attention of the first marine that passes by.

“Yes, Captain Sicarius?” Sicarius gestures to the ship with his right hand, still holding his helm with the other.

“What is happening that’s deployed some of Second Company that I am somehow not aware of?”

The marine looks at him with a very odd expression, that Sicarius can't seem to place. He looks back towards his fellows for a moment, of whom give Captain Sicarius the proper respect when they realize they've caught his eye. The young marine he had questioned speaks up and regains his attention, Sicarius turning to look back at him.

“Lord Guilliman has us as retinue for the lady diplomat. She’s in charge of negotiating planetside with the local population.”

You.

Of course it’s you. Sicarius laments that it’s never anyone else. Since the day Guilliman requested your assistance to the day he kept you aboard this ship, he’s found your existence at best annoying, and at worst absolutely infuriating.

He is worth more than escorting around baseline diplomats, as are his men; But why don’t they seem to mind?

Titus doesn’t mind; but Titus is a scavenger seeking anyone who will blindly trust him after his incident, in Sicarius’ eyes. To think the man had once served as captain.

Sicarius turns away from the marine with nary a farewell and begins to make his way to Lord Guillman’s study with haste, his ceramite boots freshly cleaned thunder on the ground and rattle the metal tiles.

When Sicarius arrives at the doors to Guilliman’s chambers the guard in front lets him pass without issue, given his rank. Sicarius wouldn’t be here if he didn’t consider the matter important.

Though when he enters and announces himself to his primarch, Guilliman looks up from flimies and parchments with an expression Sicarius can only describe has bland.

“Have I misheard that some of Second Company are leaving without a captain?” Guilliman steadies his soul and looks at him with a dour expression.

“No, you haven’t. I have Lieutenant Titus currently serving as their leader. I made the decision not an hour ago.” So Titus was not only involved, he was leading the front. Unlike your previous escorts, where he had merely served under Sicarius.

“You have a lieutenant serving in my stead? Do I have no voice in this?” Guilliman leans upright, abandoning his materials and any hope of continuing to go through them.

“I have a lieutenant serving in your stead because you have an attitude that has become uncharacteristic of this legion.” He gestures plainly to his table, and unconscious action to emphasize his words.

“Were you not one the most gifted fighters this legion has seen, I would consider your attitude problem beginning to exceed your worth,” Guilliman continues. “The woman is staying. She serves a purpose for me to trust with less important tasks and if you cannot handle that, then I will assign another to lead her retinue in your stead.”

Sicarius boils in his armor at his primarch's words, like he's been spit in the face. His face grows hot with anger, though he holds his tongue.

Does Guilliman really put so much value on you? You're nothing but a weak little inconvenience that must be escorted around to avoid being killed by even the simplest of things, how can a primarch possibly trust you so much? Enough to waste so many resources, like Astartes that should be in the field of battle, just to keep you alive?

You must've done a great job at convincing him of your own importance, slotting yourself right close to his side. Have you seduced him the same way you seduced his men, with the delicate fabrics of your dresses that tight wrap around your waist and soft hands that contrast with scarred ceramite plates? Do you have your eyes set on larger goals?

No. How dare he think such a thing of his primarch; To think he would be so weak as to fall of the wiles of such a woman.

Sicarius clears his throat, and then regains the composure he had so nearly lost.

"Very well."

Sicarius leaves his Primarch's study when Guilliman nods at him, a cue that he understands the conversation is concluded. The dark red fabric of his cape billows behind him as he walks, the bottom frayed from years of dependable use.

He is sure you've departed by now to the surface of the planet they now orbit. He can see the top half of the planet through the windows as he looks out, past the space debris. He stops for a moment, as serfs, servitors and servoskulls pass him by.

He wonders what you're doing down there, before he swiftly pushes it from his mind.

The rest of Second Company that are not currently on active duty are now currently in their daily training, and Sicarius makes himself busy by attending in person; Standing like a shadow watching and inserting himself or his voice where needed.

He hopes his presence even occasionally prevents any of the men from slacking, as even the most minor error can cause irreparable damage to his men, their battle brothers, and perhaps even worse. Minor slip ups are not something Ultramarines will tolerate, not even once.

After a few hours, Sicarius decides to take his leave once many of the men currently training put down their arms to eat their meal of the day. Sicarius purposely takes a different path than them, to avoid bunches of young, talkative marines. Neophytes are even worse, though thankfully he hasn't had to deal with them today.

While walking, he hears a voice that stands out through the sounds of ceramite boots on the ground, and the hum of machinery.

"I don't mean to be disrespectful to any of you all, but I would pay anything to see that."

It’s you. He recognizes your tone of voice.

Sicarius slows his walk slightly, eyes glancing to the left at the branching hall that will soon connect with the one he walks down. That's where the voices must be coming from, as an astartes laughs.

"We all still give the new ones a hard time about it. Not all of us had the most smooth transition into wearing our armor."

Another marine laughs, as they continue to walk.

"We fall over for Macragge!"

Sicarius reaches the apex where the two halls collide, and sees you with the same squad of marines that he had seen you leave with. Titus included. You're all smiling; Though the smiles fade from the astartes faces completely and turn to expected stoicism upon getting noticed by their captain. You loose your smile as well, and nod politely at him.

"Captain Sicarius."

You all say, greeting him. He glances at them, a hand on the pommel of his chainsword. He only casts you a brief glance, before he forces himself to look away.

"You all returned quite quickly."

You nod, and Sicarius doesn't know why he's upset over your change in disposition. The marine behind you speaks for you, his ashy blonde hair sticking to his forehead from the pressure of his helmet.

"It went well, Captain. We are on our way to report to Lord Primarch Guilliman."

Sicarius hums.

"Very well. Get on with it then."

Sicarius continues walking by, gripping the pommel of his chainsword tight as you all disappear from view, in the direction of the bridge. As he continues to walk, he figure you’ve all made it there by now, if not already left.

He wonders how the conversation went.

Did Primarch Guilliman praise you all? Compliment you for you diplomatic talents? The Primarch has a surprising amount of trust in you, for a baseline human. He has had no shortage of good things to say about your dedication and work ethic, how well you’ve helped him in this new Imperium- As Lord Guilliman uniquely calls it.

Is he the only one that feels this way? Why does no one just understand? Why is he alone in this?

The lights in the halls are dimming slightly; The marines are all beginning to sleep. Sicarius decides to quit wandering with no goal and get his armour removed, before returning to his quarters and getting some rest. Perhaps that will make him a bit less irritated at every little thing that manages to get under his skin.

It hasn't worked in the past, but he isn't apposed to giving it another chance. At least he wasn't the one who had to escort you, though he knows that it would've been significantly easier to assassinate Primarch Guilliman's prized diplomat without him there.

He should’ve been there. He should’ve been at your side, not Titus, he thinks as he has his armored removed piece by piece. The serfs and tech priests treat every piece with respect, as they should. Once they carefully hand him his robe, he slings it over his shoulders putting it on before stepping down the two steps away from the armouring machinery and leaving. The walk is short, and it isn’t long before the captain can slouch his shoulders once safely behind the privacy of his own door.

Sicarius’ quarters as one would expect are befitting of his rank; A singular habitation suite occupied by him alone. The bed is more than large enough for a man of his stature, and he sits on it in only his linen robes before taking them off and throwing his legs fully onto the bed.

He has five hours before he needs to wake. Tomorrow shouldn't be a day filled with too many unknowns and busywork. He hopes. But no matter how much he thinks it, sleep just won’t come. At least not full sleep; He could do as he does in the field and let only parts of his brain rest, but that isn’t what he wants. Normally he can fall asleep within moments after he closes his eyes as he's trained himself to do, but now he finds himself staring at the ceiling, flexing his fingers.

His palms are sweating. Sicarius wonders if he's getting ill, as he realizes much of his skin feels warmer than usual.

He takes few slow, deep breaths. The way he would when trying to get partial sleep in the field. But it doesn't work, and he finds himself leaning up to sit.

One of his hands presses against his bare thigh, as he slouches. The muscle and fat of his stomach folds as he runs a hand through his cropped hair.

He wonders what you're doing right now. You sleep for a few hours longer than the marines do, and when he had voiced up about it, Guilliman had told him baseline humans need more sleep than them to function at their peak. You had joked to one of his men once however that you didn't always sleep for all that time, sometimes you would work while in bed.

Sicarius growls and shakes his head.

Why does no matter for how briefly he lets his minder wander, it goes back to you? He can't even clear his mind for a moment before it's back on you, what you're doing, the way you look at the people around you; But not at him.

Why?

What do you see in all of them that you don't see in him? He is Cato Sicarius; The commander of the Victrix Honour Guard, the Grand Duke of Talassar, the Master of the Watch. Yet you cast your whoreish gaze to the likes of Titus, a demoted marine with a permanent stain upon his name.

You treat him with respect, issue the bare minimum conversation needed to communicate, before leaving him. Is he not enough for you? Are you scared of him? Why does the idea of you fearing him illicit a feeling that seems negative?

He knows he shouldn't care. That this is all meaningless, but he can't help but want an answer. Why do you keep your most whoreish and sweet smiles for others? Perhaps you know he is too well disciplined to even bother trying. And so you toy with the others, sitting beside them as they shadow you with massive sets of armor, holding a gauntlet of which you can only grasp two fingers.

Sicarius shifts slightly, and feels the way his lower body is tight; He’s hard, pressing against his inner thigh. He feels disgusted with himself that he's allowed this to happen.

You just keep clouding his mind like some sort of malignancy that he can’t remove.

Damn it all.

Sicarius rises from his bed and lets his feet hit the floor, dressing himself before leaving his personal quarters not two hours after he entered.

He knows where your own quarters are by memory despite having never actually entering, storming by anyone in his path to get there. When he does, it’s easy enough for him to override the door lock and enter himself, closing it behind him.

You are just rising in your bed as the door hisses shut, the fabric of your clothes molding to your skin.

You’ve taken off the underclothing for your chest- Sicarius doesn’t know the name - and he can clearly see the outline of your breasts through your clothes.

“What is t- Captain Sicarius?”

He storms closer and as his face becomes more illuminated by the soft light at your bedside, you see his seething expression distorting his stubble-ridden face. The papers you must’ve been working on are sitting on the small table to your side, having been recently abandoned in favor of sleep.

“You."

He points at you and you can almost see the finger shake from how furious he is. Your lips are parted slightly as your mouth gapes from surprise, wide eyes looking between his hand and him.

"You are little more than an Ultramarine branded harlot.”

Your face is shocked and surprised, Sicarius heeds none of it. He can hear your heart racing in his ears as he approaches more and grasps the front of your clothing, pulling it away from your chest. For a brief moment he feels the soft pillowy nature of your breasts pressing against his knuckles, before the fabric is pulled away.

"Captain Sicarius, I, what do you think you're doing?"

He hears you stutter, the crack in in your voice. Now of all times you become shy? Not when you were pressing your hands to Titus' armor and complimenting him? Like you’re begging him to ravish you? Not when you have one of the young, fresh marines toss out a hand for you to grab so you don’t fall?

“I am sick of you throwing yourself at my men like some faithless degenerate. If you want it so badly, then I will give it to you.”

Sicarius leans forward, putting his knee on the bed while he shoves you back down into it. Your head thumps against the pillow, bouncing as the massive astartes moves to cage you underneath him.

Both of you have always been well aware of the size difference of all the astartes of the Macragge's honour, and Guilliman himself; Other than the serfs, occasional other diplomat or Imperial pskyer, everyone aboard the ship towers over you. It is particularly apparent with Sicarius, who shadows you in the near dark with a body significantly wider and taller than your own. He’d never realized just how small you were; Both of his massive hands could circle your entire waist.

“Throwing myself? What are you t-“

The speed in which Sicarius moves a hand to your jaw is enough to pull the air from your lungs.

“Quiet, whore.”

Your hands latch onto his arm, pulling at solid muscle. It doesn’t budge in the slightest, your palms sliding over scars, hair, and the metal of his interface ports. It feels like barely anything at all, your touch is so feather light and soft.

Pulling his hand away from your jaw he reaches and grabs a handful of the fabric of your nightgown, pulling it upward roughly. You could hear the sound of multiple stitches snapping, fabric now bunched at your stomach.

The air on the ship is always cold, but a shiver runs through you as you feel the hot skin of his hand on your waist.

He’s never actually touched you before. He’s never felt your skin with his own, the most he’s done is grab your shoulder with his gauntlets on to guide you someplace. You’re even more fragile that he would expect, you’re nothing compared to his hardened bones and you feel as if you’ll break apart in his hand. Your back arches up to fit his fingers between you and the bed, breathing heavily. Your attire always left little to his imagination, but it’s still different to actually feel.

“How are you still so soft after all this time,” He grumbles.

You have a less taxing job than many aboard the ship, but Sicarius knows that if you could have your way, you’d lay back and let the marines of your retinue use you. If you aren’t already, the way his men follow you around like dogs instead of acting like the way the Emperor’s Angels should gives doubt. The mere thought makes him jealo- furious; For his men not himself, he thinks as he grabs a fistful of his robes.

The front of most astartes robes are tied or wrapped, and so it doesn't take any sort of intense effort from Sicarius to pull the fabric apart, pressing his bare skin to your own.

It’s so hot; It's like his blood is boiling just below the surface of his skin. But is it because of his anger, how much he seems to hate you for reasons indiscernible, or because of something you can feel pressing against your thigh? His cock is already completely hard, tip wet and leaking precum as it slides up your thigh.

He only needs to do this once; Break this curse you have on him. He needs to be able to be around you like are aren't suffocating him.

With little regard Sicarius slips his hand between your thighs and only briefly notes how soft they are, the pillowy flesh of your inner thighs presses against his hand like a blanket rather than hard muscle.

"Sicarius, are you really not going to explain yoursel-"

Your voice cuts off with a shaky inhale as his fingers slip between your outer folds, soft wet velvety skin covered by his hand. It isn't long after his initial touch that his fingers find your entrance and he pushes one inside.

You feel so much softer than he had imagined. So soft that even he in his anger is unconsciously more gentle than he expected, forcing his finger deep into you down to the hilt until his palm presses against you. Your body wraps around him like velvet fabric, warm and hot. When he moves, your thighs tense and shake, but you're still trapped in the cage made by his body.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," He says, and you quickly combat him with:

"You do when you storm into my room and try to-"

He pushes a second finger inside of you, and your throat shakes with a moan as you feel that aching stretch of being just under your limit. He feels the way you tighten around him, and even in his lack on knowhow, Sicarius can tell that it will be a tight fit for him inside you.

Why do you have to be so damn small? It just furthers his worri- complaints that you're so easily hurt, and need to be so heavily protected from even minor damage.

Even he's hurt you, he can see the bruise starting to blossom on your jaw where he grabbed you a bit too hard, though you don't seem to mind. You're too busy panting, grasping at his arms as his two fingers curl inside your cunt. It's like you're trying to pull him in deeper, you just want more and more because you're his little wh-

Perhaps impatient, Sicarius pulls his two fingers from you and feels the way your thighs tremble, and the way you've covered his fingers and some of his palm in that sweet stickiness. For the briefest, most minute moment, he wonders how it might taste.

His wipes them off on the blankets below him, before grabbing your hips and pulling you closer to him. You can feel the weight of his cock against your inner thigh until he moves to slide it along your folds, slicking himself with the wetness he pulled from you. Suddenly Sicarius shakes his head, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

The room smells, entrenched in this sweet, salty smell that radiates from you in waves. It's intoxicating, the way it screams at him that you want to be fucked, you want to be turned over bent over you little whore you just want him finally you want h-

Sicarius presses the head of his cock against your entrance and pushes slightly, feeling the way he can slowly sink into your tight heat once he pops past the tight ring of your entrance. Though it is still a stretch. Astartes are big, and they match suitably. Your neck is tense, collarbone prominent as your muscles flex.

"Fuck- that's, that's too big..."

He only manages to force half of his cock into you when you already start complaining about feeling full, it being too much, but he continues to push and go farther beyond until you feel like he's threatening to push into your stomach.

"You'll take it- I'm not leaving till you do."

