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createandconstruct · 3 years ago

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Wait, Garland

So. I started this reply, worked on it for two hours, and then moved my window and tumblr eviscerated most of it. Safe to say after that I had to mourn what I lost for a bit. I hope I can channel my original thoughts and words! Maybe it’ll be even better? We’ll see!

Anyway let’s talk about the wrinkly genome himself. Buckle up this one’s a doozy (enjoy some required reading music that fits the man of the hour).

favorite thing about them:

His design. This all knowing watchful eye of Terra is as lifeless as he is old. His eyes are blank and empty. His face is withered. His body, without the imposing cape, is like an emancipated black skeleton, where at its center lies the only light and color of Garland’s entire form. He is entirely black and white, except for the red glowing sphere at his center. At first look when I saw it I felt that it’s very much a metaphor for the role designated to him by the Terrans. In Garland’s chest lies the red glow of Terra, the exposed ribs of his black, armorlike chest, keep it within - protecting and hiding it from the outside world of Gaia. Until the time is right. Garland is nothing more than what the Terrans made him to be. An eternal servant that takes every breath for the protection of Terra as that is the reason he was given for living. Every inch of his body was designed for such purpose. Its only right he was designed to aware like a living cage, protecting that last flickers of Terra and its souls that lie within.

On that note let’s look at his design another way. Terra’s revival is Garland’s only reason for living. Zidane questions Garland’s own wants and desires to which he can only claim they are the restoration of Terra and its souls. He has nothing except the words he was fed by the Terrans millennia ago. Garland is the true hollow shell of a man you find in the remains of Terra. He is worn, withered, and ancient. He has lived so long for one reason only, a reason that was never even his own. The light of Terra - the light of the selfish, arrogant, and greedy souls of Terra - are stuck within his opened chest, powering him like an exposed heart or soul. Terra is his power source. Garland cannot rest. He was not created to rest. He was created to follow the reasons the Terrans gave him for his existence. (I exist only to kill) Garland exists and has existed unable to find his own reason for living - Terra’s forever trapped within him. A constant reminder. On the outside, Garland has withered away through his taste of eternity, while Terra’s light has remained strong within him, still forcing, powering, and pulling him forward to the ultimate goal. Perhaps that’s why Garland is only able to voice his own thoughts in death (even calling their failures towards their planet arrogant, and reflecting positively on his chance at existence despite his purpose), after the light of Terra inside him has finally gone out and he is beyond his creators’ reach.

Though, my final, and favorite, interpretation of his design begs a question… are there truly even any Terrans left? Memories and experiences make the soul, FFIX tells us. Garland cannot take Zidane’s soul from him as his soul is no longer the power source Garland gifted him. It is the laughter, tears, and memories Zidane shared with his loved ones on Gaia. Zidane is of Gaia. He is Gaian. So then who is Terran? The genomes, even Kuja, are not of Terra. Not the true Terra, anyway. The Terra the sleeping souls tried to preserve in the face of mortality and the wasting away that comes with time. The people we see are from the planet’s remains. The true Terrans are those who know the history, who know the culture, who lived and walked and experienced the planet when it was its own, and not a parasite latched inside another. The genomes know nothing of these things. If we call them “Terrans” it’s only because they were created on the fragments that were left inside of Gaia. In reality the Genomes were finally born on Gaia, once they began to experience - began to create memories of their own. There’s a reason Terra’s water does no flow. The world we visit within Gaia is just a frozen memory of a long dead planet.

And when those sleeping souls of Terra... when they finally arise will they even be Terran? They will have no memories of the planet or crystal where they originally cycled. Even if Gaia was assimilated, they will have bodies born on the planet of Gaia, where only remains of Terra lie, from the failed merging of the crystals. Even if the crystal of Gaia turns red the memories of these new “Terrans” will be of their new planet. They will essentially be Gaian and will likely consider themselves so as there is no plan to pass down memories to these new people from Garland. Garland is restoring the Terran souls into a new cycle, as if trying to return things to how they were before Terra’s death. It’s like a child trying to get a deceased loved one to play or react to them like they always do, not understanding things will never be like that again. Garland can never truly restore Terra or the Terrans to the they were. Those people, the original Terrans, even if their souls remain, have been lost to death and time. Perhaps their memories could have been passed on much like Vivi’s at the end of the game but because they were so desperate to ensure that their “superior” life, history, culture, and race endured forever, they lost the chance to truly persevere such things by passing it down to others in the present for the future. Instead such things were lost when they tried to allow themselves to endure by erasing the life from another planet.

All this is to say that, the only true Terrans are those who hold one of their souls, who know the history, and the culture and the only such person who exists, is Garland. He is the last true Terran. The remains of Terra have been cast with the blue of Gaia’s light. The Terra we see, that we visit? That’s not Terra. Terra is gone. Only one of its people remains. And the tragedy is that while Garland says his goal is to restore Terra, he’s going about it in the wrong way. In reality, Garland, an almost immortal being, who carries the last true light of Terra within himself, always had the means to truly preserve Terra and its people’s memories: by simply sharing them with the future. Instead, the Terrans doomed Garland and their planet with their plans of grandeur and eternity. A doomed fate that follows all who attempt to escape death. Which is why it is perhaps so appropriate that when Kuja destroys the remains of Terra within Gaia it is only fitting that Garland has died along with them too.

least favorite thing about them:

Like Kuja, as an antagonist, there’s a lot to dislike about Garland, but that’s intentional. He’s a good villain, I like him. I rather mention something that kinda annoys me writing wise? Not even annoying, just something that gave me a raised brow the first time I played the game and now gives me a headache the more I think about it: Omnipresent Garland voice.

Now Garland speaking to Zidane in Memoria I can deal with. It can make sense, even though it’s not explained. He’s a timeless being who existed before the current civilization on Gaia began. You could argue through his soul experimentation and millennia existence he has found a way to keep a level of consciousness as his own soul travels to the crystal. We know the cycle of souls is slower due to the manipulation of the crystal by Garland so it makes sense his souls is traveling slowly in the cycle towards the crystal after his death, allowing him to find Zidane and chat. Its also an interesting parallel of Zidane and co. traveling through Memoria, deeper into the crystal, while Garland’s souls travels too. Memoria is almost like Garland’s 5000 year life flashing before his eyes. Until he eventually reaches the end. The void of space. Perhaps the void of death. It’s the place his voice finally leaves Zidane. Is Garland’s voice disappearing into that void an indication of him stuck in a purgatory like state? Never return to a crystal? Or perhaps that void is the end of himself (of his consciousness), as we know him, but his soul continues on like Zidane and the others do as he is accepted into the cycle of Gaia’s Crystal? Whatever the case I can deal with Garland’s bodiless voice in the end game. I like it honestly.

What bothers me a bit is Garland’s voice appearing right after Kuja kicks him off the cliff. I get it. Kuja has to feel on top of the world before he spirals and crashes. He finishes off Garland and gets to dance about in victorious glee only before Garland’s voice resounds in everyone’s heads. His presence still lingering even after death to inform Kuja of his own impending fate. But it’s still a little jarring when it happens the first time you play it. Garland falls to his death and then he’s telepathing through the force. There’s a moment of “wait he’s alive?” then “wait he’s not” and then “how’s he doing this?” It can take you out of the scene which should very much be about Kuja. This is very much a nitpick and something that can be explained away because of Garland’s character and capabilities but whenever I play I’m like oh here comes ghost Garland. Though maybe it’s better to think that Garland actually did survive the fall and as he lies dying in the abyss beneath Pandemonium, with his remaining strength, he speaks to Kuja and others in the same way Kuja speaks to Mikoto and Zidane at the end of the game. Yeah I like that. Seems I fixed my own gripe. And now the essays are over and we can get to the fun stuff.

favorite line: I have some favorite villain lines of Garland and some favorite sentimental post-Mufasa’d-Garland lines. We’ll start with villain: "Forget all that. You are destined to live among the stars for all eternity.” I love this line, it’s kinda haunting that this is not just Garland’s motive but the motive of the Terrans. I then love Zidane’s retort. Their whole back and forth is just William Shatner Shakespeare drama father vs very angry teenage theater kid son. Number 2: "Don't you know what it means to meet your maker?" Something about this line real hits home the clashing between Zidane and Garland in Pandemonium. It always stood out to me, especially the first time I played. It’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Garland. He is Zidane’s creator who was so ready to erase him with barely a snap of his fingers. As for sentimental lines, I’m predictable: “Zidane… take care of Kuja.” and “Even if I were created to serve one purpose alone, I do not regret being born to this world." Shout out to - despite my earlier ravings - Garland’s narration over the scenes in Memoria. When you encounter each memory and then get the fade to black with his objective description, it’s like the souls who have experienced each memory I talking through him. Both Terran and Gaian.

brOTP: Garland has no bros. He has no friends. Though I would have liked to see Mikoto and Garland interact. I wonder what her feelings were towards him as she was his third project, a last resort, who would easily be replaced if she went wrong in the same way Zidane replaced Kuja, and she replaced Zidane.