Eventually his hips press against the back of your thighs when he's fully sheathed inside of you, and he can hear your breath rattle in your lungs and your singular heartbeat against your ribcage like the pistons in an engine. Badum badum badum, he hears as his cock throbs inside of you.

Sicarius pulls himself out barely halfway before flicking his hips back towards you, listening to the way you suddenly keen underneath him. You tighten and leak around him, your pillowy cunt swallowing him whole. He hears the sound of his own skin slapping against your own as he drives himself deeper, and each time you squeal as his massive body forces your thighs apart.

"By the t- Sicarius,"

You can't help the way you tense, your stomach turns and tightens in knots as the head of his cock threatens to knock against your cervix. He can see tears pricking in your eyes; You don't get to whine about him being too much, you wanted this, you begged for it with those pretty dresses and sweet smiles, you wanton harlot. You keep begging, as your hands grip his thick forearms to keep yourself steady as he thrusts into you.

He had imagined once what it would be like to rip those dresses off of you, and the curse of his memory means he'll never forget that pondering. He'd have to wrap you in the fabric of his cape, hiding your body from everyone but him-

"You're too big, I can't-"

You're whining, tears prick your eyes but your cunt is soaked, leaking down his cock, your well thought out words and demure voice turned into helpless ramblings as you lay beneath him thighs spread for your better, your superior; Pulling him in with your greedy cunt.

"You can," He grips your hip tight and pulls you to meet him halfway into his thrust and listens to you let out a broken moan. "And you will."

Your eyes have been fluttering open and closed for much of this, unable to look at him directly in the eyes for long. But even now Sicarius' eyes drift downward, distracted by the shape of your barely parted lips. They're so soft looking, unscarred, and he finds himself pulled in before he even realizes.

Sicarius finally kisses you for the first time, pressing his lips to yours as his hips smack against your thighs. He rests on his forearm to get lower, while his other hand still grips your waist.

You’re frozen at first, before your hands move to knit into his cropped hair and you press back into him. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he bleeds- tasting metal before it instantly coagulates. He’s rough, forceful- his teeth are dangerously close to hitting your own, he catches your bottom lip between his and hears the way you whimper.

“Cato…”

You speak against his lips, the bow of his upper lip brushing across your own. The stubble against his jawline scratches your skin, as your lips grow puffier from his less than gentle treatment of them.

He pulls away from you, your spit on his lips while his forehead rests on yours.

“I, I thought you hated me,”

You say, nails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck, just above the scars he has from the surgery for his black carapace. If the light was brighter in your room, you might've been able to see the grayish tint to his skin where you could see it underneath the surface. His voice sounds angry and confused when he responds.

...Does he hate you?

“I… don’t know.” His voice almost tremors, confused within himself.

If not for the circulated air of the Macragge's Honour always being so frigid, you're sure you would feel even hotter than you already did, as Sicarius traps you in a cage beneath him, radiating body heat. His arm rests close to your head, while the other grips your hip to keep him from accidentally pushing you away as he humps into you.

His forehead slides from your own to the side of your head, and you can hear his heavy breathing in your ear as he pushes his cock deeper into you than anything else has previously. The wet noises and skin on skin fill the previously silent room other than the humming of pipes in the ceiling and walls, and the sound of animalistic grunting from an astartes you thought hated you.

He does hate you. He hates you so much for doing this to him, but he's the one who's failing, who fell to the temptation rutting into you like an animal-

Sicarius groans as you somehow get even tighter than you were, feeling the way a shiver runs through your entire body as you cum on him. Your nails leave little marks that will leave in moments, though he knows the smell of your wet cunt will stick on him far longer.

"By the throne, you are too damn tight,"

Sicarius continues through it even as you gasp, nails digging into his skin. He goes faster and faster, your soft skin will surely be bruised tomorrow but you keep begging for more, as he snaps his hips into you and pushes himself as deep as he can possibly go. He lets out a shaking groan, and you feel him finally empty himself inside of you.

It's hot, there's so much; You feel limp underneath him as he keeps cumming inside of you. When he slowly tries to pull out you whimper, the feeling of emptiness and the way the moment the head of his cock slips out of you, the seed he left behind slowly dribbles out of you and onto the bed.

Sicarius, for a man barged into your room and humped into you like an animal in rut, clams up the emotions he showed to much of and looks away.

“You should wash. Titus will be able to smell me on you.”

You look up at him confused, leaning up just slightly before stopping. He can see spit from his kisses on the corners of your mouth, lips swollen and hair messy.

“Why would that matter?”

Sicarius goes to laugh, though he quickly cuts it off when he notices that instead of becoming angry like you normally would, you get withdrawn.

“You don’t think he’ll mind that his cute little diplomat is off with other Astartes?”

The collar of your nightdress is stretched and uneven, and you push down the bottom of it away from your stomach so it covers the mess he left between your legs. Or you at least try to, but you grimace when you attempt to lift your hips enough to push it down. Sicarius leans forward and gently tugs on it for you, snapping more seams but succeeding in covering your sore, cum slicked thighs.

"No, Titus was only being nice since he knew I was having trouble dealing with everything that's happened. Primarch Guilliman has been," You look away for a moment at the papers at your bedside, that are now scattered across the floor.

"He's been giving me so much to ease his burdens and believe me I am honoured to serve him, it's just- it's been overwhelming. Titus had just offered me an ear so I could vent." You look at him confused, brow furrowed and lips parted.

"You didn't think we were... Did you?"

Sicarius looks at you, at the concerned expression on your face. Your body is swollen and sore from his abuse even as gentle as he was, he can smell the salt of sweat on your skin.

With one smooth motion Sicarius shifts himself to get off your bed and stand, wrapping his robes about around him in an acceptable enough fashion for a captain.

"Cato?"

You raise up higher, sitting up and curling your legs to the side. He turns to leave, but that damn demure, worried voice of yours stops him. He doesn't even care that you're using his first name, calling him so casually.

"Can you stay for a minute?" He turns and looks at you with that neutral astartes expression.

"Why?" You blow a breath of air through your lips that makes them shake.

"Dammit Cato just, can you? Please?"

He watches you for a moment, as you wipe the corner of your mouth.

Eventually however he turns fully around and walks closer, standing at your bedside and towering over you. You swallow and he can see the knot in your throat move, before you look up at him and start talking.

#cato sicarius x reader #space marine x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting #getting bullied by cato sicarius timeline #tw dubcon

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solarisfortuneia · 6 months ago

Text

— 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟.

✦ info: kaeya returns home wearing his master thief costume. (takes place after the events of 'secret summer paradise' in version 3.8)

✦ warnings: not proofread.

✦ notes: where can i get myself a kaeya pls why isn't he here with me

the clock strikes nine just as the knob to your front door turns, the little bird in the wooden device chirping out the counts at precise intervals. the creaks of the door are not loud, yet they still have you jolting awake from your impromptu after-shower nap.

“sorry, did we wake you?” a very familiar voice whispers into the dark from near the hallway. kaeya’s back! you realize, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

you shake your head, closing the book that lays open on your lap. “no, no. i just dozed off.” you laugh it off, smiling at your boyfriend and at klee, who’s dozing off comfortably in kaeya’s arms. she stirs when he moves a little too abruptly.

“hey, it’s okay, you can go back to sleep.” he coos softly, patting her head. he sets her down on the couch, gently laying her head on a cushion.

“we had a little too much fun in sumeru,” he tells you after he’s made sure she’s sound asleep, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around your waist. “she’s all tired out. albedo’ll be here to take her home soon.”

“i can tell. i love her mage costume.” you squint at his indigo and peacock feather get up. “and you’re supposed to be a…?”

he huffs playfully, pouting. “you can’t tell? i’m a master thief, clearly.”

“the style suits you.” you tap at his lips and his mouth spreads into a grin underneath your fingers, lighting up his entire face. “though, you’re not you without the boob-window. or that fluffy monstrosity you call a cape. it’s characteristic, but unnecessary. ”

he gasps in mock offense. “how could you slander my cape that way? you call it an unnecessary fluffy monstrosity, yet you still steal it when you’re cold, do you not?”

you exhale forcefully through your nose despite your best efforts to keep a straight face. “touché. drama queen.”

“besides, i was born for this role, you know,” he says, mischief glinting in his periwinkle eye. “after all, did i not manage to steal your heart?”

you roll your eyes, undoing the peacock feather tie and tugging at the braid he has his hair in to free it. he gives you a fond look, shaking his head to assist once you’ve loosened it enough. azure cascades down his shoulders, a slight wave throughout. “so, master thief kaeya, wearer of feathers, stealer of hearts.” your expression mirrors the still-present grin on his face as you loop your arms around his neck, his hair a silky waterfall on your fingers. “what caper are you chasing next?”

“since i already have the most precious of hearts in my hands, i believe i need to steal a few kisses to complete my collection, yes?”

“but good sir, are you sure you’d be satisfied with just a few?”

“oh, haven’t you heard, darling?” you feel his mouth curl into a slow smile against your neck, his voice a caress against your skin.

“i’m insatiable.”

taglist: @number-one-love-lover

new taglist form (old one had issues): here.

#—🖋#astronetwrk #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #genshin fluff #genshin impact fluff #kaeya x reader #kaeya fluff #kaeya alberich x reader #*inhales* kaeya <3 kaeya <3 kaeya <3 #STAN BIG BROTHER KAEYA TAKING CARE OF KLEE ALWAYS #he's so so wonderful aaa i cannot #AND I KNOW HE'S THE TYPE FOR BANTER OKAY #if this flops i will be big sad #(this ebg will suck the life out of poor mika. prepare yourselves for baizhu content soon hjsjjs)

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plantyberry · 11 days ago

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Cloudcuckoolander Tally Part 1: Prologue + Chapter 1: 'My little poltergeist can't sound this sexy!'

Helloooo Internet. Seeing as I have nothing better to do with my time, and that people asked about it, but never actually asked for it, I have taken it upon myself to do some weird… Cuckoolander thing.

Now then, let's get ⭐🌟✨~Fabulous~✨🌟⭐

Prologue

Nothing, but Reach Out for Arthur anyway for that +2 Relationship bonus or choose to Wake Up for that +1 Will.

Chapter 1

Some of the choices there lead to you picking the 'real' option next while giving you points. For example, in your Job Choice options, you have:

Fairy Princess (with requisite singing!) (Cuckoo +1): If picked, you get a second choice with the 'actual' job pick. For the sake of not having to repeat this every time, every such choice will have (++) added to them to signify that they work similarly.

Run screaming through your apartment. That's definitely going to be helpful. Cuckoo +1 (Note: Not picking the floor lamp means you're not picking that +5 physical) Charge around your apartment while screaming epithets. You don't know if it'll help anything, but it sure will make you feel better. Cuckoo +1 (Note: This one increases you potty mouth score, which interferes with your purity score, so if you're aiming for Percy, keep that in mind)

Reptilian Eyes.(++) Cuckoo +1 (Note: Does not actually give you reptilian eyes. Or does it? * Side eyes changeling MCs *)

I whip open the closet door with a sudden movement: Doesn't give cuckoo points, but gives access to Cuckoo options. ===…it's been ransacked! Your clothes and shoes are strewn everywhere and- oh, wait, that's how your closet normally looks. Cuckoo +1 ===…there's a great hulking monster inside and it smells like- wait no, that's just your raincoat. Cuckoo +1

I whip open the closet door with a sudden movement. I also yell "HIYAA!" and strike a martial arts pose for the added effect. Cuckoo +1 ===…I said I was going to yell "HIYAA!" and I keep my promises. Cuckoo +1

Clothes:

Depending on your club picks and your character settings, you may get some cuckoo points out of them, though if you follow some restrictions like, say, a mute run, or are achievement hunting, then some combinations may be preferable even if they give less points.

Birthday Suit.(++): Cuckoo +1

Other clothing options also give cuckoo rating during the talk with Adrian before clubtime. The pick that gives the most points here, that I can see, is the Vampire cape (up to +3 points), but here is a list of the other picks and the points they give with the right club options:

Riding club:

Red Cape + Frame = 3 or height = tall: -"Little?" I wonder if Adrian has suddenly gone blind. --"Aye, Aye, fairy godmother." +1 Cuckoo

Vampire Cape: +1 Cuckoo -Strike a stereorypical vampire pose . +1 Cuckoo --"No promises" +1 Cuckoo

Tuxedo: -"Actually, I was planning to wear these clothes during practice." --"It will totally be worth it to see everyone's reaction to me riding around in a tux." +1 Cuckoo

Spandex Tracksuit: -"It's a tracksuit, Adrian. Why would I change my clothes again?" I ask 'innocently'. -- I say nothing, I merely start dancing the Tango de la Muerte. +1 Cuckoo (and the Keikaku achievement)

Fencing Club:

Vampire Cape: +1 Cuckoo -Strike a stereorypical vampire pose . +1 Cuckoo --"I never bite and tell." +1 Cuckoo --"Lies and Slander!" +1 Cuckoo

Spandex Tracksuit: -I say nothing, I merely start dancing the Tango de la Muerte. +1 Cuckoo -"I was thinking about wearing this instead of my uniform today." --"If we switched to plastic swords we could totally do naked fencing!" +1 Cuckoo

Favorite Drink:

The fresh blood of virgins. (++) Cuckoo +1 (Note: You can't pick the option if you picked 'Blood' as a fear)

When watching the TV:

If Wildlife Biologist: He was obviously eaten by a giant mutated bear. Case closed. I'm a genius. Cuckoo +1 If NOT a Wildlife Biologist: He was obviously eaten by werewolves. Case closed. I'm a genius. Cuckoo +1

Hobby:

Gadgetry gives the option to gain +1 Cuckoo point if at least Friendly with Adrian (pick 'I asked the magical 8-ball' option when remembering about your first meeting)

Once the phone pick is done, open your status page, scroll down, and select 'Magical grimoire (Phone)' bank-mobile-alert-666: Pick the overly-long reply. You'll know which one it is. Cuckoo +1 Work: Talk about your Theory (Mutant / werewolf / Zombie / Thousand eyes in their throat). Cuckoo +1

Jump up and charge at the glass doors. Cuckoo +1 (Note: You can't pick the option if you picked 'Fear' as a fear)

After the Sin choice:

I whip out a nearby Bible and try to exorcise the monitor with its words. Cuckoo +1

Mask Choice:

Jason Voorhees Pandemic Mask (ie Hockey Mask Style) Cuckoo +1 Plague Doctor Mask. Cuckoo +1

Final notes:

While character generation isn't overly-long, it's an excellent way to farm cuckoo points (If you pick the right followup options in club and with Adrien, up to +17 to cuckoo score from this section alone). Two picks in particular stand out here in my personal opinion. The Spandex tracksuit, as it's easy to move in, increases your interpretative dance score with the right picks, and gives you an achievement. The other is the Bible Exorcism which, while incompatible with mute, also gives you +1 Will, and those points are quite a bit harder to farm.

#oks #one knight stand #ThisIsHellIAmWalkingInto #oks cuckoomc

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mistymem0ryy · 1 year ago

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Yandere Arlecchino x Ballerina Reader

‘Oh who is She’

Summary: As a ballerina in Fontaine’s most prestigious dancing Academy you have lived your life with the intent to serve the arts and being able to provide to your family a next meal. Life in the Opera house flows with the same old mundanity until the growing number of Fatui agents within the country alongside the death of one of your coworkers begins to solidify the already running distaste for the Shneznayan ‘diplomatic’ lackeys. Your opinion about them is as unsavory as the next guy, that is until you meet one of the grand patrons of the Theatre, Arlechinno, whose interest in you and your talent grows concerningly more fierce with every passing performance.

Author’s Notes >>> at the end of the post! please check it out for some clarifications!

Warnings: discussions of pr0stituti0n and the unsavory sides of performance arts, mentions of murder and your common yandere sketchiness

No beta we die like any teenage girl with Slavic ballet teachers

I. A misty memory

The memory of the Genesis of your own downfall has never faded completely from your straying recollections. It possesses a freshness that stings and contorts. It is partially hidden by a cape of fog, a mist deep enough to make you look twice and yet, within its frailty, to provide you with a rough silhouette of that which now inhabits the realms of the unconscious.