OTP: Garland x the eternal sleep

nOTP: Do people even ship Garland with anyone

random headcanon: I always thought that after Garland attempted to steal Zidane's soul he carried him in his arms to inside of Pandemonium and placed him in that chair. It felt disturbing and poetic to me. This idea that when Zidane is at his most vulnerable - his soul literally being pulled from his flesh - Garland, his creator, carries him away like a father would a son. Yet Garland brings Zidane to the deepest part of Pandemonium to place him on a throne where he’ll sit alone, as everything that makes Zidane, Zidane, slowly slips away. A creator - a father in some sense - drops his son into solitude never expecting Zidane’s true family to come through, reigniting Zidane’s very soul. Perhaps at that point when they come to face him, Garland already had an inclination he’d lose.

unpopular opinion: Not sure I have an unpopular one? Something I realized though is Kuja’s purple/silver/white hair may very well be his natural color as it matches Garland’s hair. I’d like to think that Kuja, as Garland’s first unique, soul-filled genome, was created in Garland’s image. Garlands also a great villain who is built up well by the entire game and he does not come out of nowhere. That may be a hot take for the non-ffix appreciators

song i associate with them: Copied City by Keigo Hoashi and of course, Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (though this piece also has a distinctly dramatic Kuja vibe as well). If Garland got his own unique boss theme I’d imagine it being something dramatically played on the organ. Though nothing fits Garland like and Mourning by Keiichi Okabe. This piece is just incredible in general but it's insanely powerful and well, mournful. (And you KNOW WHAT I just found the ARRANGED piece of mourning and hOLY ORGAN: Mourning Arranged by Sachiko Miyano. I am now adding it as required reading music for this post.)

favorite picture of them: This piece by @spoonybart is haunting. The colors and lighting form the center glow of Garland’s chest really give him the other worldly and imposing presence he has in game.

Also this art by @oeilvert Literally so incredible. It is ingrained in my experience of playing FFIX for the first time. When I got to Terra and experienced Pandemonium for the first time I went searching for art that captured my feelings and found this piece. It is perfect.

And then there’s this piece by もりもり on pixiv. I found it and can’t stop thinking about it. Absolutely incredible. It makes me wheeze whenever I see it. Garterbelt Garland. Amazing 100/10 everyone else go home.

#asks #werareallkujaandkadajstans #ffix #final fantasy ix #garland #garland ffix #final fantasy 9 #kuja #zidane tribal #feel free to send me whatever characters ya'll i will continue my essay writing #you're also now legally obligated to go give love to all that art and the artists #if you don't your soul won't cycle

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sanders1665 · 3 years ago

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Take my hand, my delicate flower, my eternal love, guide me thru a dream, gaze upon the arrival of Osiris, a God of yore, sweet memory of perpetuity. Look upon retreating shadows, butterfly's and dragonflies dance, old bridges creak and sigh heavily, smiling 'neath a blanket of jewels, surrender to sweet nostalgia, laughter echoes around corners. Fear not your fear in the Underworld, gaze within the mirror under moonlight, light the candle, let illuminated fears become your courage, the Pheonix will arise with your assent. Strangeness has a heartbeat, within decaying traditions, stay rooted my delicate flower, anticipate the Trident of Poseidon, build yourself a ship of hope. A breeze runs thru a green meadow, quaking aspen trees stand watch, humming birds taste joy, long golden hair moves like the waves, and a dragon like kite flutters. Two worlds coexist, Cherokee ghosts watch passively, out of place and time, modern times so confusing, a lamenting chant from the other side, a child sways within your eyes. Take not the prescribed medicine, ride the shell of Akupara, dance with Apollo, drink from the cup offered by Dionysus, sigh with Gaia for her crying children, run barefoot in the misty meadow. Sit aloft the creamy moon, my delicate flower shed a tear, for the jungles suffocating life, broken promises lay scattered, they can't possess you, if they can't see your presence. Return to innocence, dive within the old photograph, history is your story, bring it to evergreen life, sprinkle joy over the misery, release, reinvent, rejuvenate.

#poetry #poetscommunity #poets corner #spilled words #spilled poetry #my poem #writers and poets #writers on tumblr #poem #poets on tumblr #prose poem

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jiskblr · 3 years ago

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Commonplace Mastery: Second Shell

Roughly a sixth of the people of the Second Shell are crafters of various kinds. Masons, Joiners, Blacksmiths, Whitesmiths, Bowyers, Craters-and-Coopers, Cobblers-and-Cordwainers, Tailors, Furriers, Brewers, Bakers, Cartwrights, Shipwrights. About half of them pick up two related specialties - A cabinetmaker might also be a cartwright or a cooper, and a cobbler also a tailor or furrier. A third of crafters instead have farming (or less commonly, fishing or simple hunting) as their second skill instead of another craft. The remaining sixth of the sixth have two unrelated specialties, or know the basics of an adventuring or criminal profession. By our standards, even the journeyman are master craftsmen, able to make extraordinary work regularly. Barrels which are airtight moments after creation, stone roads where a wheel could ride a mile and feel no bump between any stone and the next. When the truly skilled can concentrate, or just work together with their peers, what can they make? Things that last for centuries, commonly.

Masons: the good roads were made hundreds or thousands of years ago and look like new. They suffer no wear and tear - it's virtually impossible to damage them except on purpose. When a powerful king or priest pays for it, they may build towers six hundred feet tall with brick and mortar, which withstand the winds and wars for decades - though usually not centuries, as they cannot hold back a dragon. (Wizards generally build their own towers, secured with magic, though the sensible among them still employ a fine mason to assist.) The finest walls and castles are less magnificent in scale, but often can stop dragonfire.

Joiners: Doors which can stop a charging bull, cabinets which repel pests, or in the very greatest cases, ones which have more space inside than out, folding boxes which can be stored at a quarter their size and still be water-tight when opened.

Blacksmiths: Shackles which can hold a ghost, swords which find their mark unbidden, horseshoes which never wear and never let the horse lame. Knives and arrowheads that never dull, plate armor that moves like leather. Blacksmithery is both the most fabled of crafts, through its swords, blades, and weapons, and the most unassuming, as the most common feature of masterful blacksmithery is something that simply will not break, even if it had an army trying.

Whitesmiths: Workers in tin, gold, silver, and other pliable metals, intricate marvels are a signature of the master whitesmith. One of the most famous creations was the bell-box of Helorion, which if opened a crack and whispered into would hold the sound inside until the next time it was opened, whispering the message in the speaker's own voice. Jewlery is a common medium for master whitesmiths, and fine engraved panels which have more apparent depth than they could fit, or which serve as powerful aids to memory about the state of the location pictured.

Bowyers: Virtually all bowyers also are fletchers, and masters are known for crafting bows with the flexible draw of a composite bow from a single piece, making arrows which fly straight and true despite strange special additions which allow them to trip, drag, or disorient those hit, and make the true greatbows which can fire nearly as far as a man can see.

Craters and Coopers: The ordinary masterwork for a cooper is to make airtight barrels and crates, but true masters can make them so tight that even time itself can only penetrate weakly; when the lid is sealed on, even raw meat will have barely aged even if opened a year later. Other tuns commissioned by brewers make the ale or spirits inside age much faster while leaving the angel's share no larger. And of course ordinary durability for things packaged for long and stormy voyages is popular.

Cobblers: Many master's boots cushion the feet so well that even if they walk a dozen miles soaked, there will not be a single blister or sore on the feet. Others making softer shoes find they slowly heal scabs and sores from the past, clean the feet and leave them healthy, even with flat feet or turned toes slowly healing to the proper shape. Some help their wearers dance, never misplacing a step, or to run through a dark wood without a trip or sprain.

Tailors: The most common features of a master's tailoring are pockets deeper and more secure than an ordinary crafter, and clothes so wondrously beautiful that they shape the view like an illusion. Certainly anything a king wears, when it is not for war, will shift its appearance in the light, seeming to move like a live thing.

Furriers: The finest works of master furriers have the same beauty of a master tailor, in many cases. More practical masterworks usually focus on the warmth and comfort of fur, managing to preserve the wearer in the cold while being no worse than a bare body in great heat, or even to assist in both heat and cold.

Brewers: Perhaps the second most legendary of masters, after the smith, fine ales, wines, and spirits can conjure to mind very specific memories, nostalgia, camaraderie, or other such mental motions. They may restore the drinker to health, wake the recently dead, induce the pain-free frenzy of a berserker, or do any of a great many things for the body. Darker tales say an evil master brewer may make a drink which is pleasant to all except one, who finds it deadly poison.

Bakers: While less notorious, master bakers have many of the same tales told of them as are of brewers. Bread which heals the wounds, strengthens the body, brings those who break it together in fellowship, sustains over a heinous journey, or recalls distant days as if they were now.

Cartwrights: One of the most visible products of master crafters in most people's life is a wandering cart; these roll back and forth along the roads connection a town to its villages, not losing speed when boarded, without a horse to pull them. The standard wandering cart is lightly enchanted by a spellcaster, providing a slight motive force that speeds it up each time it turns around, but the fundamental device is a master cartwright's work in most places. (Wizards occasionally duplicate the effect purely with magic, but they are rarer and their time precious.) Other carts may have impossibly gentle rides even on rough terrain - common for coaches - or keep heat in or out preternaturally well.

Shipwrights: Ships which cut through the water like an arrow in flight are the most common request of master shipwrights, as well as durable ships which withstand fire and monster attacks. Some are crafted for great merchants with the ability to keep all their contents stable despite high seas. Master ships like these are usually sailed for centuries, as the coordination required to make them arises only every few decades, even in the biggest shipbuilding ports.

#jisk worldbuilds #divine shells

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cno-inbminor · 4 years ago

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adsentio - stagnation

a/n: we’re back with prince!akaashi, royalty!au, extra part. i promise i was writing the wedding scene, but then it started storming pretty heavily...and my brain said, “no, Kay. it’s rainy hours. write angst. you know you want to.” and...this happened.

NOTE: for this specific scenario, it’s not 100% necessary to read ‘adsentio’, the main story. however, there are details that reference it and subsequent parts. the basic idea is: you and prince akaashi had been set up to marry since you were children, and while the both of you were against it for a while, feelings changed for the better.

summary: after a few years of being married, you find yourself firmly concluding that indeed, akaashi no longer loves you.

genre: angst!! with happy ending though. wc: ~2.9k

main story: adsentio (pt. 1) | bonus letters (pt. 1.5) | the masque (pt. 2)

Whenever torrents of rain cascade over the kingdom, down the vine-ridden castle walls and pattering upon the lake, many will pause in their tasks and gaze out the nearest windowpane. Thunder may rumble and lightning may strike, yet everyone registers the same twist in their stomachs. An unease lies beneath their skin; a chill that wickedly summons horripilation. In an effort to battle the shadows, fires begin to roar, one by one through the castle. Aches and pains arise in bodies as the masses wait with bated breath for the rainbow to appear as it always does.

Smoke floats through the chimneys and taints the air, evident by the wisps of gray and onyx. Yet they are unnoticed and in stealth on this dreary night where everyone must succumb to the understanding that there will be no rainbow. The controller of the tides will peak above the midnight clouds and attempt to shine, but never strong enough to guide the nightly travelers.

Even with the tamed inferno in the chambers, a puff of visible air leaves your lips. Your hands clasp tightly together, your fingers intertwining with each other in your lap as you sit in front of your vanity. Raindrops beat against the glass of the balcony doors, glistening in their trail towards the ground. Yet as soon as they fall onto stone, the drop shatters and colors the surface. It paints and paints until the blemishes appear and the imperfections glare towards the skies.

Jewels sit heavy on your figure, your crown resting on a cushion atop your vanity. But in this moment, nothing weighs more than the wedding ring on your left hand. It’s crushing, suffocating; it burns a print and imprisons your appendage, reminding you of unspoken promises ghosted against your ear. The gems hold decades of memories, being passed down from queen to future queen, and you wonder if any of them proceeded with what you plan on doing.

Akaashi had entered the room as smooth as a serpent, silent like a zephyr. Your only warning of his presence is the raised hairs on the back of your neck, your body tensing just as his hands placed themselves on your shoulders from behind. Another breath is drawn from your lungs as he peers into the mirror at you, the faintest expression of happiness drawn from his lips. But it’s lifeless. It’s the one he reserves for meetings and pleasantries, for when he disagrees with his father but has no choice to comply. His eyes are darkened with death and dissatisfaction, and has been for almost two weeks now.

His brows only marginally furrow with concern at your lack of reaction, how you seem to be looking past him. Your own expression comes off as solemn yet nervous, as if you’ve committed a grave sin.

“Is anything wrong, my dear?” He asks gently, watching carefully.

Your lips purse as you turn your head towards the hand on your right shoulder. They no longer provide the warmth and comfort that they did so many years ago, but only serve to freeze your soul and weave together the insecurities that you had painstakingly unraveled. Akaashi continues to gaze at you in silence as you stand from your seat, wordlessly beckoning for him to take your place. With guarded hesitation, he does as you say. Instead of standing behind him as he did you, you instead take the space on his right, facing his side profile. Feeling unnerved, he turns to face you rather than his own reflection.

In times of vulnerability, you have always struggled to find your footing, to feel that you are powerful. You believe there is a strength in possessing self-awareness and having the ability to convey those thoughts to someone who cares and knows. Just because you feel small in the moment does not mean you must be small. You can tower over the other person as you do now, forcing your prince to lift his chin to speak to you.

“You are unhappy,” you whisper ruefully.

“I don’t…I don’t understand,” he fibs, his eyes wavering as he directs his gaze away from yours. In that brief moment of eye contact, you had seen the show end, but the curtains lifted, the gears turning and unveiling his chaotic despair.

“You cannot lie to me, milord. And only you are incapable of doing so with me.”

He lets out an arduous sigh and slouches his back, a pose of defeat and exhaustion. A dagger twists his heart at the title, but his reticence allows you to continue.

“I can only imagine that there have been many women in my position before, where they must continue to rule with locked lips and the key thrown. There must have been many who were as hopeful as me, and yet as time aged us, we had to turn the other way and simply learn to accustom ourselves to the new surroundings. With how long we have known each other, I know almost everything about you. To most, you may only have a few sitting postures. But to me, you have tens. Each little movement indicates something different, something you happen to be thinking or feeling at that moment. It’s ingrained into my brain by sheer force and repetition, and I’m beginning to wish I was more oblivious. Perhaps, then, I would at least have been a happy fool, content with my misguided beliefs.”

“What are you trying to say?” He enquires as he dares to face you again. With regret, loss, and grief, he watches as your eyes begin to shine with tears and the most bittersweet smile on your face begin to form.

“You no longer love me.

“And I have no objection to that,” you continue, raising a hand to stop any of his interjections. “I should have known that you would eventually tire and wish for what I had voiced all those years ago: some freedom, some choice. As much as you had convinced yourself that marrying me was unequivocally your free will, you no longer believe it. All of your interactions with me scream so, and I have no intentions to attempt to convince you otherwise. Doing so would be hypocritical of me. So for now,” you pause, looking down at your hands while catching your breath.

Akaashi can hear the tremble of your lungs over the crack of thunder and the beating of the heavens. But everything deafens when your right hand hovers over your left ring finger. They hesitate and shake, reaching then reclining, before grasping the ornate band and slowly, lamentably removing it. You then extend a hand to gently grasp one of his, placing the piece of jewelry in his open palm, then curling his fingers closed around it.

“For now, I shall return this to you. You may do as you wish, as I will not stop you. Perhaps…we were not lucky enough for love.”

You sleep with your back to him that night, unwilling to face him when only mere inches exist between you two. You miss how Akaashi turns to face your back, how his arm tentatively reaches to wrap around your waist before pulling back, and can only slip into his dreams when counting the strands of your hair.

“The Prince urgently requests that you meet him in the library, Your Highness.”

“Now?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“Very well, I shall be there shortly,” you sigh, your turning away signaling the messenger’s dismissal. Your head bends down to take one last look at the embroidery in your lap, your fingers finishing some last few stitches for an appropriate stopping point. Fingers cautiously smooth the wrinkles of your day dress, and you take one last deep breath.

The journey to the library is painstakingly laborious, as though each step you made had been done with shackles around your ankles. There is a weight to the sound of your heels clicking against the ground. Maids and butlers shuffle past you with heads bowed, though you seem to deep in a trance to observe.

Much of the energy and power that you felt you had exuded those nights ago had soon dissipated from your body. Your body resembles an empty shell, devoid of a plan to stand on your feet and continue with your normal activities. Your left ring finger screams into the numbing void, the missing weight almost bearing its own scarlet letter. You stayed in your room as much as possible, requesting meals to be delivered to the chambers. Akaashi nearly always needed to be away, taking care of kingdom affairs in preparation for his inevitable ascension to the throne. The only times you were ever near him were in the mornings and nights. You understood he was allowing some space for you, yet to request your presence…

Soon, you stand in the doorway of the royal library, the wooden entrance left ajar. The space acts as a safe haven for anyone in the castle; you gently press it open with the pad of your fingers. Hundreds of books on shelves line the walls with a few tables and lounging couches, yet it is eerily empty. Typically, there would be another person climbing one of the ladders to reach a high book, but even those are gathering dust for now.

Akaashi is in the farthest corner by the window, small stacks of bound journals and novels on almost every available space of the surface. He stands tall by the glass, looking out towards the gardens with his hands clasped behind his back. You take this moment of his oblivion to appreciate the back of the man before you, choking back and battling the agonizing twist of your heart. It is a moment you feel that you no longer deserve, but whatever it may be, the matter seems far less urgent than what the butler had told you.

You near him and clear your throat, the noise causing him to spin on his heels. He looks somewhat taken aback, but quickly composes himself as you curtsy. “I am here, Your Highness. I was told you had urgent matters to discuss.”

Akaashi sighs somewhat before sitting in the chair, beckoning you to come closer to the desk. His complexion seems pale and almost gaunt, and in turn, you frown. Was he not sleeping? Or eating? Has his father been putting too much pressure on his shoulders?

“I must confess,” he begins softly and refuses to meet your eyes. “The matter isn’t as urgent as I made it out to be. But I wanted to see you as soon as possible as it is still important and does concern you.”

“Did I…do something wrong?”

“Of course not,” he immediately denies, taking a hasty glance towards you before turning back to the books on the desk. “If anything…I am the one who has wronged you, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me,” he continues, his voice trailing towards the end of his confession. The desperation for forgiveness and repentance drown his words until they are all you can feel, yet you were so unsure of why he was seeking those. Did he pity you? Your emotions?