Sometimes you wonder if its repression won’t be for the better. You have, for the first time in your life, genuinely reached the understanding that ignorance is truly bliss.

If you had known that a single glance could have harbored the power to throw you into the scorching depths of hell, you would have blinded yourself by the age of 9.

If you had known that the only way out of such an inferno would be through the merciless mountain of purgatory, you would have preferred for your limbs to be frozen whole alongside that six-eyed beast. Perhaps his flowing tears would have purged you of whatever sin you unknowingly committed in order to be cursed with such a fate.

She says she serves a God in her doings. You fear she has mistaken the voice of her unsightly desires for that of divinity.

But perhaps that must be the forbidden truth stuck within our suffocating throats—that our most grotesque and hideous desires are but a reflection of the Gods.

You were wearing black that day, a colour not unknown to your wardrobe, yet it was worn with a completely different intent, if memory serves you right. A girl around your age, red-haired with a blemish under her right eye. You had previously exchanged some vague pleasantries when alone behind the velvet curtains that could rival the tint of her reddening cheeks; she had once gifted you an arrangement of lavenders as a congratulation to your promotion into one of the highest grades within L’Academie and even went as far as to write one of your favourite poems upon the accompanying card attached to their freshly cut stems.

She had a name; you are sure of it, but for some reason you cannot bring yourself to recollect it now, the girl’s body had been found bloody and mud covered in a soiled ditch on Fontaine’s southern border exactly three days before you formally met Her.

She had been charming; even a blind fool would have been hypnotized by Her enticing aura. And you had been exactly that—an ignorant and mindless fool.

It wasn’t the first time she had visited the theater; you try your best to blur the faces of the audience into an unrecognizable blob of flesh during performances, but hers was too marking to dismiss. Her gaze scrutinized each minute move of your flowing limbs, there was a certain hunger behind her eyes that made tremors consume the entirety of your body every time you set foot upon that regal stage.

It was as if you were 8 again and praying that the examiners for the exact prestigious company you now work for took pity upon yourself and did not slander your hard work with a crude rejection.

For the first few performances you presumed her attention was, in the least, wandering through your dancing colleagues too, the recurring meetings between your eyes and hers perhaps purely coincidental. That was until your first solo was presented.

You have been witness to hunger and yearning countless times, having even seen them invading and ravaging the souls of those near and afar from you, the prologue of such fervorous and ardent emotions, always far away from being sweet and clean. Like all things should strive to be.

To mistake whatever plundered her mind for ‘hunger’ or ‘yearning’ would be a bland fool’s mistake, you had unwisely mistaken a building famine for a theater’s infatuation, and that was the first of the many errors you would commit along the line.

Deep within yourself, you knew that at some point between this game of cat and mouse the Opera house ceased from being a place for the upper echelons of society to converse and demonstrate their riches while underpaid artists feebly hoped for recognition of their labors, and it began to belong solely to the two of you.

The stage had become your own dissection table, and you did not know if it was pleasure or terror you derived from her dissecting gaze.

Perhaps your first solo had been the nail upon the coffin. You had refused to look towards her for the entirety of the arduous choreography, depicting the history of Chloé as she is taken unwillingly by pirates, eventually saved before the ravaging, thanking Pan for his graciousness, and once again reuniting with her lover.

Your eyes were directed towards hers only once the music ceased with a harmonious and thundering ending. You watched as, from within the silent public, her gloved hands came together and the first clap clamored through the walls, you felt a weird sense of pride and fear as she got up from her seat inside the private box, all while applauding your performance with an elegant smirk adorning her features, the rest of the audience followed suit, collectively getting up from their seats and filling the Opera house with the sound of resounding applause.

You always felt this clamoring sting upon your scapulae every time your gazes happened to cross; their meeting as quick as their departure, or so you liked to believe.

Even after the closing of the curtains, when the only sound that met your ears was that of ragged breaths and squeaking wood, when the only smell that filled your senses was that of a mixture of human flesh and whatever toxic atrocity held your hair in place, even then you could still feel remnants of her stare covering your body, as if becoming a second layer of skin with every passing performance.

You knew she was Fatui from the beginning; after all, the servants of the so-called Tsaritsa didn’t exactly hide their duties or loyalties, be it by manner of speech or that of dressing. They had good money, though. You knew it. The rest of the dancers knew it. The directors and associates knew it. And sometimes you had to turn a deaf ear to hushed whispers about people mysteriously disappearing in the night without a single trace to be found. Sometimes you had to kill your morals if you wanted your next meal to be within an evening and not within 3 days.

The jeweled and fur-adorned audience could be drowning themselves in luxury and splendour, but the little dolls they so merrily applauded at the end of two continuous hours of Tchaikovsky couldn’t be more far away from such a blissful existence. It had been common for some spectators from the upper balconies to take an interest in certain ballerinas; with time, this commonality became a tradition and eventually a business in its own right. But to discuss it in such a manner would have been blasphemous within the highly adorned walls of the prestigious Theatre, some called it pr0stituti0n, the directors called it keeping their loyal patrons satisfied.

After yet another performance based on local folklore that the rich over-intellectualise in order to differentiate themselves from the common folk, you and your companions sluggishly returned to the poorly lit room where your belongings and whatever remnants of your honour were housed. You were all substituting the attire of Tyrian purple silk with formal dress in the colour of grief. The entire theater was in mourning, or at least that was the image the directors wished to convey.

The death of your fellow ballerina had caused quite the stir within Fontaine’s journals; the cause of the death of this poor girl was being discussed by intellectuals in fancy cafés and by drunks in dirty taverns, and yet you knew there was no real mourning behind it all. Her corpse was their quirky theme for the weekend chatter; a life had been lost, and her memory too would vanish from public memory within a week or two. The headline writers pointing to a possible murder would die out with time and enough pocket money on the directors’ part. Perhaps this was your first direct contact with the fragility and lingering nature of the human experience—to be forgotten, you presumed, was but a logical step in the grander scheme of things.

Some hours before it all went astray, you and other members of the Theatre’s staff had decided to visit a nearby cathedral before beginning the preparations for the performance destined to take place that same day. You had cleansed yourself before entering, scraped your knees upon the humidity of the wooden floor, and even lit your votive candle in front of the mosaic depicting the Hydro Archon.

You selfishly wanted to pray for the health of your family, perhaps even for a better salary, and yet you found yourself solely asking why—what greater good could the death of such a simple and honest girl have brought into this world? Was there a greater meaning behind her early departure? Did she at least have the grace of a painless death? Wherever she is now, is she happy?

The silence you received from the other side was deafening, like slaughter.

You could feel the intensity of an unknown gaze upon the left side of your face. You refused to even cower in its direction, to whomever that glance belonged to, it was most probably of no God that could fulfill your wishes.

You still remember how your knees ached as you gathered yourself from a praying position. How you had bid a good day to the priest upon your hurried leave.

How you had petted the church’s cat that sluggishly showed you his black furred belly as you passed by his way.

How you had offered whatever lingering candy you still gathered inside the pockets of your ageing trench coat to some street kids that always went to you for their sweet tooth (the little rascals).

The commute towards the curving golden gates that encircled the greenery belonging to the theater was too mundane to serve as a presage. The Archons had sent you no omens, no foreboding whatsoever. The birds chirped away the same conjunction of clashing tunes, the melody of human society waking up from its slumber and beginning its unceasing movement was the same you had experienced on a loop for years.

Would you have entered the theatre’s doors if you had known what awaited you at the end of the day? Would you have been able to escape your future if only you had thought twice after the performance, after lingering gazes filled with want and something more?

Perhaps yes, perhaps no. There really is no use in pondering such things now, but you cannot deny that they do serve as interesting thought experiments to pass the time with.

No matter how many times you attempt to recollect the happenings of that day, they always re-emerge from whatever mental corner you’ve confined them in different forms, different silhouettes, different essences. Your memory has slowly lost the trust you had once graced it with, but no matter how many times you repeat that forsaken day in your diminishing mind, there is one thing that always resists change, one single constant within the writing of your doom.

The altar had smelled of chrysanthemums and lavender.

Author’s note: This will be a series of approximately 5 parts, some from Arlechino’s perspective and others structured as reminiscences such as the one just presented. Since Fontaine is still not out, the characterization of Arlecchino could with the coming of new information and lore become erroneous so I feel as if it is my duty to inform you that I am molding her personality based off of the new trailer and imbuing her with certain characteristics of fictional characters I personally think would be similar to her!

#arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #fatui #fatui harbingers #fatui harbingers x reader #Genshin #genshin impact #genshin x reader #fontaine #fanfic #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere arlecchino #yandere arlecchino x reader #genshin imagines

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clockwayswrites · 2 years ago

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Specter of Starlight - Part 2

Part 1 Mind the CW at the top. (which together will = chapter 1 ones it goes up up on ao3)

WC: 1068

He looked around the roof assessing the scene again, then at the other person.

They were leaning casually on the gargoyle now, unconcerned about the height. The new pose did cause them to throw one leg over on the roof side of the ledge, though, and Tim felt the bundle of nerves inside him unwind just slightly.

“Odd place to be then.”

“Maybe. I find height comforting. I’m Danny,” they said.

Tim was a little startled at being given a name so easily.

Danny gave him a lopsided smile. “Not that it’s not obvious who you are, but usually one guy tells another guy their name, they get a name back. There are social motions to go through here. There are expectations.”

Tim tilted his head at that, fighting back a smile. “Are social motions still in place when we’re sitting on a roof at—” His eyes darted to the hud feed inside his lenses. “—three twenty-two in the morning?”

“Hum,” Danny seemed to be actually thinking about that as he picked absently at the fang of the grinning gargoyle. “I suppose we’re exempt from most. In my defense, I think I lost track of time.”

“While star gazing.”

“Cloud gazing. I think we covered that already.”

“Red Robin, then, if we’re pretending to be normal,” Tim acquiesced.

“’Normal’ says the guy in the bird suit. Wait, I’m sorry, that makes you sound like a furry. Not that furries aren’t delightful people, but don’t really think you are one.”

It took some effort not to laugh, but he finally gave into the smile. “No, just a vigilante.”

“Got to say, that’s probably a pretty big step down from furry, sure you want to admit that?”

He was being teased. He was being teased by a random guy on the edge of a roof at three in the morning. This wasn’t at all what Tim expected but he would take it.

“You’re lucky Batman isn’t around to hear you slander the good vigilante name like that.” Mostly because Bruce was dealing with Justice League business. Really, right then, Tim was the only Bat who would be in this particular area to notice Danny (other than Oracle’s all seeing eye, but this high up didn’t have a lot of cameras).

“Okay, but seriously,” Danny said, spreading his hands, “Batman is way more furry adjacent than you. He’s got the wings—”

“It’s a cape.”

“—and the ears.” Danny brought his hands up, holding a single finger up on either side of his head. He gave them a little wiggle.

Tim wasn’t able to help the snort of laughter that time. “I’ll let you bring that reasoning up to him yourself.”

“No thanks, I don’t really want to have a run in with the Batman.”

“But I’m fine to have a run in with?” Tim wasn’t really offended, he knew he wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Batman. Or Red Hood. Or the latest Robin. Not to mention the girls… Okay, so he wasn’t the scariest Bat by far, alright?

“I’m not minding your company so far. Besides, you’re way cuter than Batman.”

He could feel the heat of the sudden blush on his cheeks. Hopefully the the dark night would hide it.

From Danny’s smirk he guess it didn’t.

Tim cleared his throat and grappled for a topic. “So were you hoping to see any particular stars?”

“I mean,” Danny let his head tilt back over the gargoyle, exposing the long line of his neck as he looked back up at the sky. “That always depends on the time of the year.”

If Tim was a less composed person he would have rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, what on this specific March night would you have been looking for?”

Danny’s gaze jerked back down to blink at Tim, but he couldn’t gather what for. Did Danny really think Tim didn’t know something as basic as the constellations changing with seasons?

No, Danny seemed to take a notice breath (why was it so noticeable suddenly) and relaxed again.

“Well, for March, we’d be seeing Orion,” Danny said, returning his gaze to the sky as if they could see anything. “He’s pretty easy to spot even in cities, because of how bright his starts are and his belt. His belt isn’t the brightest stars in Orion, but since they line up people have been spotting them for ages.

“In ancient Arabic they were Al Nijād, also the belt, but in modern they refer to them as scales, which is what the Chinese maybe called them too. They’re also sometimes called the three sisters or the three kings. There’s three stars on it, all pretty bright. Well, we call them three stars, but two of them are actually star systems— shit, sorry, I’m just ranting at you now.”

“No,” Tim said quickly. He hated the way Danny was curling into himself now. “It’s interesting. What do you mean they’re not three stars?”

Tim felt like he was being judged as Danny’s eyes swept over him. Judged and expected to be found wanting. How many times had people dismissed Danny when he was talking about this?

Tim must have passed because Danny started talking again. Slowly, at first, as if he was waiting for Tim to change his mind. “Well… see, the left most star, Alnitak, is a triple, maybe quadruple star system. We’ve known it was a double start since early eighteen something something— I’m not so great with remembering the dates— but then we found another star with the primary later which is super cool. And the right most star Mintaka is also multiple stars and one of them has a unusual metal abundance which is also really cool.

“Now the middle star, Alnilam, is a massive blue super giant. And I mean like, forty times the size of our sun massive. It’s the, twenty-seventh or twenty-ninth or somewhere there brightest start in the sky but even then, it’s only the forth brightest start in the Orion constellation. Like I said, super noticeable. Most people think Betelgeuse is the brightest because that’s one of the larges stars visible to the naked eye. If you thought Alnilam was big at forty times our sun’s size, Betelgeuse is over twelve hundred times bigger…”

A soft smile gracing his lips, Tim shifted to be more comfortable and hear all about Betelgeuse and Rigel and the other bits of starlight that made up Orion.

____

AN: Well, this decided it really wanted to be written, like now (now being 4am). But to be fair, I did rewrite two scenes of the next chapter of lbfd first. (And seriously, no shade on furries, they really are a wonderful community and the best cons to vend at.) Hopefully not too many mistakes, fresh migraine hell over here.

I hope Danny nerding out about the stars there at the end wasn't too dry? I don't know if I need to trim it down? Fun (?) facts, Orion is my fav constellation and my brother actually helped study the metallic content of starts because he's crazy smart. Anways, I love Danny being able to completely change the mood on Tim just by being his delightful, dumpster fire self. You all stay delightful too, darlings!

#dc x dp #danny fenton #tim drake #brain dead #dead tired #specter of starlight #i feel like I'm forgetting tags #ugh I forgot messing with the html wiped out the read more #sorry about that

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angel-of-the-moons · 1 year ago

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A Rose Under The Moon

Moon Knight System (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: None mostly. Goldfish slander, some minor injuries resulting from clumsiness, mentions of events from the show. Layla is here! We stan a healthy, happy divorced couple in this house >=\

A/N: There will be multiple chapters like these in this series, mostly dialogue and filler to help facilitate plot.

Taglist: @shirukitsune @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @bad4amficideas

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

Chapter 4:

Old, Unhappy, Far-Off Things

"You guys can't keep doing this." Layla said over the phone.

"I know, I know." Marc sighed, running his hands through his hair. He haphazardly sprinkled some fish flakes into the tank to feed the ever chubby goldfish; looking at the glass to see Steven's reflection staring back at him, a frown creasing his features.

(Marc, you're going to make 'em pop!) Steven scolded.

"Well, how am I supposed to know how much to feed three goldfish?" Marc groaned.

"Steven told you the fish were gonna explode, eh?" Layla laughed softly.

"Yeah. Almost exactly that. I swear, I've never met a man who needs an emotional support fish." He replied, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear, screwing the lid back onto the tiny container of nasty-smelling flakes.

(How dare you! Gus and his friends are members of this family! You're going to hurt their feelings!) Steven said, absolutely aghast at Marc's summary of how the little aquatic creatures fit into their lives.