“I believe there is no reason to forgive you, as there is nothing you should feel sorry for,” you say stiffly, hands subtly wringing together.

“I must concur,” he kindly retorts. “Here, please have a look at this.”

He hands you a journal from the top of a stack, encouraging for you to take it. The leather feels aged and worn, but it is one you recognize from many, many years ago.

‘You could consider it a memoir.’

“Open it, please. And read what’s inside it.”

With a curious look, you unwind the ties and peel back the cover. The first page holds nothing, but when you turn the yellowing parchment, familiar handwriting greets you. A date sits in the top right corner, marking it a little less than a year before your eighteenth birthday.

‘I must say, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a letter from the princess. In my mind, she would have better things to attend to than to reply to me. After all, we both have our own duties, and in addition to hers, she must be attending some of her father’s meetings. I cannot deny the fact that my heart began to race swiftly when I saw her signature at the bottom of the letter. Even in her writing, I could hear her voice in my head, reading it the same way as if she were speaking to me. How I long for the summer months to quickly come.’

The beginning entry ends there, but as you thumb through the other pages rapidly, they are filled with his writing in neat, onyx ink. You begin to recall the days when you both were here in this very room, him scribbling away as you read your subject of interest. Your eye the other similar-looking journals and he confirms your unspoken questions.

“They’re all about you,” he smiles, though it seems sad and apologetic. “As you can see, I filled quite a few journals over the many years, but…unfortunately, as I grew busier, I was unable to write as much. When you said those words to me that night,” – a grimace on his complexion – “I couldn’t believe myself. Did I truly not love you anymore? At first, I struggled to find an answer…until a few days ago. I have spent much of my time reading through these pages, seeing what I have written.”

“You read…all of these? There must be almost twenty journals here,” you say in a mixture of disbelief and awe.

“I couldn’t quite put them down, I must admit. Some of my best work, perhaps.”

He stands from his seat and walks around the desk until he’s in front of you. Those pools of cobalt blue still find it difficult to meet your own eyes – they swim with contemplation and hesitation, but a sheet of determination soon clouds them. After you recognize that, he grasps your left hand with both of his and kneels on one knee, his forehead bowed down onto your knuckles either out of embarrassment or absolute respect.

“Keiji, what are you—”

“I was wrong. I had been so wrapped up in my own affairs that I failed to look after you as I had promised at the altar. I neglected you and unwittingly led you to believe that I no longer loved you. You do not deserve such a foolish man, so ignorant to forget how good you are to me, how there can be no other woman because you are my perfect match. I have been reminded of all the reasons of why I love you, and I swear on my existence that I love you more than I ever have.

Yet the truth is, I shouldn’t need to be reminded. You should never need to question my loyalty to you, and for that…I can only give my deepest apologies,” his voice trails to a volume so soft, yet so shaky with remorse. “The regret that I feel can’t even begin to hold a light to the pain that you must have kept bottled inside you, where you kept the cork in for as long as possible as to not burden me. I have failed you, and I will spend the rest of our days correcting my wrongs. In this very moment,” he pauses, inhaling a deep but quivering breath.

“I desperately and humbly request of you to give me this one last chance, to prove that I can be the man you deserve. I am begging you, my future queen, to forgive me.”

Your breath hitches with the last statement.

A prince never begs.

Yet he was here to lay it all out for you, imploring that you stand by his side, again, in more ways than one.

“Please rise, Your Highness,” you call out softly, your hand reaching out to try lifting his chin and meet his gaze.

He stubbornly shakes his head. “Not unless you give me your answer.”

“Keiji, you don’t need—”

“Your answer. Please,” he beseeches with the last word, breath held. You know that when Akaashi becomes insistent, he never backs down yet somehow still allowing the other person to have a choice in the say. No thinking needed to be done, as your answer should be quite obvious.

“How could I ever refuse you, Keiji?” You tease softly with a smile.

Since the first moment he had kneeled before you, he looks up to see your face. Unshed tears glisten from the sun’s rays streaming through the glass. Your words are more than enough for him to stand on both feet again, soon wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head into your shoulder. These acts of affection are only a small portion of what you had sorely missed, and you were counting on Akaashi to fulfill his vow.

“You are everything to me,” he breathes unsteadily into your neck. “And I will make certain that you never forget this, even after we pass.”

“I can trust you?”

“Yes. I promise.”

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cyberjack · 4 years ago

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I know I'm a cpl yrs late, but finally got to watch all 4 parts of ARISE ( Pain, Whispers, Tears and Stand Alone) + Ghost in the Shell: The New Movie (anime). Waiting for the 2nd half of SAC_2045 on Netflix.

#Ghost in the Shell #Major Motoko Kusanagi #The Major #Batou #Togusa #Ishikawa #Saito #Paz #Borma #Motoko Kusanagi #Section 9 #reimagined

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sleeplessincairo · 4 years ago

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[ three ]

pairings: james buchanan barnes x reader

warnings: undescriptive smut, ptsd, anxiety, sobbing.

summary: 3AM encounters with bucky barnes and the presence of the number 3 in your growing relationship

a/n: this was inspired by my love for cristina & owen. considering making a part 2.

tell me what you think. would be greatly appreciated.

///

James Buchanan Barnes was a ghost.

He was only seen when he wanted to be seen. One minute he was there and the next, he was gone. Vanished. It made you question science and your sanity, it was as if he was able to dissolve into the very air itself and move with the wind-Or maybe he was never there in the first place.

Bucky was alert and vigilant like he was waiting for an attack or a sign of danger, never showing weakness and ease. He was precise in his movements; never faltering, swift and quick as if he was 10 steps ahead of you and had you beat in every possible outcome. He was self-sufficient; he could infiltrate bases and extract information without the help of his fellow teammates nor any arising problems-You could see why HYDRA wanted to create more of him.

Even in the safety and comfort of the compound, Bucky’s distant and guarded demeanor never wavered.

‘Hellos’, ‘Good mornings’, and well, talking were as foreign to Bucky as the first air that slipped into his lungs when he came out of cryo sleep. It was a luxury he had grown to live without many years ago in a place where the only sound he could ever release was one so agonizingly loud it pierced the air even through the cloth the HYDRA doctors stuffed in his mouth. And now, he was left in the hollow shell of the man he used to be. All he could bring himself to do was observe, never participate.

Bucky refused to train, spar, eat, and hell, even talk to the rest of team-Other than Steve and Sam-during the previous weeks since he had joined, he never attended meetings or briefings, and he rarely left his room-And when he did, you never saw him despite being in the room across of him. You never heard the squeak of his door as he slipped out of his room at 3 AM to train alone, you never heard the sound of his footsteps as he walked down the corridor to sneak food out of the fridge, you never heard the muffled screams he let out at night as he felt familiar spirits of leather-bound around his wrists and ankles and white-hot electricity surging through his body, which is why you were startled when you heard the sound of glass breaking coming from your ghost of a neighbor’s room.

You took your gun with you. Just in case.

You knocked on his door three times, each knock harder than the other while the sound of your voice, uttering his name in a persistent and questioning manner, slipped through the crack of his bedroom door. Your mind started to run with worst-case scenarios that included kidnappings, intruders, murder, HYDRA agents, and many other things that should not be thought of at 3 AM.

Nonetheless, those thoughts pushed you into taking a deep breath and wrapping your hand around the cold metal door handle, and opening the door.

You don’t know what you expected to see, but it sure as hell wasn’t the former HYDRA agent in a fetal position, head dug deep into his knees and surrounded by shards of mirror and a small pool of his own blood.

You cussed lowly under your breath and rushed to him, careful not to step on any of the shards and press your knees to the ground to get a closer look at him.

“James, I need you to look at me.” You examine your surroundings. There are no signs of a break-in or assault-Other than what was done to the mirror, which you deduced was probably done by James himself judging by the force it must have taken to completely break the mirror and the blood leaking from his flesh hand.

“James,” The repetition of his name made no effect or change in his position, and you contemplated touching him and shaking him out of this trance, before mentally waving it off.

“You need to come with me to the medbay, that’s a pretty nasty cut on your hand,” You pursed your lip at the lack of movement or response and came to terms that he was not leaving this room.

God, Steve chose the worst day to go on an undercover mission in another goddamn continent.

You let out an exasperated sigh, weighing your options before deciding to walk towards the bathroom and take out a first aid kit.

Looks like you had to do this yourself.

“James, I need to clean your wound. I’m going to touch your hand, okay?” You searched his body for any signs of consent, “Look, I’m just going clean and bandage it, then I’ll be out of your hair. I promise.” You sucked in a deep breath and closed your eyes for a few seconds.

“Please.” Maybe it’s the way your voice was laced with exhaustion and impatience, maybe it was the realization that dawned on him where you’d probably end up bringing the team to his room or calling Steve, or maybe it was because he knew you’d never give up even if it took all night. Because that’s who you are. You were always known for caring too much.

Bucky looks up at you, glacier cold eyes red and puffy as salty drops cascaded down his cheekbones and off his chin. Despite the tears on his face glistening in the light, sadness bouncing into the atmosphere, his facial expression was still hard and cold, his eyes were the palest blue glass, too soft to be turquoise, too bright to be baby blue. An innocent shade.

But oh, innocence was nothing but a stranger to him.

You cleared your throat, “I’m going to touch your hand, is that okay?” He licked his lip, tasting the saltiness of a stray tear before reluctantly placing his flesh hand on your knee. The bleeding had already stopped so you picked up the rubbing alcohol, the smell tickling your nostrils uncomfortably, and poured a decent amount of it on the wound.

He didn’t even wince.

You cleaned and bandaged his wound, even cleaned up the broken shards of glass and blood surrounding him while Bucky remained still throughout it all, keeping his eyes fixated on the marble floor tiles and leaning his back against the wall.

“Hey,” You said softly, sliding your back against the wall and sitting next to him, staring at the spot he’s looking at, “It’s okay. When I say, ‘One, two, three.’ forget it. Erase all the sad memories. Just hold my hand and smile. Even if it’s temporary, okay?” You give him a weak smile that he probably doesn't even see.

But he does. From the corner of his eye.

You inhale, “One.”

You exhale, “Two.” He slips his hand into yours.

“Three.”

____________

It was a particularly bad mission. You had lost 2 SHIELD agents that accompanied you and the team, barely making it out with your lives and almost all of you coming back with injuries that your body would throb with for the next weeks. It was supposed to be a simple extraction mission, in-and-out, but there were more enemy agents than you had originally expected and it ended up being a trap set by HYDRA, and before you knew it, you were ambushed.

The whole thing was a blow.

The Avengers were fatigued and lethargic, they wanted nothing more than to crash on their soft beds, but the mission left more than a few physical injuries, and sleep seemed to be the furthest thing from all of your minds. You all ended up in the kitchen, drowning your sorrows in alcohol and shwarma in silence-Except for Wanda, who had the stomach flu, and Bucky, who hadn’t joined the mission per Steve’s request due to still-fresh wounds that hadn’t quite healed yet.

“Hand me a shot of tequila.” You groaned to Tony, leaning your head on the cool marble exterior of the counter and sitting on the stool that accompanied three other empty ones.

“I’ll take one, too.” Sam trudged his body onto the stool beside you, wincing once he sat down-Poor guy was captured and tortured during the mission before Steve and Nat managed to get to him.

Steve followed him and sat on the stool next to him, rubbing his temples before mumbling a ‘Me too’ eventhough alcohol did not affect him.

Tony was about to retort with something about financing the team and being the bartender, before Bucky came inside the kitchen, stopping slightly at the sight of The Avengers all wide awake in the kitchen instead of in your beds at 3 AM.

Bucky usually tried his best to avoid spending time with more than 2 members of the team, even so, that he made sure to leave his room after midnight so there'd be a less likely chance of running into too many people. He had been avoiding group training sessions, parties, and eating out of his room for the past month, and so he couldn’t stop the feeling of anxiety creeping up his throat and regret coming into the kitchen.

This is why Bucky never ate outside of his room.

“Hey Buck, thought you’d be training room right now. Join us, will ya’?” The blond super soldier said, smiling fondly at the ex-assassin before motioning for him to sit on the last remaining stool next to you.

The previous encounter between you and Bucky remained unspoken of and neglected, but not forgotten, it was a wordless agreement made between the both of you that you both wouldn't dare mention.

He didn't even tell Steve.

“Lucky for you, we’re all sulky and grouchy tonight so you'll fit right in.” Tony chirped, taking a swig of vodka and turning towards Natasha and Clint for a change of scenery that did not include the man that murdered his parents.

Bucky cleared his throat and contemplated turning around, and walking out of the room but the sad and tired look on Steve’s face expelled the need for the company of an old friend-Even if he wouldn't talk-and dragged himself over to the stool next to you.

It didn't take long for the three of you to get lost in a meaningless conversation while Bucky observed, often pausing to laugh at something that wasn't really funny, then stopping himself short, bobbing his head down, eyes moving quickly from one side of the corridor to the other. He would smile swiftly in a way that was sadder than tears, his true age starting to show in the way he slouched and the lack of light in his blue eyes.

The hum of conversation in the room did nothing to block the sound of Bucky’s heart beating, accelerating at a faster rate each second, and buzzing in his mind as they started to race, his thoughts scattering like there’s an electrical storm, too many short-circuits to make any sense.

You take notice of the frozen panic that settles in his chest in the way his breathing turns ragged as he restlessly continues to glance at the door, thinking about making a run for it.

“James,” You say in a low voice, careful for the others not to hear you, “You need to busy your mind, you need something to ground you.” You start looking around the room for anything he can focus on, anything he can hold on to mentally, anything to keep him from the panic creeping up his throat.

“Alright, look, count the inner pads in your hands,” You slowly hold his hand, placing it on your thigh and start moving his thumb to touch the inner pads separated by the wrinkled lines of each finger, and start counting. You smile to yourself when you feel his hand relax on your thigh and his breathing slowly settling into an almost steady rate.

The night continues in a blur of lowly uttered ‘threes’, soft breathing, and grazed fingers transforming into fingers entwined together in a gentle holding of hands.

Bucky decides to stop eating in his room.

__________

“Hey,” You smile, leaning against the wall of the training room admiring the view of Bucky as he hit the punching bag, each punch falling rival to the previous one. The dim lights in the training room made him look like a shadow, each muscle on his body flowing from the light into the dark and each time he moved, a bead of sweat trickled and glistened in the light.

Bucky turned to look at you, narrowing his eyes at you but letting the smallest tug of a smile play on his lips. You took notice of his bleary eyes, slightly bloodshot, resulting from days of not being to sleep, eyes that grow with the stars in the night sky, accompanied by dark crescents under his eyes, and stay until the light of day. The stubble on his face had grown longer and rougher, the hairs scattering from his jawline to the middle of his neck. His stance was loose, less alert, more rash, like he was trying to tire himself out rather than actually train. It was obvious he hadn't had a good night’s sleep in a long time.

“Let me guess, nightmares?” You inquired, smiling sympathetically when you saw his head move in a slow vertical manner.

On good days Bucky'd get three hours, on bad days two. He'd wake up as soon as sleep came, always as fast as if a gunshot had sounded, heart beating fast and breathing as if he'd just surfaced from deep water.

Today was a bad one-The past few days really. His mind was plagued with thoughts that he had tried so hard to push down, only for them to sink into him completely.

“C’mere,” You motioned to the cushioned bench on the other side of the room, “So,” There was a slight hesitance to which you wondered if it would sound silly to an ex-assassin before waving the thought away, “There was this thing my mother used to do when I was a kid.”

He follows you to the bench, his focus on your words unfaltering, “It was to keep the nightmares away,” You let out a light chuckle, leaning your back against the wall as your mind filled with bright memories of your childhood.

“It was like this...I don't know this hymn or chant that she’d repeat three times.” You turned to look at him, searching for any sign of mockery and grinned when you found none, “Maybe it was because I was a child, but it seemed to do the trick and what have ya’ got to lose?” You shrugged.

“She’d be so disappointed if I at least didn't try, so,” You paused, pursing your lips into a thin line, “Do you mind?”

Bucky wiped his hands in the material of his shorts and nodded before looking down and taking a deep breath. You put your hand on the sides of his head, making him look at you and giving him a reassuring smile before dragging his head onto your lap and putting your hands a few inches in the air above it.

You took a deep breath and moved your hands in a motion that resembled digging a hole in the air before he grabbed your wrist tightly, his eyes burning. He’d seen that move multiple times, he'd seen Wanda do it when manipulating opponents, he'd heard of how she manipulated Tony into creating Ultron, how she managed to bring Natasha Romanoff, one of the Red Room’s best assassins, to her knees, how Wanda triggered the Hulk into destroying a city and killing hundreds. Bucky’s mind immediately wandered to a futile tussle of conflicting thoughts, to the manipulation and brainwashing he experienced, the feeling of his mind-

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Your pained voice snapped him out of it, making him dart his eyes to your wrist and how it had turned red in the steel grip of his metal arm, “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” Your eyes pleaded with him and he reluctantly let go of your arm, silently cursing himself when he saw your rub it in pain.

You cleared your throat, going back to your original position and started the tune, “Bad dreams, bad dreams go away,” The digging movement started momentarily before replacing it with throwing the air over your right shoulder, “Good dreams, good dreams,” The movement of your hands switched from digging to smooth pushes that resembled a wave hitting the shore, “Here to stay.” You sighed, flattening the air with your hands and repeating the tune and movements another 2 times.

And maybe its the fact that all the memories he had of you so far were all so bright in the darkness of his mind, maybe it was the fact that your voice was so damn soothing and reassuring the kind that was made for lullabies and soft laughs, or maybe it was the fact that it was 3 AM and he’d been living on 7 hours of sleep in the past 4 days and his body just couldn’t take it anymore but he can’t fight the way his eyes lids get heavy. Bucky feels the shuttering of my synapses, the quite lure into sleepiness. His head lolls and the muscles of his face relax as each limb becomes heavy and his heart slows to a more peaceful beat, releasing the tension of the past 4 days.

___________________

Bucky doesn't remember how it happened or how he let it happen, but one minute he was fighting HYDRA agents, and the next he felt thousands of bolts of electricity flowing through him and the feeling of him being dragged into a vehicle before everything went black.