(The other two don't even have names yet, hermanito.) Jake finally piped in, coming to co-front to see what all the fuss was about.

"But seriously, Marc. You have to take it easy. Just tell Khonshu to shove off and ignore his bony ass for a few days!" Layla sighed. Though they weren't married or intimate anymore, Layla still cared deeply for "her boys"; even Jake, to a point. Even if she didn't fully trust him, he was a part of Marc and Steven. Part of their system. She knew Jake was the protector. She knew that he was only violent when he absolutely had to be.

Or when Khonshu sent him after fresh targets. She still didn't like that.

"You think I haven't tried that?" Marc flopped onto the sofa, his hand resting over his face as he sighed.

"He's a god, Layla. It's not so easy to just say no."

"Taweret doesn't seem to have a problem with boundaries." She pointed out.

"Because Taweret is a big softie, Layla. She literally mothers you." Marc retorted with a grunt.

"Well… she is the goddess of motherhood. One of them, anyway." Layla conceded.

"And Khonshu is the god of being a tall, harping asshole who refuses to let me rest." Marc leaned back, closing his eyes as the leather on the sofa softly groaned under his weight.

"You think we like working for him, still? We don't. We need the suit, and people need to be kept safe..."

"Have you considered just… giving it all up? Telling Khonshu you're done? Just hang up the cape?" Layla hummed.

Marc could feel Steven and Jake fade into the background of the headspace, leaving him alone to his conversation with Layla, not enjoying the current topic at all. And it would be smarter to prevent a possible argument between Jake and Marc, right now. They had enough headaches.

"I already tried that, remember? Khonshu just used Jake before we knew he was here and had him kill Harrow."

"Right…"

"And besides…" Marc said, conspiratorially. "...I think he already has his sights set on another person to be a Moon Knight. And I don't know who it is, but I know he's going to hold it over my head. Steven, Jake and I would rather be dead than let some poor, innocent person see the shit we have."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Okay… You obviously need a mental health break. Anyplace in particular you can go to get away from everything?"

"Well… there is one place. A little shop Steven found that's nearby." Marc replied.

"Is it a bookstore?" Layla laughed.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Marc chuckled. "Some woman runs it. American, if you can believe that. Apparently the store was her aunt's or something and she inherited it from her when she died. Steven's built a bit of a rapport with her. Me too. Kinda. She also sells stuff like coffee, tea, snacks… kind of like a one-person cafe."

"She runs it alone?"

"Yeah, impressive actually. But, it's not always safe, I saw that the other day." Marc nodeed.

"Oh? What happened?" Layla asked, wholly invested now. They had a friend? She likely didn't know about their DID, but Marc, and by that extension Steven, and possibly Jake having friends was a win in Layla's book.

"Some abusive drunk ran in after his girlfriend. Apparently she hid his girlfriend in her flat upstairs when she came in covered with bruises and freaking out." Marc said, smiling a bit at remembering your tenacity and urge to protect somebody you didn't even know. Even Jake respected you after that. And Jake respects very few people.

But it proves you were a protector, like he was. Not to the same extent, but close.

"Sounds like a good person."

"She seems like one. I just hope she doesn't get herself into trouble with anymore–ah!" Marc hissed, dropping the phone and waving his hand in the air as pain whipped through his fingertips.

"Shit!" He cursed, picking up the phone again with his other hand. He glared at the red marks appearing in his palm.

"Marc? Are you okay? What happened?" Layla asked, her voice just a hair above worried.

"Yeah, just my fucking hands again. Last week it was my shins." He grunted.

"So either you're getting old," Layla teased. "Or a certain someone hurt themselves again."

"Yeah, just wish they'd quit it. It's really inconvenient."

"That's a bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

"What?" Marc asked, his brow furrowing as he watched the burning red marks blossom on his skin. Pretty, almost, if you were into that sort of messed-up body art.

"Marc, please don't tell me you haven't considered that every time you got hurt, your soulmate felt those pains, too?" Layla deadpanned with a sigh, most likely pinching the bridge of her nose. He could picture it now. She was probably pacing in the kitchen of her flat in Cairo; the sun illuminating her figure, making her curls glow in an amber light, highlighting her jaw as she frowned.

But the thought she triggered in his mind sent a stone dropping into his gullet. Had he really not considered that? He thought that maybe, being Moon Knight would… would dull the pains, or maybe negate them entirely. Or… was he just stupid and didn't put them into consideration?

If they can feel his pain, and he can feel theirs... what about when he…

But sometimes it felt redundant to think about and worry for someone he never met, but at the same time…

"Fuck." Marc hissed, wiping at his face.

"Oh, my gods! You haven't been careful at all have you?" Layla gasped.

"I…"

"Marc! You and the other two need to get it together and take it easy. You think you don't understand things? Imagine how your soulmate feels. They're probably going about their normal daily routines and feel it when you get shot! Oh gods, what about when we were in Egypt and you got impaled?" Layla murmured. "Gods, I almost forgot about… what about when you died? I don't even want to imagine what they felt."

Marc dropped back into the cushions staring blankly at the ceiling. She voiced the very thing he himself was hesitant to mention.

"I… I forgot about that, too." Marc said, his voice almost flat.

"I imagine they must have been confused when their mark reappeared."

"Fuck…" Marc groaned, feeling exhaustion suddenly creep into his body. But then, he jerked, gripping the back of his head. "Damn it!"

"Another pain?" Layla mused.

"God–yeah. Right in the back of my head." Marc grunted.

"Yikes. Your soulmate must not be having a good day." Layla chuckled.

"Whoever they are, they're accident-prone as all hell!" He grumbled, pouting as he rubbed the fresh sore spot.

"Pot callin' kettle, Maaaarc." Layla sang softly over the phone.

"Yeah, yeah. You sound like Steven."

"Good."

"Ugh, please don't say that." Marc said, a smirk cracking his mask of discomfort. "He's already nagging me."

"Okay, okay…" Layla quieted for a moment. "Hey, Marc?"

"Yeah?"

"I might take a trip to London. Maybe if I'm there, Taweret and I can run interference for you to give you a break." Layla suggested.

"Layla… You don't–"

"Already looking at plane tickets." She interrupted.

"Of course you are." Marc smiled. That was one of the things he loved about Layla when they first met. He was drawn to her. Her snark, her determination…

"Yeah. I'll pack a bag and hop the flight that leaves in a few hours."

"Wow, okay." Marc said, his eyes widening. "You're serious about this?"

"Who else is going to babysit you three and get Khonshu off your back if me and the Hippo Mama don't?" Layla jabbed playfully.

"Oh my god, you do not call her that." Marc snorted, shaking his head.

"She thinks it's a cute nickname. And she agrees with my plan, so…"

"Oh great. You two gonna just harp me and remind me to take my vitamins, too?"

"I mean, if we have to…"

"Ugh. You're impossible."

"But that's why everyone loves me!" Layla laughed.

"Sure, sure. And Layla?" Marc asked, looking at the mark on his wrist, a soft fond look in his eyes. It was blooming today, the rose.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"No problem, Marc. Go hang at that bookstore and get a coffee or something, yeah?"

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

You hurried up the stairs and rushed to your oven, frantically cursing with each step as you hauled yourself up the stairs and into your flat.

You practically ripped the oven door open, coughing as smoke filled your nostrils as the burned pastries greeted you.

"Damn it!" You whine, slipping your oven mitt on and grabbing the small pan with one hand.

Your phone started ringing and you spun on your heels to glare at the offending object secured to the wall.

"Oh, shut up, you–"

You felt the pan tip when you turned, the blackened treats threatening to fall to the floor, and without thinking you reached out with you other, unprotected hand and gripped it, before making a sharp yelp and throwing the pan onto the counter with a loud bang, blowing air over your burning and blistering hand.

"Shit, shit, shit!" You hiss, turning to your sink and hitting the tap for some cold water. The stinging subsided, if only minutely.

The phone rang incessantly again.

You dropped your shoulders and rolled your eyes with a groan, and pulled away from the soothing coldness of your tap.

But, of course, as your natural "luck" would have it… You trailed water onto your floor, and slipped into it, cracking the back of your head on the tile. Not hard enough to knock you out, no, but it was just enough to hurt, and leave a rather nasty bump.

So. There you lay, flat on your back, water still flushing into the drain of your sink, smoke detector now going off, and your house telephone ringing impertinently.

"I didn't do anything! Why're you guys always giving me the short end of the stick?" You shout at nothing in particular; maybe whatever gods could hear your lamentations and rueful words.

For extra effect, you flipped the bird with your uninjured hand.

Yeah.

Fate was a funny thing, all right.

Chapter 5: Link

#my writing #A Rose Under The Moon #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #layla el faouly #moon knight

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rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago

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Part 3. hopelessly hopeful

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

Warnings: no use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of heartbreak/grief, cursing, pop-punk slander by one Eddie Munson, Thanksgiving mention, protective!robin, scheming!nancy, sad girl hours continue

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.7K of multi-perspective tension, sexual and otherwise; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

series masterlist | playlist

previous || next

Then - Fall term, Thanksgiving break

There’s only so many days you can sulk in bed. Wrapped in a blanket swaddle of your own creation, it’s almost impressive; everything you could possibly need is within reach – snacks, drinks, and entertainment options.

“You alright?”

It’s cold.

Winter has well and truly arrived in Hawkins, frost dusting the windowpanes and an ever-present chill in the air. Brief winter winds hit the town, snow flurries dusting the streets but never enough to stick. Still too early in the season for that.

You bundle up all over - two pairs of woolen socks, a sweatshirt stolen from god knows who, and too-long sweatpants snatched from Steve or Eddie, a quilt gracing your shoulders like a cape. Your friends try not to chide your melancholy overmuch, but the stubborn part of you still misses him.

Miss his eyes. His hands. The steadying effect of his voice.

Barely a month out and you’re already slipping. Eddie took it upon himself to delete your ex’s number, socials, and whatever other vestiges of your past life he could find from your phone. Some nights you’re thankful for his pre-emptive measures, most nights you’re not.

You spend most of your weekend mornings sleeping in as late as your body would allow because any moment awake was another moment that your mind will wander back to him. You feel ripped asunder, oscillating between accepting the fact that your engagement and relationship is over, and then letting yourself grow frustrated for allowing yourself to fall into this trap in the first place.

You wish you had never said yes to him last December. Never gone to that party back in college, never given him your number, never kissed him, never made love to him. You still ache to think of him, and you can only blame yourself.

Under a heavy spare quilt (Steve’s, naturally), you shiver. Due to the cold or your heartbreak, who's to say?

Eddie heaves a sigh and joins you on the couch. “Okay, sad girl,” he says, curling you to his side. He’s gentle handling you, warm hands tucking the blanket around your prone body with light touches. You’ve been lying immobile on the couch for the better part of the morning, long enough to make it through Bladerunner: 2049 without falling asleep.

They’re all understandably concerned.

You cry at the drop of a hat now, it seems. You throw things in frustration and have a quicker temper. You stare viciously at the black hole of your phone screen. You adamantly refuse to look at yourself mirrors. You sleep fitfully at night, tossing and turning against the sofa in the loft. Only admitting defeat when Steve pads in and sleepily leads you to his room with slurred murmurs of “Jus’ take my bed, honey. S’fine.”

You hate that you sleep best curled alongside someone else.

And Eddie’s all the more concerned because he’s been keeping an eye on your Spotify activity. Too many emo playlists from high school for comfort. He’d nearly staged an intervention when he walked past your classroom yesterday and heard something off of From Under the Cork Tree. Luckily Steve was able to talk him off the ledge.

“Look, I know you don’t approve,” he said pulling Eddie into his classroom by the back of his shirt, “But I know that when she listens to this song–”

“The fact that you know it is cause for concern, Harrington.”

“Uh, it’s more concerning that you know this song, Munson.” He huffs and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. ”Regardless,” he pats Eddie’s shoulder, “She’s trying to move on and that’s a good thing, trust me.”

And sure, he’d give Steve the benefit of the doubt. But he still has half a mind to scrub your Spotify data and start from scratch. For now, he settles for sitting with you as the opening credits roll for the first film in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, extended edition, of course.

Nancy did it on purpose, but she’d never admit it.

Just booked the AirBnB she’d been eyeing after you’d mentioned, casually, that your parents would be in California with extended family for the holiday. You’d bailed to avoid any uncomfortable questions.

Friendsgiving it was then. Nancy and Jonathan would join the rest of you the day after Thanksgiving for a belated celebration. Until then, you had the cabin to yourselves.

A little cabin by tucked away in a forest, earth damp from the mist and air fresh with the scent of petrichor. The car slows to a stop and Eddie cuts the engine. Robin bounds out of the front seat, all flailing legs and arms, desperate to claim the best bed for herself.

You roll your head to release the tension in your neck and elbow open the backdoor to step out of the car. Steve jerks himself awake aided by the thunk of the trunk being slammed shut and Eddie’s whistling. You allow yourself a soft laugh watching as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, glasses forgotten in the mess of his hair.

Blinking blearily, he exited the vehicle to help Eddie load the groceries and luggage inside. Trying to outdo each other with how many bags they could carry with the least amount of trips. With a roll of your eyes, you follow them into the cabin taking care to wipe your shoes on the mat by the door.

Unfortunately, you were greeted by an unavoidable fact. Apparently, there weren’t enough beds. Four to be exact, two singles and two queens. Eddie and Robin had already taken the singles, while Nancy had specifically requested the room at the back of the cabin. Which only left the queen bed in the upstairs loft or the couch.

Quite the predicament.

You tell yourself that it’s only for a few days, then you’ll be back to Hawkins before you know it. Back to reality and the countdown to winter break. You just needed a little reprieve, a few hours drive from your small town and running into students at the grocery store. Some time and space to clear your head and get over this thing.

Taking a deep breath to settle yourself, and it’ll be fine. It’s just Steve. The guy you’ve known since you were in diapers, no reason to worry. He knows everything about you there is to know. Well, nearly everything.

A sharp inhalation of air as you trudge up the steps to deposit your duffle bag on the bed. That’s it then, you and Steve would take the loft and suffer through a few days of close quarters.

Not like you hadn’t done it before.

You’d been through worse; the camping trip of 2015 comes to mind.

“Huh,” he says after shutting the front door, shoots you a grin from the first-floor landing. “I’ll just crash on the couch,” he declares, “Give you some space.”

“No, don’t do that.”

“S’fine,” he insists, “I’m sure it’s comfortable enough.” He tosses his bag onto the sofa cushions, a plume of dust bursting from the fabric, motes lazily drifting through the receding evening sun. “Shit,” he coughs, hand waving the dust out of the air, “Maybe not.”

Your laughter is soft, quiet as if it’s just for him to hear. A shake of your head as you descend the stairs. “Not gonna happen Harrington,” and it’s a promise.

You lean in slowly, hand warm against his arm as you slip the backpack over your shoulder and turn to go back upstairs. Your free hand links fingers with his to tug him along. He follows you willingly, like he always has.

“I don’t like it,” Robin whispers to Eddie after dinner, arms soaked to the elbow with soapy water while she washes the dishes and passes them off for drying. He hums, taking a plate from her before wiping it down with a dish towel. “This forced proximity thing is not going to work out the way Wheeler thinks it will.”

“C’mon Buckley, would it kill you to be an optimist here? Harrington’s your best friend, after all.”

“Exactly,” she nods, “Which is how I know that this whole thing,” she gestures wildly around, soap suds flying, “Is going to implode. And we’ll be left to pick up the pieces.”

Eddie shoves his tongue to his cheek in an effort not to refute Robin, even though he vehemently disagrees with her assessment of the situation. If he had to come down on someone’s side, it would be yours, without a doubt. Sure, you were sulky and sad but that was to be expected - you were mourning for fuck’s sake.

Though you were crashing at the loft until the end of the year, just until you could secure a short-term lease somewhere, when he got up for work in the mornings you were not on the sofa where he’d left you those nights before. In fact, the only thing that did remain was the quilt you’d salvaged from Steve’s bedroom.

And speaking of Steve, his door was unusually cracked open, a sliver of morning light flooding across the hallway. Soft rises and falls of conversation sound out from his room, echoes amplified in the corridor. Your bright laughter quickly shushed by Steve, the sound of rustling sheets.