Luckily, Natasha had intercepted one of their walkie talkies and the familiar Russian language talking about Prisoner #56898 being moved for transport and commed the rest of the team. Sam flew to the sky with Steve in his arms before spotting the truck and intercepting it.

Bucky was safe, but he was not okay.

The trip back was quiet and troublesome. It had been 2 hours since Sam and Steve had brought Bucky back to the helicarrier, and he still had not woken up. You all considered the possibility of him being drugged or poisoned, but you wouldn't be able to tell until you reached the compound-You couldn't even touch him, in case he was infected with something so he was kept in the cell Loki was kept in when the Avengers first assembled.

“Still not awake?” You walked up to the blond super-soldier who monitoring him from the other side of the glass.

He gave you a small nod, slightly wincing which made you notice the blood seeping from his forehead, “Woah there Rogers, you're bleeding.” As always, Y/N, stating the obvious,

You reached up to touch the garish red staining his sun-soaked hair, “You’ve gotta get that checked out. You might have a concussion.” He looked at you, his eyes conflicted but still settled for a quiet, “I can’t just leave him.”

He runs his hands through his blood-stained hair, “Sam and I almost didn't make it in time, he could've been taken and-”

“But you did, and he’s still here.” You put your hand on Steve’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, before he winces once more and raises his hand to hold his shoulder in an attempt to soothe it.

“Steve, you have multiple injuries. It’s 3 AM, we won't land for another 3 hours. You’re exhausted and injured. Standing here won't make him wake up any sooner. Just go get checked out, maybe take a nap or eat something. You look like shit,” You joked-In all seriousness though, he did look like shit-earning a chuckle out of him, “I’ll keep watch him until you get back, alright?” You give him a reassuring smile, and a silent ‘I promise’ with your eyes.

He hesitates, weighing his options and whether or not he should just push through the pounding in his head but realized he had to go check on Clint anyway, who had also suffered from a few injuries. Steve mumbles a low ‘okay’ and trudges out of the room.

You lean against the wall facing the glass separating you from Bucky and take out your phone to type in the mission report. You didn't have to turn it in until tomorrow, but you thought you might as well start it now.

You had just about made it to to the part, that people at SHIELD always loved to see, where you type ‘Despite complications that the team eventually surpassed, the mission was successful’ and suddenly, you heard a scream pierce the air in an uproar of pain from behind the glass, jolting you up from your sitting position and towards the source.

Bucky’s eyes split open. At first all that surrounded him was silence, a misty haze upon the horizons of his mind until memories of what happened came rushing in from falling off the freight car to the white-hot electricity that shot through his body more times than he could count. And before he knew it, he was plunged into scattered thoughts, replays of horrors once forgotten, and suddenly his breathing goes shallow and wheezy, lungs unable to move against suddenly concrete-heavy ribs. The panic starts like a constriction in the chest, as if the muscles are trying not to let another breath in, but instead to die.

The scream tore through Bucky like the shard of glass that pierced his hand not so long ago. He felt my eyes widen and pulse quicken, his heart thudding like a rock rattling in a box. The blood drained from his face before he was even aware of making a conscious decision his legs were pounding furiously against the cool pale floor and towards the monster he saw looking straight at him in the glass wall in front of him.

Himself.

You yelled his name like your life depended on it, pounding on the glass as you watched him scream, punch, scratch, and claw at the wall with his head, hands, nails in a massacre of blood, shouting, skin, and metal.

Bucky heard the sound of a pair of feet against the floor, the sound of a passcode being entered, the sound of shouting-The throat-scratching yelling of a familiar voice, or maybe that was just him. He couldn't tell. Not when the world turned into a blur of color that melted into red, like a sunset. All the taste, the smell, the feeling, the sounds melted into nothing but a fiery, sizzling hot, flaming, scorching hot, bold, garish scarlet red.

He felt his heart play push-and-shove in the deepness of his heart. It pulled back in like a yo-yo. Over and over. In and out. Until he was hollow, his life crumbling in his fingertips and rumbling into an earthquake with every punch against the glass-Now stained with his blood.

And then, suddenly, Y/N was there, wrapping her arms around him, restraining him and reaching into his hollowness in a series of mumbled ‘You are okay’s, ‘Everything is fine’s, ‘You are safe’s, ‘Breathe, James, breathe’s, ‘I got you’s, ‘Hold my hand’s, ‘Look at me’s, ‘I am here’s, and other three worded sentences as you squeeze him tighter, ignoring his thrashing body and waiting for his oxytocin levels to increase.

Bucky's last remaining thread of strength unraveled before completely tearing, sending him plummeting over the edge and into the darkness. Hysterical sobs shook his once-so-rigid frame, threatening to rip him apart from the inside. The sobs punched through, ripping through her muscles, bones, and guts as he fought to reclaim control over his body, shocked by the howls of misery that escaped from deep within his chest.

You held him in silence, rocking him slowly as he sobbed into your chest unceasingly, hands gripping at your arms like you were the only thing gravitating him from flying away, whispering a prayer-like mantra of ‘three, three, three’ over and over again.

It’s the first time you ever heard his voice.

__________________

It’s 3 AM when you knock on his door the next day three times as you did oh, so long ago, but instead of letting yourself in, you’re welcomed by the familiar face of James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s 3 AM when you inquire about whether he’s feeling better and he gives you a warm smile and small nod, before inquiring if you’d like to come inside. He had a box of pizza that he hadn’t yet finished.

It’s 3 AM when the pizza’s all finished, and there’s a thrum and purr of friendly conversation-Mostly you talking and him releasing a few words and comments here and there, still getting used to the sound of his voice-but beneath the talk was the gentle, admiring gaze of their eyes and the relaxed nature of their faces.

And then its still 3 AM and he’s kissing you, parting your lips when he brushes his tongue against your bottom lip, wordlessly asking for an entrance. It’s a slow, sybaritic dance of lips and tongue, your lips are 2 dancers, moving against each other like they’re sashaying through the melody. It’s a slow and soft kiss, comforting in ways that could never be verbally shown.

Bucky’s hand rests below your ear, his thumb caressing your cheek as your breaths mingled. You ran your fingers down his spine, tugging him closer until the space between the both of you was eradicated and you could feel the beating of his heart against your chest. Your bodies molded perfectly against each other like you were made for each other, made to sink into one another, made to drown in the thick air filling his room with pure longing, expelling from the both of you-So lost in the moment, you don't even notice when you knock the clock off the table, shattering it,

And before the both of you can realize what’s happening, you're naked and you’re exhaling a gasp when you feel the cool exterior of his Vibranium arm venturing your body, his hands working their way, feeling each crevasse, taking their time to map every curve and dip your body as it moves, slow and sweet like honey, against his body. You feel his hand enter from below, skin and metal colliding in an earth-shattering sensation, moans and sighs exhaled into each others’ mouths, your hands tangled in his hair playing a game of push-and-shove, and suddenly, he can't get enough of you.

You were intoxicating.

Bucky drinks you in, he drinks in your scent, he drinks in the sounds you make, he drinks in the softness of your lips on his skin, he drinks in the warmth that radiates off the soft-kissed spots that slowly spread throughout the rest of your body, he drinks in your body’s response as picks you apart with his tongue, fingers, and the stretching of your walls as he enters you, changing your breathing with every thrust, hearing your moans timed to his body until he feels you tremble underneath you and in a breathless howl, his brain lighting up in places he thought were abandoned years ago and his body is shaking with sheer bliss.

____________

You awake to hands, that held you so tenderly and savoringly mere hours before, wrapped around your neck tightly, robbing the oxygen from your lungs-No doubt leaving scars more permanent than the ones that would stain your skin in the coming days and remind you of the way your body thrashed and writhed in his hands, the way you gasped out his name continuously no longer done in euphoria, the way your hands pulled and pushed and scratched at his hands, hair, face, and back no longer done in pleasure, the way his body fell limp beside you no longer done in the result of the comedown of a groundbreaking high, but instead because of a nearby lamp being pulled from its socket and smashing it against his skull three seconds before you pass out.

The shattered clock on the floor stuck on 3:53 AM.

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morganhopesmith1996 · 2 months ago

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If I had to pick a favorite episode from Ghost in the Shell Arise I would probably haft to pick Ghost Tears and the runner up would be Pyrophoric Cult

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tosikoarts · 4 years ago

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SFW Alphabet | Mail Jeevas

Let me know if you want alphabet for Near as well. You can check tosikowrites tag for more! Warning: there’s a lot under the cut.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

For Matt, being affectionate is as natural as breathing. You can’t call him over-the-top, his love is immature like he just got first teenage crush, and therefore it is difficult to predict his thoughts. In the beginning, awkwardness can slip through accidental hands touch or misplaced kisses. He giggles a lot to cover insecurities and it kinda works.

At the same time he tends to hesitate when things are about to get intimate. New experiences overwhelm him. If relationship seems to develop too quickly, Matt will subtly slow them down without making a fuss.

Won’t ever let his loved one go to bed in tears. It cuts him deeply as a friend and a partner to see his favorite person suffering. Of course, Matt lacks a bachelor degree in psychology, but he knows how to use active listening skills: he actually gives them space to speak their mind, makes pauses when necessary, and asks questions to hear the answers and not to simply imitate a concern.