Eddie smiles at the memory, setting the plate in the drying rack by the sink and turning to Robin. “I think it’s sweet,” he admits, “And I think they both need something to hold on to right now.” He leans back against the cramped kitchen’s counter, elbows bent and fingers wrapped under the edge. A shrug of acknowledgment, “Just so happens they’re holding on to each other.”

Robin sighs, knowing that he’s right. She subconsciously mimics Eddie’s posture, fingers gripping the edge of sink and eyes falling to the dishwater as she faces the basin. “I just–” she breathes, eyes flitting up to him, wary. “I’m afraid he’ll get hurt… hurt, again.”

She shakes her head and pulls the plug of the drain, water groaning its way down the old pipes. Keeps her voice low, whispering, “Eddie you’ve been there, he’s in this endless cycle with her.” She grabs the towel from him to dry her hands, “Just over and over again while she’s completely oblivious to it.”

He nods in sympathy, hand coming to her shoulder and giving a squeeze. “Rob, I get where you’re coming from. Really, I do.” He tongues his cheek once more, searching for the right words. “And as much as we care,” he gestures between them, “At the end of the day it’s still their choice.” He pulls her in for a hug, chin resting against her head.

Robin allows herself to lean on him, groaning as her head knocks against his chest. “They’re just such idiots Eds.”

She can feel the vibration of laughter from his chest, “They sure as shit are, Buckley.” He draws back, looks her in the eye, “Luckily for them, they’ve got us looking out for ‘em, hmm?”

“Yeah,” she grouses, with no real heat behind it, “Lucky.”

Steve has to all but drag you to bed, thanks in no part to the cans of hard kombucha Eddie kept sliding your way. “You’re such a punk,” you pout, completely limp in his arms as he schleps you upstairs, “Was havin’ a good time, don’t wanna sleep.”

“Right,” he grunts, dragging you up the final step into the loft, “I’m the bad guy because I stopped you from crushing cans against your skull.”

“Yeah,” Robin joins in, phone in hand as she documents what she calls ‘clown chronicles’ and Steve has half a mind to be offended at his inclusion; he may be slow on the draw but you are an actual fool, hand to god. “Why you gotta ruin my blackmail material Harrington?”

You hurumph in displeasure, purposefully wiggling to make his life even more difficult. He drops you on the wooden planks in retaliation. “Rude,” you scowl petulantly, struggling to get your arms and legs working again.

“Well, if you’re gonna be a brat about it…” Steve trails off, distracted by searching your luggage for pajamas. He makes his way through socks and pants, a shirt you swear you didn’t steal from him in college, “What the hell—“

A bark of laughter, as if you just remembered something, “Would you believe,” you can’t stop yourself from laughing, “I packed three coats and no pjs!”

Steve halts his search, annoyed. Drops the articles of clothing unceremoniously in the duffle bag. Turns to you, hands on his hips and disapproving, “You’re a walking disaster.”

In that time, you’d wedged yourself between the top of the second floor landing and the dresser, slumped against the wall and were, yup, about to tumble down the stairs. He grabs you around the middle, hefting you over his shoulder and praying you wouldn’t upchuck at the sudden movement.

You giggle and squeal, legs kicking against his back and chest as he plops you down on the bed. He begins to peel the sweater from your torso as you bat his hands away with a lazy smile, “If you wanted in my pants Stevie, all you had to do was ask.”

Steve sputters at your innuendo, choking and coughing over his own spit like an absolute imbecile. Mutters, “Fuck you so much,” under his breath once he can think again.

“Atta girl!” Eddie shouts from the landing by the stairs, “Make him work for it, Trouble.”

“Not helping dumbass,” Steve calls out, hand scrubbing down his face tiredly.

Eddie and Robin say their goodnights and make themselves scarce. Flopped back on the bed, he watches your breathing even out with the rise and fall of your chest. How did you fall asleep so quickly?

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says, fingers snapping to wake you back up, “C’mon, gotta shower and get ready for bed.”

“No,” you whine, eyes screwed shut, “S’comfy and I’m tired.”

It’s hard to convince himself to rally and get you up again. Sprawled like a star-fish across the bed because you’re, yeah, an asshole who takes up the entire bed. His gaze is fond as you rustle against the sheets, breathes out a sigh of relief.

He sits at the foot of the bed, knocks against your leg, “Hey, wake up.” A slow shake from your head that’s currently smushed into a pillow. “Mmm, that’s too bad,” he sighs, “Guess I’ll just go ahead and prepare a bath for myself then.”

Earlier, he’d noticed the upstairs bathroom had a nice clawfoot tub. And you are, if nothing, a slut for a good soak in the bath. It was the only way your family could convince you to go camping and backpacking in the summers, by dangling a stay at a hot spring or spa for the trip home.

Steve stands back up to really sell the idea, and wanders into the bathroom. Bless the AirBnB host because the sink and tub are well-stocked with every kind of toiletry you could want. Glass jars filled with various bath bombs ranging in color and scent, shower gels from Le Labo, and skincare from some brand called La Mer.

He turns the hot water faucet as far as it’ll go, because you like a bath “hotter than hell and twice as steamy.” Runs his fingers under the water, gauging the temperature and turning the cold water tap as he hears your footfalls against the tile.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he says, winding an arm around your waist. Rolls a sleeve up to his elbow and plugs the drain deeming the temperature sufficient.

Pulled against Steve’s side, you rub at your eyes and survey your surroundings. And, true to his word, it’s a fucking nice tub. Technically, it’s a tub/shower combo with an extendable shower head, a tasteful shower curtain pushed to one side of the basin. He nudges you to pick a bath bomb and tosses it in, colors melting into the water as it fills the tub.

“Not so bad, yeah?”

Setting you back against the sink as you nod, Steve opens his dopp kit and grabs a toothbrush. You’re quiet as you watch him squeeze some toothpaste on the bristles and brush his teeth, his eyes meet yours in the mirror and he winks.

Easy laughter as he turns back to you, jaw holding the toothbrush in place while he helps you pull off your sweater and tosses it into the bedroom. Stumbling briefly, your palm lands against his chest where you can feel the warm beat of his heart. His brow raises, are you good?

A shake of your head, you shiver at the new sense of chill in the air, skin reeling from its loss of warmth. “Cold,” you supply with a small shrug. Gone was the buoyant, cozy happiness from dinner and the after-dinner drinks hour. A brief reprieve from your sadness that seemed to follow you like a little storm cloud.

He finished brushing his teeth, arm guiding you along as if you’re a marionette doll and he’s the puppeteer. Not that you mind, his warm hands skating up and down your arms absentmindedly. He tucks his chin on your head and sighs.

“How d’ya wanna do this, honey?”

Reaching behind you, you quickly shut off the tap, steam from the tub dampening your arm. Hooking your thumbs in along the waist of your leggings you push the black fabric downward, hips canting from one side to the other. You feel his quick intake of breath before you hear it, the air stuttering in his lungs.

Hips successfully freed from their confines, you grip his shoulders once more to stabilize yourself. His hands settle safely at your waist, mouth open in a pant. “What do I—“

“If you could just—“ you both speak at the same time. Huffs of laughter as you compose yourself, “I’m gonna fall over if I have to wrestle these off myself.”

He swallows drily, willing his gaze not to wander too far down. “Kay, so I just—“

You chuckle, guiding his hands to the rucked up fabric at the tops of your thighs. Your fingers weave through his, thumbs leading him to the thick band. “Hook your thumbs in and tug.”

He nods dumbly, giving a cursory pull at the lycra and nylon weave. You sway at the effort, uneasy on your feet, palms steadying themselves against his shoulders.

Standing as stark still as you could, you watched silently as he descended to his knees on the tile. Head glancing back up to you while he rolls the leggings from your thighs.

The sight of Steve kneeling at your feet nearly steals your breath.

He swallows thickly, trying desperately to look anywhere but right in front of him. It’s not like he hasn’t thought of you before in this way. He definitely has. Because he’s a grown man who's in control of his desires, he tries not to. But because he’s a man semi-living in close quarters living with a woman he’s attracted to, he can’t help it.

It certainly doesn’t help that he’s close enough to smell you, see the damp patch of silk on your thong, near enough to taste it, if he wanted. He bites his cheek and focuses on the metallic tang of iron in his mouth. Distracts himself with thoughts of you – your friendship, your ever-present teasing with an edge of flirtation that causes the blood in his veins to rush.

He’s too far down now for your hands to reach his shoulders comfortably, instead, your fingers glide through his strands of hair; he bites back a groan when your nails lightly graze his scalp, tugs the leggings further down, your knees knocking together at the effort.

“Sorry, Stevie,” you rasp, as if every cell in your body is attuned to the way he responds.

The nickname that rolls off your tongue certainly is not helping, his jeans becoming tighter as he works the fabric from your legs. He’s not sure exactly when it happened — when the friendship turned into something more for him. Somewhere between the wet plush of your lips shivering against his after the Homecoming dance freshman year, and the ABC frat party in college, he’d realized that the way he felt about you was more than friends should.

In fact, it was borderline unfriendly.

You hiss as he drags the last bit of fabric down your calves and off your ankles; the joints pop softly as you roll them out. He chucks the leggings through the doorway and rises to his full height, your mouth is open and panting — pink and wet.

“Thanks.”

He nods, eyes trained on yours, face coloring from the effort in the heat of the room. He brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, “No problem,” swallows the saliva collecting in his mouth. “I’ll let you uh—” he turns to leave.

Your hand reaches out for him, cool fingers against his forearm. “You’ll come back, yeah?” Voice but a whisper against the rushing of his blood, “When I’m settled?”

Steve curses his timing because when he turns to respond, he catches sight of your back as you lift the tank-top off. Skin dotted with beauty marks and the occasional scar, his eyes open wide. The soft curve of your breast against the cage of your ribs, the delicate slope of your waist and hips.

He has enough sense to turn away when you hook your thumbs into the band of your thong. But goddamn if it doesn’t pain him all the same. You fling the silk elsewhere and he hears the water give way as you step into the tub and slide down until the bubbles cover your form.

Casually pinning your hair up in an effort to not get it wet, some bits fall to your face and have gone wavy in the heat, curling up against your chin and cheeks. “Stevie?”

He thinks you look like some sort of Raphaelite muse.

“Come back for you?” He asks, repeating your earlier question as his back slides along the basin of the tub where he sits, sighing when your hand tangles in his hair, “Always.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #fanfiction #stranger things #reader insert #steve harrington #teacher!steve #the kids aren't alright - rosewaterandivy #cee writes

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lakesbian · 11 months ago

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how do we feel about aisha knowing what taylor’s ass looks like because she watched her and brian. why did she do that

she didn't WATCH don't slander her!!! she Walked In, Accidentally, during an honest attempt to check on her severely traumatized older brother. and then spent the next 2 years of her life being all surprised_pikachu.jpeg every time using her power to make ironic creepy jokes or jumpscare people leads to everyone assuming she's actually unironically into being creepy with her power. her great agony is shes always accidentally walking in on shit she shouldnt see but because shes unnoticeable she never gets to experience the catharsis of the embarrassment being mutual and she cant bring it up later without everyone assuming shes being weird. even if she drops her power in the moment it just induces "how long were you there" questions and there's no way of proving she really did just walk in. its her god given right to #cope by making fun of taylor and brian w/ alec about it. sucks 4 her that he bit the dust bc now who is she supposed to tell about all the capes shes caught picking their nose

#ask #worm spoilers

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ghirahimprotectionsquad · 2 months ago

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GPS Reads Ghirahim’s Trope Page

I like TV tropes for the most part, but they seem to have a habit of bullying my comfort character. As far as I understand, TV tropes is meant to be informal but mostly objective. But I feel like Ghirahim’s character trope list just… isn’t. So in this post, I’m going to go through all the tropes they listed for him, and what I think about them. So yeah, there’s a reason there’s a read more on this post, It'll be a long one. Also be warned, I will likely be very nitpicky and complain about the slightest details. Because this is very important to me. Here we go:

Agent Peacock: Yeah this one tracks.

Ambiguously gay: Sigh. I have no problem with people interpreting Ghirahim as gay. But assuming that every femboy is gay is getting old.

Arch-Enemy: Yes, this one is true too, but they’re putting words into Ghirahim’s mouth here. I really don’t think LInk’s race has anything to do with it. If I had trained for centuries and then was beaten again and again by someone who hadn’t even finished knight school, I’d be pretty perturbed, too. That wouldn’t make me racist.

Attack It’s Weak Point: Yes, that does happen. … And it’s awful to watch.

Ax-Crazy: No. I already did a whole post on why he’s not, check it out if you’re curious, I always appreciate engagement.

Badass Cape: Hell yeah!

Badass Finger Snap: Hell yeah!

Bad Boss: I’m willing to cut this one slack because I can understand why plenty of people interpret it this way, but the thing is, we don’t know if Ghirahim always treats the monsters this way. It could be that he was saying this out of building anger and exhaustion from constantly working. Plus, he said ‘we�� instead of ‘I’ during his first cut scene, so he does consider them to be a part of the team and more than just living weapons. More than Demise would, to them or him. And also, even if he was going to kill them, it could be because if Demise learned that they failed, he would do much worse. … Crap, now I’m sad.

The Bad Guy Wins: He does manage to bring back Demise in the end. And this is a bad thing, don’t get me wrong, but you have to admire how he never gave up when literally the whole universe was against him and managed to win. Just imagine if he went to such lengths for you. Maybe then you will understand just why he is my comfort character?/lh

Bare-Handed Blade Block: Yeah, and it’s freaking awesome! His fighting style is so cool, squee, I love him!/qp

Beware The Silly Ones: I don’t disagree with the trope itself, but the description. Ghirahim is not a narcissist. Real narcissists don’t just brag on themselves like that, they’re much more subtle and insidious than that. They certainly don’t lose it with one loss either, and definitely never admit that they have character flaws or something is their fault, all of which Ghirahim does.

BFS: Yes, he has and is a big sword and I want to give him hiltpats. And I spent over a hundred dollars to buy a replicaof his blade to do just that. I am so financiallyresponsible.

Big Bad: Yes, he can be considered the main antagonist, no arguments here.

Bitch Slap: He does, and it’s hilarious. And also merciful, because there are so much worse things he could have done to Link…

Black Magic: Okay, no. Now you’re just being petty. Yes, he has magic and he is a demon and the antagonist. But that does not make the magic itself evil. His magic is cool and beautiful, and I will not tolerate this slander!

Blank White Eyes: Yes, and since eyes are the windows to the soul, I headcanon that this represents his autonomy being stripped away by Demise.

Blatant Lies: Okay, yes. I do understand this interpretation. But I don’t believe this is the case. I believe that Ghirahim genuinely did intend not to kill Link, but due to being infected by malice, which I believe him to be because the markings on his face resemble silver monsters from BOTW, he was unable to stop himself once he had started. In fact, I also believe this is why he took so long to put away his sword and turn around, because he was resisting the urge to just run Link through then and there. And he told Link he would beat him within an inch of his life after promising not to murder him both because it's something a villain would do/what Demise would want him to say, but also he had to make sure Link understood that even though he was trying to be kind, Ghirahim is not a safe person to be around, and Link has to keep his guard up and take the threat he poses seriously, despite his theatrical nature.

Blood Knight: Oh, for god’s sake. These people are determined to see everything Ghirahim does in the worst light, aren’t they? He doesn’t enjoy brutalizing weaker opponents. He literally alludes to this several times in his dialogue! (For example when he says he thinks corperal punishment is a bit harsh.) And he doesn’t harm a single being that doesn’t get in the way of his mission!

Blood Lust: Okay, yes. This one is true, but I don’t believe that’s all there is to it. I’ve made posts before about how I believe Ghirahim’s tongue is his way of gathering information, like his own form of dowsing. He wouldn’t have a long tongue like that if it didn’t serve some sort of purpose, you know?

Blow You Away: Yeah, he makes tornados. Not really related, but I imagine him just spinning around and around faster and faster until he gets dizzy in order to make one, and it makes me giggle.

Bond Villain Stupidity: I’ve made many a post before about how I believe this is deliberate on Ghirahim’s part, as some part of him does not want his abuser to return, though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Also, you called my boy stupid! How dare!

Boss Banter: Yes he does, but he also gives you tips on how to do better. Not very nicely worded tips, but still.

Boss Remix: Yes, and it’s awesome. I love his music. It always makes me smile just to hear it.

Boss Subtitles: Yes. Not much else to say about this one.

Braggart Boss: Yeah, well, someone has to brag on him. Nobody else does.

Breaking the fourth wall: It’s not actually his theme, it’s a unique melody. But I understand why because that song is actually kinda challenging to hum.

Broken Armor Boss Battle; Yes, and it’s absolutely brutal. I guess people don’t usually notice that thought because they’re busy trying to win. And most people don’t notice Ghirahim’s pain because he’s so good at making light of it and playing the villain.

Camp: He is, and it’s awesome.

Catch And Return: Yup.

Catch Phrase Insult: Yeah, he calls link boy. And you want to know who else calls link that? Demise. Who’s to say he didn’t learn it from experience?

Character Ticks: Not just ticks, stimming! My cute lil neurodivergent boy./qp

Chrome Champion: Yes. And I headcanon that his silver form is this, too. His skin is full of tiny metal filings to make it tougher, thus its coloring. And his bones are pure black metal, and they are what makes up his armor in his dark form.

Contrasting Sequel Antagonist: Yes, and I think it’s very clever.

Cool Sword: It’s about time you said something nice about Ghirahim! Yes, he is, and Demise never deserved him.

Crucified Hero Shot: Yes. And it’s absolutely horrific. I don’t understand how people just gloss over it. Even TV Tropes calls it one of the most nightmarish moments in all of Zelda. Now just imagine if the game showed blood in it… But no, no, no, no, no you did not say that he doesn’t seem to mind! For god’s sake, just listening to that laughter, you can tell that it’s not a happy sound! And the facial expression he makes, you can tell he is trying not to scream. God, this makes me angry…

Dark Is Evil: …

Deal With The Devil: Yes, he does. Demise never would have done so, and I think that Ghirahim knew damn well link would not accept it. But it was all he could think of doing to avoid harming him any further.

Death Glare: Ghirahim’s face is always pretty./qp

Demon Lord: I made a whole oneshot about this.

De-Terminator: Sure, but claiming that Ghirahim loves pain and violence again like that interpretation of his character is the only possible one.

Die Laughing: Forcefully converts him back into a sword does not begin to describe the absolute depravity of that moment.

Dissonant Serenity: He is trying to be calm. But there’s only so much he can do as a permanently adolescent (he was meant to be physically the same age as Link, stated officially by Nintendo) who is stressed, sleep-deprived, and has centuries of trauma and abuse under his sash.

The Dragon: Not just that, a slave.

Dragon In Chief: Sigh. Ghirahim does not terrorize the surface world. He only attacks those who directly oppose him, and leaves everyone else well enough alone.

Drama Queen: He is, and people irl should do well to learn how to know and say how they feel as well as he does. Not that his coping mechanisms are one hundred percent healthy, of course not. But I still find the way that he is so in touch with his emotions to be admirable.

Dual Boss: Sadly, no. Ghirahim was reduced to nothing but a sword with no autonomy who is repeatedly struck by lightning. He isn’t allowed to really help at all, which, I think, was a big part of Demise’s downfall. Demise is a cakewalk on his own, but imagine if he allowed Ghirahim to fight by his side?

Dual Wielding: My guy’s got a lot of swords. Every one of them is cool.

Dub Name Change: His name is spelled Grahim in Spanish, which I would have said was smart, but my iPad keeps autocorrecting it to Graham.

Dub Personality Change: I find this to be really interesting. It makes me wonder how I would have interpreted him had I been Japanese. Knowing me and how big of a fangirl I am, I’d probably still end up adoring him just as much.

Evil Cannot Comprehend Good: There you go, contradicting yourself again. You say that Ghirahim is a ruthless sadist, right? So, why is it that everyone before Link ran or hid, and not slain by him? Ghirahim can teleport and sense presences, not to mention create diamond barriers, and even without that, is just freaking fast! If he wanted to kill some random human, there would be no escaping for them.

Evil Counterpart: Yes, he’s the counterpart to Fi, i headcanon that they are siblings, moving on.

Evil Is Hammy: Yes, he is a ham and the antagonist.

Evil Overlord: I’m starting to think that we need more nuance names for tropes related to antagonists.

Evil Tastes Good: I’m not even going to bother with this one, since it’s clear the tropers have made up their minds about what Ghirahim’s actions mean. Never mind the fact he is not human and doesn’t even have any reproductive organs to speak of, we find him sexy, so surely that can only mean that everything he does is sexual./s

Evil Weapon: Yes, this is the role he was made to play.

Expository Pronoun: This is actually interesting information that I appreciate learning.

Facial Markings: Yes, they call them markings and don’t just assume it’s makeup! And he has bags under his eyes, a clear sign of sleep deprivation. And if you’ve read my blog before, you already know where I think that scar-like marking in his between transformations came from…

False Reassurance; I already covered my opinion on this earlier.

Family Unfriendly Death: Good, they pointed this out, at least. Thank you TV Tropes for not always glossing over Ghirahim’s pain.

Fangs Are EviL: Okay, this is just petty. Small aside, I headcanon that he has fangs in his silver form too, like a kitten, but he never lets Link see them because they aren’t very intimidating.

Fantasy Counterpart Religion: Yeah, I see the resemblance.

Fashionable Asymmetry: Yet another of Ghirahim’s delightful little quirks.

Fatal Flaw: Yes, and he admits it. Not something a narcissist would do.

Faux Affably Evil: I already explained my thoughts on this earlier.

Feels No Pain: No. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. This is completely false. Do people really not see it? Laughter isn’t always a happy thing, and he has a unique hit animation that no other Zelda enemy has, for god’s sake! He clearly feels pain!

The Fighting narcissist: Oh for god’s sake…

Flaming Devil: Okay, yes, I see how this trope applies.

Flaying Alive: Yes, and I will say it again, it does hurt him! He screams the entire time while he’s fully transforming.

Flechette Storm: Yes, and it’s completely badass.

Foe Romance Subtext: I’m fine with people interpreting it that way and I understand the thought process, but I personally do not. No judgment whatsoever to those who do, it’s just not how I choose to see it.

Foil: Yes, all that is true.

For Doom The Bell Toles: Okay, now this is starting to seem kind of funny. “Ghirahim is evil! With his evil powers and evil music. He probably brushes his evil teeth with an evil toothbrush, spread with evil toothpaste. Did we mention that he’s evil?”

Glamour Failure: As his mental state deteriorates during the game, so too does his body. And it’s sad. He tries to make himself feel better about it by bragging about it, but I personally believe he prefers the silver form more. That is his real true form. He doesn’t even feel he’s allowed to call himself a demon anymore, but what Demise wants from him: a weapon without mercy.

The Gloves Come Off: Yes, but I don’t think he makes them disintegrate, he just puts them into his inventory.

Good Old Fisticuffs: Yes. Not much else to say.

Grayscale of Evil: Here we go again…

Hammy Villain, Serious Hero: Link? Serious? Pfffffff!

Happy Dance: Yes, and it is adorable.

Hair Trigger Temper: Yeah, he can be very emotional at times. That’s what happens when you bottle things up and are never given the opportunity to learn how to express them in a healthy way. Not saying that the way he does express them is good; many things that he says to Link are incredibly messed up. But he does try to stay calm, with admittedly not a lot of success at times.

Heart Light: Yes, his gem is his heart and it glows. It’s pretty.

The Heavy: Sure, not much else to say.

The Hero’s Journey: Yes, it does match the trope, and again, I think that it has to be admired to an extent. Don’t agree with the wording of the return, but I think I’ve made my stance on that clear.

Hoist By His Own Petard: Again, I believe his hypocrisy of telegraphing attacks was very purposeful.

Hot Blooded: Yes.

Impaled With Extreme Prejudice: Yes. And it’s all hard for me to watch.

Impossibly Cool Clothes: Yes, they are cool. I bet they’re extremely silky and soft to the touch, too.

Inferiority superiority Complex: Oh my god, they actually said it! They weren’t very nice when they described it, but it makes me hopeful to see that the tropers aren’t completely blind.

It’s all About Me: Yes, I see how this trope applies, but holy crap are these descriptions biased.

Just Between You And Me: Yes, this is Ghirahim desperately confiding with Link because he literally has no one else he could talk to.

Justified Tutorial: Yes, Ghirahim teaches you how to fight him. Not Fi, Ghirahim is the one who says it. And you will have to yank my belief that this is significant out of my cold, dead hands.

Just Toying With Them: …

Kick The dog: Okay, I get it. You don’t like Ghirahim and insist on seeing every one of his actions in the worst light possible. I remember why I always steer clear of this article now.

Knight of Cerebus: Oh, come on. You mean to tell me you find him terrifying? Yeah, I get it he’s a demon and says some pretty extreme stuff at times, but come on! He has big, brown puppy dog eyes. Smh

Large Ham: Yes and I love him for it./qp

Last Second Chance: I didn’t think I would have to write that I’d covered something before this much. I understand they need to list all tropes that apply, but still.

Laughably Evil: Yes, Ghirahim is a dorky goofball and a theater kid through and through. (I’m just going to ignore the bloodthirsty nature remark)

Laughing Mad: No, it is not safe to say that he wanted it to happen, not at all!

Left The Background Music On: I headcanon that Ghirahim plays piano and enjoys playing his themes a lot and just vibing to them.

Lean and Mean: Scrawny? Really? Okay, now you’re just being petty.

Leaning On The Fourth Wall: Yes, his text box at the end does resemble Fi’s and I think that was a very cool attention to detail there.

Leg Focus: Yeah, that happens.

Leitmotif: Yes, I understand his theme was meant to be sinister, but since Ghirahim is so near and dear to my heart, I mostly just hear the whimsical part whenever I listen to it.

Licking The Blade: went over this earlier.

Lightening Bruiser: There, you see? He is fast! He could have obliterated Link on the spot if he wanted to.

Living Weapon: Yeah, he is, with all the horror to go with it.

Loves The Sound Of Screaming: Sigh. If I recall, he describes the sound of screaming as "shrill." Shrill is not usually an adjectiveused to describe sounds that are pleasant to the listener.

Made Of Iron: Yeah, he’s metal, but I think it’s something a lot stronger and more durable than iron.

Make Wrong What Once Went Right: Yeah, and can we talk about what a power move this is? The fact that Demise literally met his namesake, but he didn’t give up.

Magic Knight: Hell yeah!

Maniac Tongue: So many people treat the tongue thing as if it is the worst crime imaginable.

Mask of Sanity: Personally interpret it as a mask of INsanity, but you can’t expect Ghirahim to be completely stable considering who his master is, and what he’s like. And that’s just what happened in front of Link, I shudder to think of what Demise possibly could have done behind closed doors…

Master Swordsman: Yes, he is.

Mau The Demon King: I’m not familiar with the trope, so I won’t comment.

Meaningful Name: This is interesting stuff.

Melee Disarming: He does, and it’s super cool.

Milking The Giant Cow: The name of this trope makes me snigger. And it’s true.

Mirror Character: Yes. (Not commenting on the description.)

Misanthrope Supreme: Okay, this trope is just plain wrong and is putting words into Ghirahim’s mouth again.

Monster Clown: Yeah, I see that.

Mood Swinger: Yeah, his emotions can be very volatile.

Motifs: He loves his diamonds.

Mouth of Sauron: Yeah, he is.

Mr. Fanservice: Yes he’s pretty, yes he wears form fitting clothing, but that’s the only redeeming quality that many people see in him, and I find that really disheartening.

My Defense Need Not Protect Me Forever: He does technically win, but at what cost?

Narcissist: Going on about how beautiful and perfect you are does not automatically mean that you are a narcissist.

Nested Ownership: A sword that uses swords.

Nigh-Invulnerability: His dark form is tough, but ever notice that he no longer teleports or makes diamonds when he’s in it?

Not Worth Killing: Yet another moment where Ghirahim shows mercy, but TV Tropes is insistent on interpreting everything in the worst possible light.

Ominous Latin Chanting: Sadly, this trope is also not quite right. There are no words in the final boss theme, Latin or otherwise. It’s just singing. I think he deserves some cool Latin lyrics, though.

Ominous Pipe Organ: played by a real organ too, as all of Skyward Sword was played by a live orchestra.

One-Handed Zweihander: I did not know that his big sword was called that. Cool fun fact.

One Winged Angel: Yeah, true.

Our Demons Are Different: In the best way.

Overly Long Tongue: For a human, maybe, but it’s perfectly ordinary for him.

Practically Joker: … No.

Pre-Final Boss: I’d argue that he’s the actual final boss since he poses a challenge, unlike pushover Demise.

Psycho Knife Nut: He has a lot of knives, yes.

Psycho Supporter: What can I even say that I haven’t said already?

Rank Scales With Ass Kicking: Haha, no, Ghirahim is clearly the stronger and more competent one here.

Really Seven Hundred Years Old: Physically and mentally around the age of Link. Chronologically older.

Recurring Boss: Link fights him three times.

Red Baron: Sort of?

Red Oni, Blue Oni: Literally, with Fi. Also, my autocorrect kept trying to change Oni to onion. Ghirahim is an onion confirmed. He has layers.

Red Right Hand: I don’t care if his ears were designed this way to make his hair easier to animate; it’s in the game, so it’s canon to me.

Ring-Out Boss: Link must knock him off the platforms, which he tells him how to do, by the way.

Sadist: For god’s sake! How many times do I have to… let’s just move on.

Disturbing Threats: that he never falls through on. I’m not saying they are okay things to say, absolutely not. I’m just saying that all factors have to be taken account for, which this page does not.

Scary Black Man: I don’t think I have to explain this one for you to understand the problems with it.

Serrated Blade of Pain: Yes, it’s like that, but I don’t think he had a say in what his sword form looks like.

Sissy Villain: If you didn’t believe me before when I told you that TV Tropes likes to bully Ghirahim, maybe you do now?

Smug Snake: He has to be confident, his position demands it.

The Sociopath: False.

Spontaneous Weapon Creation: More like spontaneous weapon summoning, but it’s not his favorite kind of magic. It’s clearly the diamonds! Do you people have eyes? I’m blind, and even I understand that! (Yeah, I’m done being polite)

Starter Villain Stays: We still didn’t get enough time with him in my opinion, but I know if they tried to bring him back, the haters would riot.

Suave Sabre: Just going to ignore the part where you say subverted.

Suddenly Shouting: Yes Ghirahim, feel your feelings!

Suspiciously Similar Substitute: What are you saying? Ghirahim’s completely original and unique. You’re just trying to pad out the tropes list with something that isn’t mocking, aren’t you? (I do see the resemblances.)

Tactical Suicide Boss: Ooh, did you just almost admit that Ghirie was being merciful?

Talking Weapon: He’s a sword that can talk, like Fi.

Tennis Boss: Yeah, you can deflect his daggers, which is pretty badass.

That Makes Me Feel angry: Like I said before, Ghirahim can identify how he feels and express that. We need more of that in our society.

Throwing Your Sword always Works: Oh my god, they accidentally said that Link can pick it up instead of Ghirahim, that made me chuckle. Typo or Freudian slip?

To The Pain: But he never follows through.

Uncertain Doom: We don’t know whether he’s dead or not, but I’m thinking that he isn’t since his sword form disappears and Demise looks surprised when it happens. Ghirahim does leave his abuser in the end. But it’s hard to say what happens to him after. (I’m working on a fic about it.)

Undying Loyalty: Yes, but I feel that some of it is from abuse/Stockholm Syndrome. But imagine if you were the person who earned that loyalty? If that’s the extent he goes for someone who is terrible to him, think of what he would do for someone who is genuinely kind to him? (Oh shut up TV Tropes, it’s not his only positive trait.)