One of the ways to show affection is to introduce loved one to his friends. We are talking not about a casual “this is name1, this is name2” but a special bond establishing, where everybody is treated with the same respect, trust, each person plays a specific role. Matt basically builds small “family” of closest people, ride-or-die gang from photos on which you see comments like “I wish I had friends like that”.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Matt is the type of friend you never knew you needed in your life. It is easy to overlook his quiet persona so you the only way you can meet him is through mutual friends during DnD session, night out in the arcade, etc.

He speaks the language of memes and irony and ironic memes, which he will send the second he sees something you would be interested in. Sharing is caring, so Matt will introduce you to anything he finds even a little bit entertaining. Friendship with this guy involves a lot of inside jokes that are completely incomprehensible to unenlightened people around.

Chill aura follows Matt everywhere he goes and you will experience its miraculous effects as well. Problems do not exist in his plan of reality, any extreme negative emotions do not either. It may be strange at first but later you crave his presence and stability that comes with it. In short, wholesome person in a grungy shell.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

The miserable situation in which person is truly snuggble (is it even a word?) but has to be in specific mood for it. Matt turns into panda, wrapping his limbs around the partner’s body, today but keeps it modest with only his head lying on their lap next day. He has a bad habit of nestling to the loved one after smoking weed so a sickly sweet smell imprints on their clothes, hair, and whatever he touches.

Without ongoing conversation, Matt starts dozing in a few minutes. His embrace turns into a bear trap, and poor soul, who was (un)lucky enough to get caught, has low chances to escape.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

I mean, mentally he is already settled down with his console and Mello? Yes, that sound like him, there’s a good chance Matt would want to have nice comfy life with the loved one. He can’t cook for shit and is an incorrigible slob but, boi, he will try to make their home the coziest nest out here. He will try really hard to be better cook and keep house clean when domesticity hits him.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Matt is a mess. His heart drops when a thought of break-up arises in the mind. He even starts to think that ghosting isn’t that cruel and there’s nothing craven in breaking-up through message. This would deprive him from the sight of them crying at least. After much hesitation, Matt will meet with them close to their house to explain what was on his mind lately. Despite how it goes, he’s filled with unpleasant feeling of betrayal.

A week later Matt will try to get in touch just to see how they’re doing. Are they okay? Are they mad at him? Do they want to talk? What if they want to stay friends? Because Matt wants to stay friends, he planned to stay close to them after breaking-up. Even if some things do not work out, Matt still wants to support them and share all the best in their life.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Seems to look for someone like a best friend to marry and won’t plan anything before he’s fully convinced in a person’s fit. It takes, maybe, two or three years for him to start thinking about proposing, though Matt doesn’t make a big of a deal of this event. His approach is very unpretentious: no restaurant date with small red box, no witnesses with cameras and whatsoever, Matt fondly asks a question while cuddling or eating ice cream out of bucket in silly pajamas. A smile never leaves his lips after they say “yes”. He probably cries on the wedding day too.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Matt is pretty inconsistent when it comes to gentleness. His laid-back nature doesn’t negate his soft side but doesn’t add up to it either, giving his behavior a touch of indifference. His comprehension of physical aspect is better than emotional because it doesn’t have such blurry undertones and can be controlled more precisely. Therefore Matt needs a bit of time to find the correct love language for a new partner and give them clear answer which one works the best for him.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Surprisingly, not so fond of hugs? He won’t ever reject them but it seems like he tries to keep small distance at the same time. You may have experienced it, defective hug when a person does not hug you in full force but also doesn’t let go. In this case, you don’t really understand the reason since person hugged you, right, they must like you to do it but ehhh. Matt takes initiative half of the times, but remember about the quality of dollar store kush.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He says “I love you” every so often. For Matt It’s a phase used not only in romantic way but also as an expression of appreciation for your friends and family. In the beginning Matt will also say “I love you” (like he does to Mello) to make person acknowledge how much they mean to him but later its meaning shifts to more serious one and is accompanied with long tirade about his feelings. So yeah, as fast as they become good friends which may take month or two.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

On a scale of jealousy Matt scores lower than average and it takes a lot of time for him to realize someone is seriously hitting on his loved one even if another person acts pretty straightforward. After realizing what’s going on Matt will act needy. He won’t stop following his loved one and holding their hand, placing small pecks on their cheeks and giving his rival dirty look.

If he witnesses his lover acting too flirty, he won’t say a word. Only after they are alone, Matt reluctantly will try to set record straight. Relationship takes two to work, and he won’t force them to stay just for the sake of staying.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

You’ll never get bored with this goofy kisser: he is sloppy, but also gentle and sweet. Well, not that sweet since you can taste the tobacco bitterness on the tip of his tongue 99% of the time. Sometimes, Matt gets so carried away that he will kiss his loved one right in the middle of the sentence. Prefers classical lips kisses and kisses on the forehead for both kissing and being kissed.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Man, Matt can connect to little ones on the spiritual level. He talks to them like they are his equal in every way possible and from the outside it looks adorable. Teenagers need space? Good, here you go! Kids want a piggyback ride? Jump on it, he got you! Baby-toddler screams the lugs out? Mail prepared ear plugs, pacifier, and a collection of toys! Even when they are causing troubles, this guy remains very understanding.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Night work puts both Matt’s laptop and himself into sleeping mode at 5-6 in the morning. If you are the early bird, you have high chance to find him at the dawn, with his heavy head resting on his hands. The best option is to wake him up gently and send him to the bed before those muscles get stone-stiff.

On rare occasions he goes to bed right after you just to have a major sleep-in. Nothing can disturb his sleep, not a blasting cannons, nor a nightmare, since his mind goes off and shuts down like a corrupted program.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Let’s not talk about work days, we already know how it goes. On his free time Matt likes to stay at home and have a quiet evening with his loved one or by himself. After pizza is ordered, he jumps on the couch and lies down for a bit. If his loved one is here as well Matt asks what they want to do. His suggestion would be build a pillow fort and wait inside, chatting about stupid things. Trite, but playing video games is second option on the list. They can play together or take turns, Matt is down for anything and will definitely let them beat him in Mario kart.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Reveals facts about himself slowly, but tends to have deep conversations about things like fears, dreams, emotional experiences, even traumas. Seeing the sincere intentions of a person, he will reciprocate the effort to get to know them better. Also, when Matt is in playful mood he will play that “well, try to guess it” or “well, that’s true… or is it?” card making conversation even easier. He may have few topics like life in orphanage he is not comfortable with so he will politely refuse to talk about them or cover them with jokes.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Tibetan monks called, asked if they can book a private lesson in tranquility for their unexperienced young apprentices. This man is the embodiment of appeasement, he is good-naturedly calm and his peaceful mood easily transfers to this around him. He perceives the anger of others and unpleasant incidents as short-term events that do not deserve much of attention. When someone is mad at him he just smiles lightly, explains himself and, oh god, actually tries to get another person’s point of view.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

While his mind is always occupied with unnecessary stuff, Matt manages to remember about half of what you told him. Most of his knowledge comes from endless online chats, jokes, and memes, common interests, and (who thought!) numbers. He is especially good at remembering anniversaries and it flatters his vanity a lot.

To maintain a never-forgetting-boyfriend reputation Matt keeps in touch with your mutual friends and acquaintances. When he needs to clarify something he’ll reach to the most suitable candidate who will answer the questions but also won’t ruin surprise with their long tongue.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

The night he broke down and cried. Just sent his ps-controller flying across the room and covered his eyes, and tears started to roll down his cheeks. Soothing words of the loved one made him shake even more vigorous because the connection between them never felt so strong. Matt didn’t have to hide anything from them. There was no need to keep on a happy face 24/7. He squeezed them in his arms like there was no tomorrow and never ever forgot this moment.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Despite the wild life that was supposed to teach Matt to adequately assess the danger of outside world, he remains as laid-back as always. He assures loved one that no matter what happens he will be all right. And they will be all right too. He believes they both can just slip away from any unpleasant situation and there is no reason to be overprotective. Yes, for someone associated with Mafia, Matt feels way too frivolous.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

The exact opposite of Mello. The more time passes, the more confident he grows in his feelings and it shows in the way he expresses it. When it comes to presents Matt chooses hand-made mess over expensive shiny but lifeless gifts. His fingers are glued together and sequins on the nose emphasize bags under the eyes but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, actually, because Matt finally wrote their name in cursive just the way he wanted to. For the anniversary there is huge box waiting for them, filled with candies, candles, discs, photos, short notes, and every little bauble he could think of. No doubt he stands right beside the person with puppy eyes, evaluating their reaction.

Dates aren’t big of a deal. He leaves date plans up to them since he doesn’t care what to do while it is with them. If they specifically ask for Matt’s ideas he will think about it for 5-10 minutes and then suggest first thing Google search gives him. Pray to God it’s not a DIY in 5 minutes because he will try it too.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Matt has a strong tendency to justify people when they obviously do not deserve it. Maybe this is not entirely conscious, but he ignores red flags until everything falls apart. He doesn’t see a pattern here and how all these people are alike so cycle repeats again and again.