Unskilled, But Strong: The slander! Here’s an idea, what if he’s doing it on purpose? Like he could be deadly fast and not telegraph his attacks, but he doesn’t because he’s more focused on putting on a show and playing the villain, and actually giving Link a fair fight.

Variable Mix: The drums start when he draws his sword. It’s a cool detail.

Villain Teleportation: You heard it here, folks. If someone on the opposing side has any sort of power, regardless of what that power is, it’s automatically evil./s But at least they have the decency to admit that it’s cool.

Villainous Breakdown: Yeah, because narcissists totally let one loss shake them and can admit their faults. Seems totally legit./s

Wake-Up Call Boss: Yes, and it’s awesome.

Weapon Grip Failure: He chooses to leave not because he loses his sword, but because he senses that Zelda is no longer there. And come to think of it, why would she linger right behind the door that long when she must have known Ghirahim and link were there; Ghirahim was not trying to be quiet or subtle at the time. Her Manipulation of the both of them was really obvious since the beginning, and the sad thing is, it worked. She nudged Ghirahim into acting as the worst version of himself, and it worked so well that even out of universe, so many people hate him.

We Have Reserves: I talked about this earlier.

What The Hell Are You?: Yes, and it’s a pretty cool moment. Probably where the idea that Ghirahim is racist comes from, though.

White and Red and Eerie All Over: If you say so. I think he’s pretty./qp

White Hair, Black Heart: His heart is red, actually.

Why Won’t You Die?: That’s what I ask myself about the massive amounts of Ghirahim hate.

Would Hit A Girl: Say what you want about Ghirahim, but he isn’t sexist. Positive discrimination is still discrimination. I’m not saying that what he did to Impa and Zelda was okay, but still.

You Have Outlived Your Usefulness: Oh, for fuck’s sake! How many times do I have to say that just because he laughs, that does not mean he was fine with it! Ghirahim is not the one who truly has no emotional awareness here.

Your Princess Is In Another Castle: Not much to say, except this is the last one, thank God.

I’m a little embarrassed about the amount of time I spent on this. Hopefully, you all got something out of it, if only the introduction of another idea. If you took the time to read this entire thing, I truly appreciate it. May your hearts be positively filled with rainbows!

#Ghirahim #skyward sword #tv tropes #ranting #rage #long post #i don’t know why i did this #wrote this instead of sleeping #thoughts #alternative perspective #unpopular opinion #hot take #some swearing near the end

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grawlix-ness · 3 months ago

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The Big Sleet and Dingo Headcanon Post V2!

Bear in mind this is largely a collection of subconscious Notes app ramblings I’ve patched together so I may have made a few grammatical boo-boos or repeated myself here and there. It’s almost 4AM, I’m sure I’ve missed things. I’ll continue to add and edit this post should more ideas come to mind. Questions encouraged!

Cw: light implications of child neglect, mentions of drinking and mutant body horror

🔫 Sleet 🔪

Sleet was raised in the gutter. He knows a fair bit more than the average Lower Mobotropolis street urchin because his mom was an aristocrat until she was slandered by her peers and booted from high society. She taught him the essentials, and he learned everything else from scavenging library books. Presently, his education has all but fallen through the cracks. He tries to avoid reading most of the time. What will Dingo think if he learns he’s not the uber-genius he makes himself out to be? Why does he care what Dingo thinks? When such thoughts arise, they are pushed away and buried.

He has cybernetic implants to aid with frequent aches and muscle strain. In the winter, he struggles due to a lower cold threshold, the result of a fur and skin condition. Dingo knits sweaters for him. They’re oversized and kind of a mess. On particularly glacial nights, Sleet isn't averse to sharing warmth, willing to cuddle up and be the little spoon, so long as Dingo promises not to tell anyone.

He had no friends growing up and was often picked on. His ailments and interest in science made him an easy target. Some of his peers disliked him on the very principle of him having an ex-aristocrat mother. This made him prickly and distant. While others played kickball or tag, he was tinkering with junkyard machinery or eavesdropping around spacer hangouts, dreaming of someday getting off planet and flying to a world that’d understand him.

He’s quite good with a needle and thread and tailors his and Dingo’s ball outfits himself. Sleet gets his sewing skills from his mother. She was the personal outfitter and trusted right hand of an important noblewoman. As a pup, he adored listening to his mother’s stories of galas and masquerades. During such fleeting moments of peace, she’d also make costumes for him. He still heavily enjoys fashion, having a closet dedicated to fancy capes.

Sometime in his tumultuous childhood, Sleet discovered there was an Honor Guard. He admired their outfits and swordsmanship. Most of all he wanted to join so he and his mother could live in the warmth and safety of a castle. He even fashioned a costume out of his mother’s fabric scraps, complete with a sword made from a rusted metal pipe. She was quick to dash those dreams and didn’t take kindly to him borrowing her things, especially not for such a “ridiculous” project. During lonesome, existential nights he wonders how differently things could have turned out if he had become a member of the guard after all.

When his mother was absent or too volatile to be around, Sleet found company in local mechanics. He learned how to swindle and cheat with the best of them. One shop owner actually took him under her wing, viewing his perceived weaknesses as strengths.

Sleet first developed the transmogrifier as a kid. He used it not only to defend himself against the local rabble rousers and humiliate them. It wasn’t a complete success, only partially transforming targets, giving them wings or eyestalks and other unwieldy appendages. Transformations were temporary. No less horrifying however.

He calls himself a jack of all trades. This title is dubious. Thanks to an enriching education from the school of hard knocks, he does have an approximate knowledge regarding a variety of things, though it’s usually limited to topics relating to self-preservation and chicanery.

Animals don’t like Sleet and aren’t afraid to let him know. It’s become a standing joke. Dingo teases him for it, despite the fact that, because of his stature, toothy countenance, and tendency to squeeze or pet too hard, he isn’t the best with animals either.

Sleet is a skilled marksman. He prefers distance, specializing in both handguns and long guns. If the weight class is right and the odds are in his favor, he can hold his own in close quarters using an array of hidden fighting knives and some rudimentary martial arts. Sleet simply won’t hear that his cape is a hindrance, even when this has been proven multiple times. All that being said, Sleet is more of a fleer than a fighter. He is an unabashed coward, not opposed to unning away screaming with his tail between his legs.

While preferring motorcycles, he’s not half bad at riding animal mounts, thanks to the teachings of cowboy bounty hunter and old flame Fleabyte. It is serendipitous that he’s acquired this ability, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to stay on as well after zapping Dingo into a beast of burden. The poor brute has heard a lifetime’s worth of ass jokes from his rider.

He enjoys strategizing and has free time stored away solely for scheming purposes. These lovingly-crafted plans generally go awry due to Dingo’s haphazard, devil-may-care nature and forgetfulness. That’s not to say Sleet would do better in the bounty hunting business on his own. He has the upper body strength of a wet noodle and a predilection for monologues and theatrics. He needs someone to shake him out of these ego trances.

Sleet uses his hands often when talking. Lots of flourishes and waves, tapping his chin as he feigns uncertainty, balling his fists and involuntarily shaking them when incensed. Little itchy, twitchy movements. Dingo finds it most endearing.

Though tech-savvy and clever, his anger and pride sometimes get the best of him, leading him to make less than wise decisions, such as forcing machines past their breaking points or abandoning plans the moment his buttons are pushed.

Sleet is not good at maintaining his hygiene, hence the hedgehogs’ odor-themed jabs. He'll polish and shine his armor until it glistens, yet giving the suit an interior deep clean is far from his mind. He's become so dependent on the power high and protection the suit gives him that he rarely takes it off. Dingo found this strange and a little concerning at first, but Sleet has convinced him that a good bounty hunter is always prepared in case of ambush. The thick polluted air of Robotropolis doesn't do any favors for his mangy fur coat either. So if anyone's a flea hotel, it's Sleet, though you’d be hard-pressed to find any fleas that’d give his scrawny hide the time of day.

Underneath that armor, he wears a black one-piece bodysuit made of a silky, breathable material, more resilient than it appears. Sleet is skin and bones. It’s why he prefers working with a partner. He went through—or rather left for dead—dozens of other partners before finding a suitable match. Dingo’s hardy. Sturdy. Loyal. Revoltingly sweet. He’s an intriguing oddity to him. Dingo could easily kill him and yet he doesn’t. For a time Sleet wondered if he was just too dim to ever consider betrayal.

He’s not big on displays of affection or people entering his personal bubble. However, when traversing through big crowds, he always presses close to Dingo, sometimes even reaches for his hand.

Considers himself sophisticated. He’ll generally greet with a low bow and flourish, allies and enemies alike. Has neat freak tendencies, despite the fact he’s a hot mess himself. In short, rules for thee, but not for me. There’s often a mental tug of war between his debonair self and the mouth-frothing sewer rat that lies deeper beneath.

Sleet has a bad habit of late night tinkering. He isn’t actively trying to be a night owl, time gets away from him. If Dingo doesn’t carry him off to bed beforehand, he ends up hunched over and asleep at his study. It does no favors for his already poor posture and eye bags.

His reputation precedes him. When he freelanced, many bounty hunters steered clear of him because he was a noted cheat that backstabbed his partners. Despite these unsavory exploits, he manages to reel in even the most disconcerting of clients via ingratiation, boasting a nigh supernatural silver tongue. Those who’ve been tricked by him before cite his wordsmithing as being almost hypnotic.

He tries his damndest not to acknowledge Dingo’s gaga eyes and honey glow cheeks. More times than one would deem platonic, he’s gotten distracted by Dingo’s chest. Though, to his credit, it’s hard not to when your co-pilot’s almost always shirtless and idly flexing his muscles. Even harder when you’re pinned beneath his chest—Dingo could make tripping over his feet a professional sport.

💪 Dingo 🧬

Dingo has a sizable extended family, a horde of siblings and cousins back home. His destructive tendencies came as no shock to his aunts who raised him, since the family business used to be organized crime. The syndicate disintegrated long before Dingo was born, other groups like the Toad Warriors and Bear Pack Bikers quickly outcompeting them.

Has no memory of his mother or father and holds no ill-will towards them. He has plenty of wild theories about their disappearance though. Everything from being lost at sea to being flattened by an asteroid. Whatever it was, he’s convinced it must have been legendary.

Of his litter he is the eldest brother. Barring fur color, none of his family look quite like him. His spots and flopped ear are noted recessive traits. His more dramatic features are the result of an understudied mutant gene. Nobody’s sure where in the family tree it came from. So far as Sleet can glean, it’s one in a billion, a title Dingo wears proudly. He isn’t interested in making connections with any long lost relatives, fearing there could be someone out there better than him at all things mutant.

Dingo grew up in the outback of Trailius, quite some distance away from the hustle and bustle of Mobotropolis. He was a rambunctious, often rude and aggressive child. A typical schoolyard bully. Sometimes he would lament over his appearance and wish other kids invited him to play, but those moments were short-lived. Fortunately for his peers he could be easily tricked or bribed with sweets.

Whereas Sleet took up inventing and sewing, Dingo loved throwing his weight around and exploring the great outdoors, wrestling every beast he came across and scaring vacationing campers late at night by pretending to be a Mobian-eating monster.

In pursuit on foot, Dingo is bad at maneuvering sharp turns. His topheaviness and clumsy feet have cost a number of hunts.

He has a sweet tooth. One thing he appreciates about the aristocracy is their love of extravagant desserts.

He is very naïve and trusting. It was worse when Sleet wasn’t in the picture to talk him out of things. A country boy in the big city, Dingo was scammed out of a lot of his Mobium when he first arrived in Lower Mobotropolis. The shell game was just too alluring.

Dingo is not so oblivious that he can’t rebuke Sleet’s gratuitous blaming. He can be sassy. Those who’ve had the displeasure of working with them can attest that, when tensions are high, they have the propensity to bicker like an old married couple.

For someone who was raised in Trailius, he is unusually afraid of spiders and other crawly arachnids. He doesn’t enjoy turning into insects either, finding the overall sensation, in his words, icky.

Transformation is typically painless. He tends to be sore after taking on the more abstract forms. If the strain is really bad, he will go to Sleet and ask to be massaged. Sleet used to refuse, but he has since humored him, asserting that he’s only doing it to check for signs of molecular decay.

Dingo can morph without the assistance of the transmogrifier, though the process is slower. It depends on how distant taxonomically-speaking the chosen form is from his mammalian base. These transformations are not too pleasant visually or audially, so the remote is preferred.

Dingo’s mutant abilities have some drawbacks. Because of his rapid healing, his body will try to stop him from getting tipsy and keep him on his A-game. He has to drink by the barrel to feel even the slightest buzz. Additionally, being stuck in one form for too long can leave him achy and disoriented, and if he changes too frequently his molecules buckle and unravel. It’s not a pretty sight. Sleet even theorizes that if he’s in a form for over two hours, he will get stuck that way. They have had close calls before, where after finally being turned back from a Mobini, some behavioral traits of the animal lingered.

Before meeting Sleet, Dingo could only morph if he remained focused, and those transformations were generally simple, such as limb multiplication or extension. The transmogrifier effectively glues his molecules together, meaning he doesn’t have to exert his concentration anymore. Colors are still somewhat of a challenge, tinted with his default orange. Nevertheless, he fools the untrained eye. When tasked with disguising as another Mobian, Sleet coaches him and will always supply him with a hidden microphone.

After an especially big transformation, Dingo becomes so drowsy he can hardly stand. All that molecular stretching and rearranging, it’s draining. When he wakes, he is insatiably hungry. Which is saying a lot because Dingo already packs food away like it’s nothing due to his bulking regime.

His accelerated metabolism often manifests in odd cravings, such as tuna and peanut butter sandwiches or pickle and pineapple ice cream sundaes. Sleet wishes he’d partake in his experimental cuisine somewhere else. Preferably out of the Red Whiptail’s cockpit—he gets crumbs everywhere. Despite being an extreme omnivore, Dingo cannot handle spicy food.

When he’s not making unusual combinations, and in turn making Sleet’s stomach churn, Dingo’s a decent chef. Messy, but decent. He’s the more culinarily adept of the two and makes dinner when time allows.

He likes scrapbooking. Dingo has more stationary and cute pens than he knows what to do with. Unfortunately he’s heavy-handed, so many of his supplies are worn with love. He keeps mementos of every successful hunt. Little knick knacks and trinkets, maybe the occasional tooth from a beaten adversary.

Not necessarily a couch potato, though does spend most of his downtime lounging in front of the TV. He enjoys playing video games, although he’s not very good at them on account of his itchy trigger finger skipping past tutorial levels. As long as he can shoot or smash things or toss chubby penguins off cliffs, he’s happy. He watches mainly big loud action movies, corny rom-coms, and slapstick cartoons. Sleet believes his screen time will rot the little left of his brain, though he has shown some interest in the historical Delmontian dramas Dingo skips past while channel surfing.

Has been known to boast quite the sailor mouth. It doesn’t happen often, the most foul only invoked for particularly painful offenses like stubbing a toe. Sleet doesn’t know what half the Trailian swears mean and at this point he’s afraid to ask.

Dingo does not like shirts. He especially hates the tuxedos and dresses Sleet makes him wear whenever there’s a bounty on an aristocrat. He tries to keep his grumbling to a minimum because dressing up makes Sleet happy. In casual settings, if more than his shorts is outright necessary, he’ll wear a quippy graphic tank top.

When they go out of town, Dingo always hits up a tourist trap or two, no matter how blatantly overpriced or mind-numbing. He’s a big fan of carnivals and amusement parks. Dingo’s demolished many strength tester games and would most assuredly be banned if he wasn't one of Robotnik's hirelings.

Not the sharpest tool in the shed, true, but he is definitely the more emotionally aware of the duo. When it comes to personal matters, he’s a good listener.

He has a twinge of separation anxiety. It’s not super debilitating, he just gets restless if Sleet is away for long. He can be possessive. This proves a problem whenever Sleet goes Casanova Mode to retrieve information from targets. It’s worth noting Sleet has moments of jealousy too when Dingo manages to hit it off with others, though he’d never admit it.

The hedgehog triplets are aware of Dingo’s crush on Sleet. To catch him off guard, they’ll sometimes slyly allude to it, much to a flustered Dingo’s chagrin.

Finds Sleet’s voice very soothing. It’s so soft and muted. He could listen to it all day. Often he does since, while certainly less exuberant than Dingo, Sleet can be a chatterbox when it comes to aristocratic gossip and comparing blaster models.

Despite being certifiably canine, Dingo makes all manner of noises. He snorts and huffs like a bull when upset and can unleash fearsome, leonine roars. When happy, he rumbles.

Excitable. Liable to break the nearest object in vicinity from pure exuberation.

Dingo can’t see well without his glasses. Despite the swanky look, they are in fact prescription. If they’re misplaced or knocked off by a meddlesome hedgehog, his clumsiness is increased tenfold. He is gentle when handling them.

Dingo wears a bracer on his right leg. In a comedy of errors, he injured his leg as a pup while playing with a slingshot. For reasons unknown, his healing factor neglected to kick in. His knee aches at times. Dingo mostly wears it because he finds it cool and fashionable.

His fighting knowledge is limited to the concept of hitting, hitting hard, and hitting dirty. He has no formal training, relying on instinct and what he’s seen on television to best enemies. His moves are sloppy and unrefined, but no less formidable. As a mutant shapeshifter, he’s also granted a number of potential forms. Even without Sleet’s transmogrifier, his elasticity allows him to grow in size and turn his arms into whipping tentacles or his hands into mallets. He could finish fights before they even start with this power, however Dingo prefers to milk his battles for all their worth. Some Freedom Fighters have reported seeing him actually play with the battered and unconscious like they’re dolls.

He is actually well-kempt all things considered. Dingo enjoys bubble baths and singing—or caterwauling, as Sleet calls it—in the shower. His fur coat is soft and surprisingly dense, especially in the winter when it grows out. He sheds and has to brush himself fairly often. If he’s in a good mood, Sleet will help. The mastiff-like skin folds around his neck also have to be cleaned regularly. His mane is naturally bristly, akin to that of a wild boar. It softens somewhat after a good shampoo.

Dingo makes the first moves. He is usually the one who initiates. Trouble is, if it doesn’t involve flexing his guns or pulling a smoldering expression, Dingo’s bad at flirting. His word choice is . . . unique. Lummox that he is, his compliments come across more like threats. Turns out Sleet does not in fact appreciate being called small, fragile, and edible among other things. He’s since tried to alleviate this by writing down pick-up lines on his hand.

Dingo’s definitely the more doggish of the two. He wags his tail, something seen as uncouth in aristocratic social circles and immature in most other places. He’s wounded himself on occasions by wagging so hard. Dingo also barks when he gets too excited or surprised and, due to his muzzle structure, is predisposed to drooling. If Dingo is proving particularly stubborn about going into a death trap or being used as bait, Sleet can convince him with a scritch between the ears.

Additional Information

Their partnership was bumpy at first. Their differing personalities clashed and sometimes led to physical altercations. Nothing too dramatic of course, they are still cartoon animals after all. Dingo pulled his punches. Sleet might have been a nag, but he didn’t want to see him hurt.

Sleet and Dingo are both bisexual. Dingo has a slight preference towards men and masc folks. Sleet is trans. He performed his top surgery himself. Despite the quality of the tools he had at the time, his scars have healed remarkably well.

The two are very competitive. Before being hired by Robotnik, on particularly uneventful nights they played board games. They’re both cheaters so they went around in circles for hours. Lots of yelling, finger pointing, and eventually falling into a heap on the floor because they stayed awake all night trying to psyche each other out.

When they manage to squeeze any free time out of their schedule, they enjoy going to arcades and stealing prizes from kids. They also like to take potshots at the irradiated wildlife on the outskirts of Robotropolis and do prank calls—the Robotnik Intelligence Agency being a favorite victim.

Dingo believes that Sleet’s love language is mockery. That might not be too far from the truth. Sleet genuinely doesn’t know how to express himself. He doesn’t altogether know if he wants to. Sleet’s trained himself to think the worst of everyone so he’s not disappointed or hurt in the long run. In truth, Sleet appreciates acts of service. Dingo’s love language is considerably more simple, as things regarding Dingo so often are. Dingo’s huggy, nuzzly, altogether physically affectionate.

Sleet snores terribly. It’s not so much the volume as it is the whistling his nose makes. He’ll never admit to it, and gets flustered whenever Dingo tells him. Fortunately the walls of Robotnik’s fortress are thicker than those of their previous abodes, giving Dingo the chance to rest easy.

Dingo doesn’t understand mirrors. Sleet, egotist that he is, rather likes mirrors. He hasn’t owned any since the incident. It’d be a hassle to clean up glass and find a replacement everytime Dingo popped his head into Sleet’s quarters. Sleet has explained how reflections work to him several times before, yet it never seems to stick.

In his default state, Dingo has a strongman build. Sleet is a beanpole. Without his boots and shoulderpads, he’s slightly shorter than Dingo.

As far as affairs of the heart go, their relationship is unspoken. Dingo’s doing all he can, Sleet pretends he doesn’t see it, as on principle he believes love is for fools. There may or may not have been some wild nights where he had too much wine and slurred a few things suggesting otherwise however. He’s softening up to the idea, even if he doesn’t know it yet. In essence, he’s perpetually stuck in a “I Won’t Say (I’m In Love)” loop, because he’s a shitty little tsundere.

#sonic headcanons #sonic underground #sleet sonic underground #dingo sonic underground #sleengo #slingo

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sokumotanaka · 10 months ago

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As time goes on the slander Miles did to Soul eater still PISSES ME OFF to this day.

"The only good thing about soul eater is blair's ass."

Cause it's super disingenuous to the series writing, music, visuals and so on. And this is coming from the same man who gets pissed off at criticism that's slightly mean, but god forbid is awful opinions he's allowed to get away with!

And as time continues on in RWBY we see more and more copied from it; whole ass plot point of "Don't trust your headmaster, there's something suspicious going on with him; an attack on the school, the villain pretending to be apart of the school- the muguffin or object hidden under the school too!

And then while sitting with a friend they stated that Gynda's cape looked stupid, which I disagreed I liked this purple arrows and then it reminded me of something...THE VECTOR ARROWS!

And it's too similar to be a coincidence, I mean after all who looks at the good witch of the west and thinks arrows? What are they even for on her outfit?

these people shit on everything and tell you not to watch this or that, then you watch it and the first thing that happens is they expose themselves for theft!

ALL THE TIME!

#rwde #soul eater

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ilikekidsshows · 6 months ago

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If you're still doing the rate drip game. What do you think of Ubiquity and Ladybiquity from paris special?

Thanks for your patience, I needed to take a break of these but now I'm back.

Rate the Drip ask game

Okay, so, I actually really liked Ubiquity's design when I first saw it in the trailer. The glittery cosmos effect for a plane-hopping Akuma was such a good idea, and the color sceheme is solid. However, then I saw it from an angle other than an upward shot and realized that she has spots. Why does everything in this series have to have spots? You can't even say they're a nod to the portals she makes, like with Bunnix, when her portals aren't round. The portal cape is a much better addition and I actually like that part.

So, the final rating for Ubiquity is "looks good from some angles". The number one thing saving this look is that Alya just looks good in most things, period.

Ladybiquity, though? That one's actually bad rather than leaving something to be desired. Not only is it a copycat design with no reason to be a copycat, it's an inferior copy of the original where the infernal spots look even worse because now there's a combination of more even patterns and lines of spots. It looks like a confused mess, especially the hair. Calling this look "Miku Marinette" is Miku slander of the worst caliber, because those pigtails look like they belong on a ragamuffin who's been running around in the backyard woods all day. Ladybiquity looks somewhat better in the 2D universe, where her hair is neater, the portal cape is more prominent and you can clearly see her cute little bug antennae.

#ml salt #ask game #rate the drip

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plantyberry · 8 days ago

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Cloudcuckoolander Tally Part 3: Chapter 1-3 and 1-3-2: The Fencing Club, or, 'If I swallow Excalibur, does that mean I'll become invulnerable?'

And we are back for the newest installment of the Cloudcuckoolander tally, this time featuring the fencing club. And I'm definitely counting this thing as part of my NaNoWriMo wordcount tally goal dammit.

Now, for the sake of simplicity, the following factors are preferable (but not necessary) for your cuckoo MC

-Friends or more with Adrian -Gadgetry as a hobby -NOT have the following fears: Blood, Fear, Attention -Greed will help

Additionally, the Fencing Club is the only pick that allows you to have a mute MC while still grabbing the 'Keikaku' achievement.

On the way to the club:

I double-check to make certain that the passing university student isn't actually a zombie in disguise. cuckoo +1

The Adrian conversation (topics about clothes are mostly identical, with a few differences):

Red Cape + Frame = 3 or height = tall: -"Little?" I wonder if Adrian has suddenly gone blind. --"Aye, Aye, fairy godmother." +1 Cuckoo

Vampire Cape: +1 Cuckoo -Strike a stereotypical vampire pose. +1 Cuckoo --"I never bite and tell" +1 Cuckoo --"Lies and slander! I've got my own superior vampire teeth for that!" +1 Cuckoo

Spandex Tracksuit: -"I was thinking about wearing this instead of my uniform today." --"If we switched to plastic swords we could totally do naked fencing!" +1 Cuckoo -I say nothing, I merely start dancing the Tango de la Muerte. +1 Cuckoo (and the Keikaku achievement)

I launch right into the meat of the matter.

-"There was a murder during my last work shift…" --(if police)I begin to describe my brilliant werewolf culprit theory. +1 Cuckoo ---I'm not joking. +1 Cuckoo --(if reporter, paramedic)"All I have to say is… zombies." +1 Cuckoo ---I'm not joking. +1 Cuckoo --(if lab technician) In the end, this is the work of werewolves/zombies… +1 Cuckoo --(if wildlife biologist) I elucidate in great detail upon the nitty-gritty details regarding my genius mutant bear theory. +1 Cuckoo ---I'm not joking. +1 Cuckoo (Whenever applicable) I'm not joking but I pretend that I am in a brilliant double-blind maneuver. +2 Cuckoo

-"So I was recently mauled by an invisible poltergeist…" -- Show your bruised arm to Adrian ---"What? I find this situation perfectly normal." ----I'm not being sarcastic. +1 Cuckoo (Note: If your cuckoo score is under 5, you gain +1 Denial instead)

-"It seems that my apartment may be a little bit haunted…" --"I don't know, man, that bedroom ghost sounded pretty sexy." ---Obviously, I'm not joking. +1 Cuckoo

I launch into a long involved story regarding my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. -(follow the 'recently mauled by an invisible poltergeist' answer line) --"I blame the poltergeist. Also the werewolves, potential zombies, and I've got a sneaking suspicion that mutant fairies may be involved," you ramble. +1 Cuckoo

I believe actions speak louder than words

-I silently whip out my thirteen-page description of my past day including all details regarding my past work shift, my nightmare and strange injury, as well as the current haunted atmosphere of my apartment. --I wave my arms around in my best impression of a haunting ghost. +1 Cuckoo ---I reenact a scene from an earlier Knights of Our Lives episode that just so happened to appear in my dreams before. +1 Cuckoo (MC needs to know who Caleb is) ----I spin in a circle while twirling my arms. Surely Adrian will understand my meaning. +1 Cuckoo

Outside / Event prompts:

-"I'm on to you and your zombie ways, Sefu. No mercy shall be given by me or my flamethrowing sword!" +1 Cuckoo

-Perhaps it was the werewolf that ate Caleb Degaré? +1 Cuckoo (You need to know who Caleb is)

About the swords breaking: -(If you've got the stats or a high enough cuckoo score) "Don't worry, I've got the stats to save everyone." +1 Cuckoo (The Stats: Body >=30 or Body+Magic>=30 or (Talent=Agility + Body>=20) or (Interpretative Dancing>2 and Body>=20)

Post-Adrian Greetings

Talking about Arthur: "I just want to know if he's secretly a zombie/werewolf/mutant. He is, isn't he?" +1 Cuckoo I wonder if I accidentally left my apartment on fire this morning. +1 Cuckoo I wonder if an African swallow could really carry a coconut? +1 Cuckoo I hold up my phone with a Monty Python and the Holy Grail meme about coconuts on its screen. +1 Cuckoo I wonder if one of those sword swallower people could gulp down Excalibur? It'd be handy to be your own sheath. +1 Cuckoo (Requires Arthuriana fanatic)

Asking about the Apocalypse: "Pure unfiltered meta knowledge." +1 Cuckoo

Ask how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. +1 Cuckoo

Changing your clothes:

-This is it! The perfect time to start a strip tease right in the middle of the practice hall! +1 Cuckoo (fear mustn't be 'attention')

Weapon Choice:

-Never mind the sabre, foil, and épée fencing swords. I really wish that I could use Excalibur to sword fight instead. Just like in the old tales of might and magicry. +1 Cuckoo (++)

Before the spar:

Talking to Hjordis about the swords breaking: -In the end, I can't help but suspect toilet gremlins. +1 Cuckoo

Tell everyone about what happened to you in the restroom: -"If there's something strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call? Ghostbusters!" I burst out singing in a very thematically-relevant manner. +1 Cuckoo

When finisheing to prepare for the spar: -It's time to do the Dance of Joy +1 Cuckoo

The color of your sword: -…the color out of space. +1 Cuckoo (++)

Entering the piste: -I throw my extra glove straight in Sefu's face. That's what they're meant for, right?! +1 Cuckoo -I AM Michael Jackson. I put on a single glove and moonwalk to the piste. +1 Cuckoo

-I strike a delicately posed stance, balanced on one leg, knee bent and lifted above my hips, arms extended at my sides like the wings of a crane, as my sword points at the unseen heavens above. +1 Cuckoo -I gravely inform the audience that only masked eyes are allowed to behold my full splendor. +1 Cuckoo

-Frosty the Snowman dances seductively down my spine. +1 Cuckoo

The sword shower incident:

Note: Aside from the stats, you may succesfully pass the sword dance checks if you are a changeling or possess the Lucky talent if your dice roll goes well, though it's an obviously unreliable method to succeed unless you intend to save scum this until you force a pass.

Unwilling rescuer: -I duck and cover and- no, why are my feet moving forward?! No, no, no I'm not trying to 1v1 an entire shower of sharp shrapnel! --I wonder what I should have for dinner tonight? +1 Cuckoo

If the rescue failed, but the people wore masks -Now it's definitely time to do the Dance of Joy +1 Cuckoo --No unmasked eyes are allowed to behold my glory indeed. +1 Cuckoo

Wrapping up (Post good end)

-I launch into a statistical analysis of the causes, probability percentages, prevention methods, and data anomalies found within all train derailment accidents within the past twenty-five years. Yes, most certainly this is an appropriate conversational topic right now. Cuckoo +1

Changing area: Armory -"Don't let the darkness consume your soul or the splinters find your throat," I enigmatically tell my departing clubmate. Cuckoo +1

Changing Area: Men's restroom -"Don't let the darkness consume your souls," I enigmatically call out as my two squabbling clubmates leave before me. Cuckoo +1

Changing Area: Ladies' Restroom -"Don't let the darkness consume your soul." Cuckoo +1

Changing Area: Universal Restroom -"Don't let the darkness consume your soul," I enigmatically tell my cheerily departing clubmate. Cuckoo +1

Changing Area: Corner of the Fencing Hall -"Don't let the darkness consume your soul," I enigmatically reply. Cuckoo +1

It you're possessed (Just… Why?), there is one option right before the sparring match -He's coming! He's coming! He's coming! Cuckoo +1

Out of these options, the Tango de la Muerte (Interpretative score helps succeed the check) and Masked Eyes (Will and Magic +1) option are good picks, in my opinion. Getting the good end is a bit harder in this club that in the polo club because you have to pick the right options to make it happen. Additionally, an important thing to note is that successfully fending off the splinter shower will injure your ankle slightly, which will make escaping the hydra more difficult, if you wish to avoid Merlin forcefully healing you later on.

#oks #one knight stand #oks mc #oks cuckoomc

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