Sometimes you have to worry. Sometimes circumstances oblige you to stop brushing off your problems. That’s not a case with Matt tho. To solve problems with a sober head, cool mind, yes, this is amazing, but the keyword is to s o l v e which he may completely ignore. Being laid-back dude is a talent but it shouldn’t be taken to the point of “if I close my eyes, maybe, it will go away”.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Well, let’s say his style leaves much to be desired. I can see his closet being full of the same type of clothes in approximately similar faded colors. No patterns, no game of textures, it’s just plain. Those goggles with amber-tinted lenses are one of two pairs Matt owns. The other one is similar to famous Kurt Cobain glasses and he keeps them for ironic purpose.

Matt never used any creams even when his skin resembled tree bark. Tobacco smoke can cause dryness of lips so you can expect his being chopped and covered in small cracks.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

You cannot tell it from his face but deep down he is devastated. People notice his silent thoughtfulness, lingering daydreaming. Hours spent in games grow an alarming rate as well as his expenses on cigarettes. A lot of time has to pass by before he goes back to his old self.

If they left for any reason Matt accepts it and tries to remain their friend. He knows there should be a pause in their relationship to establish new boundaries and stop perceive each other as… lovers. But he can’t stay away.

If they died both related and unrelated to Kira case, Matt seems to disengage from everything except helping Mello and videogames. His brain freezes in white noise and repetitive actions keeping him going like a programmed robot. Months later, he promises to get well because this is exactly what they would want for him.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Matt likes to smoke devil lettuce once in a while to clear his head or fog it completely. However, he doesn’t like to drink at all. His organism reacts poorly to alcohol and nausea rises to the throat before he can feel any kaif. Once Matt made a huge mistake (read – decided to get drunk with Mello): it ended up with Mello roaming around the city aimlessly for two days while Matt was almost chained to the bathroom because… well, he didn’t feel very well. In the end of the day they suffered a small loss: Mello lost his golden chain he never really liked and Matt lost the urge to drink forever.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

There is excess of negativity in this world already so if the only thing person is going to do is to complain, he will slowly push them out of his life. Cancelling plans, ignoring massages, hanging up early in the calls and, finally, he will disappear from their life like he was never there.

Boring people. It doesn’t mean person has to be into craziest stuff, you can be interested at knitting and present your hobby as the most interesting thing in the whole universe. Problem arises when person fails to show their passion.

Arrogance makes Matt yawn. It usually comes with qualities such as duplicity, hypocrisy, and he is not buying it. He is simple guy and feels uncomfortable around those who put on a brass face.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

His sleeping hours vary from 45 minutes to 14 hours per day and you never know what tomorrow will bring. It depends on many factors, but mostly on whether he has any work next day and if there are any upcoming games that he was waiting for so patiently.

Matt knows how to sleep anywhere and anyhow, even in standing position with hands crossed. His ability to fall asleep in 0.5 second is something Mello is envious of. Also, he can sleep with loud TV on the background, dogs barking, and Mello yelling at someone at the same time. It’s honestly a superpower.

The mere fact that somebody is sleeping next to him (it doesn’t have to be a loved one) gives him a feeling of serenity. If they sleep under the same blanket, he without a doubt will steal it.

#death note #matt #mail jeevas #death note headcanon #death note imagines #matt headcanon #tosikowrites

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swimyghost · 4 years ago

Text

Roses

Hey, I’m super tired but here’s a (possibly) non-canon story about @self-insert-nonsense‘s MHA OC’s mother, Sonaka. I really hope you enjoy.

---

She had double- no, triple checked everything. Every important item was wrapped and placed carefully into one of the two suitcases the sat on her bed. Sonaka knew if she carried any more people would get suspicious.

As if a gray-skinned woman and her equally pale child wouldn't arise suspicion.

"Mama?"

Sonaka perked up at that sound. She turned her head and saw her little girl innocently glancing up at her. Although she was visibly struggling to carry her suitcase, Sonaka's pride and joy wasn't going to let a minor inconvenience get in the way of impressing her mother. Sonaka bent down to her daughter's level.

"Nusuma, are you sure everything is packed?"

"Yes, Mama!"

Sonaka frowned. "Are you sure? We can't come back once we leave."

Sonaka watched as Nusuma's face scrunched up into as close to serious as a six-year-old could get. "I'm sure!"

Sonaka chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Alright, let's get moving, shall we? The train will-"

A knock at the door set Sonaka into a panic. No one knocked on her door unless it was... Them.

Sonaka frantically shoved her suitcases under her bed before thrusting Nusuma out, slamming the door shut behind her. Nusuma watched with a curious gaze as her mother paced her newly barren apartment.

"Mama?" She called, growing weary at the sight of her mother's panic.

"M-Mama's fine, honey. Mama just-"

The knocking grew louder. Nusuma whimpered and buried her face into her mother's brown skirt. The suitcase fell from her grasp with a resounding thud. Without a second to spare, Sonaka tossed it onto her bed's stripped bed and closed that door as well. Sonaka pulled her daughter in close.

"Honey, you can't tell anyone we're leaving. Understand?" she whispered.

"But... You said lying is wrong."

"I know, but this is to keep you safe, okay? You know Mama just wants to keep you safe, right?" Sonaka prayed her daughter wouldn't ask any more questions.

"Okay..." Nusuma murmured back.

With a deep breath, Sonaka made the treacherous journey to her front door. She took an even deep breath once she made it. Shakily, she swung it open and was met with four pairs of glowing red eyes.

A tall figure with luscious purple hair that fell to her waist stood at Sonaka's doorstep. Her eyes were constantly shifting, yet all eight of them held an aura of concern. Her hands (if you could even call them that) were two thick pieces of carapace with their "fingers" just being individual pieces of the shell.

"Joro." Sonaka let out a sigh of relief.

"Auntie Tsuchigumo!" Nusuma cried with joy.

The young woman scooped up the child and tickled her stomach. While Nusuma laughed and giggled at the touch, Joro cooed. "How's my favorite ghost? Huh? How is she?"

"Great! Me and Mama are gonna stay home all day!"

Sonaka winced. She loved her daughter, honestly.

But she's a horrible liar.

Joro easily saw through Nusuma's lies. Her red eyes showed everything Sonaka to know.

"Honey, can you go to your room and play with your toys?" Sonaka said, taking her daughter from the spider woman's grasp.

Nusuma looked up confused. "But-"

"Now, Nusuma."

Sonaka placed her on the floor. Nusuma didn't even look back as she scurried to her room and closed the door behind her. Sonaka turned her attention back to Joro who was taking in the apartment. She crossed her arms and glanced at Sonaka. Not with anger, but with clear pain.

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

Sonaka couldn't even try to deny her friend. The lifeless apartment was all the proof she needed. The to-bursting bookshelves had been stripped of their occupants. The vases that held the most beautiful array of flowers had been sold and the flowers buried under a mountain of trash. All the pictures that had ordained the walls had been removed from their frames, which also had been tossed, and placed in the suitcases. The same suitcases that were at the forefront of Sonaka's mind.

Sonaka couldn't hold it anymore. Without asking, she rushed over to her friend and buried her face into her purple sweater. Tears flowed freely at the same time as her sobs. Sonaka tried to speak, but her throat was closed. Each sob was wracked with grief. Joro, instead of pushing her away, pulled her in closer.

"It's okay, I already knew."

Her friend didn't seem phased by her words so Joro just chose to gently stroke her head. Sonaka was too busy thinking about all the wrongs that she had caused throughout her life. The same wrongs that could easily affect Nusuma.

"I can't let her get hurt, Joro. I can't. This life of villainy and evil isn't for her." Sonaka sputtered.

"We're not-"

"Don't try to say we're not because we are!" Sonaka shouted.

Joro blinked. She didn't even flinch at her friend's anger. Instead, all she did was stand Sonaka up straight. Joro forced her to look into her eyes.

"We're villains, yes. We weren't evil, however, not until he took over."

Joro was talking about Bladespinner, the current king of their villain syndicate and a powerful mutant Quirk bearer. After the previous leader stepped down, Bladespinner naturally took the position unopposed, with people either unwilling or too frightened to fight him. His saw arms were infamous for slicing through objects and people alike. He was one of the many reasons Sonaka couldn't live the life anymore.

"He'll kill her, Joro," Sonaka said, fear seeping into her voice. "Maybe not personally, but he'd send her into Hell if it meant fulfilling his twisted goals."

"I know. And that's why I'm here to help."

Sonaka was shocked. Yes, Joro and her were friends for years now, long before Nusuma came into her life. But Joro was completely submerged in the life of villains. Joro noticed her surprised and raised one carapace finger.

"I'm not going to be joining you. I will help you out of the country, however."

Sonaka blinked. "Wha- I was just going to go North!"

Joro let out a sad chuckle. "You really think it'll be that easy? Bladespinner will be furious when he discovers one of his one deserted. No, you need to go away. Far away."

Sonaka's brain was still spinning with the realization of it all. This was happening. This was really happening. "But... Where will I go."

Joro thought about it for a moment. "Korea. There's a former villain there that specializes in forgery. She'll help you get all the necessary paperwork. Tell her that Tsuchigumo-hubae sent you and she won't ask any questions."

"Korea?" Sonaka repeated. "But I don't speak-"

"Do you want a better life for Nusuma or not?!"

Sonaka flinched at Joro's tone. She knew the villainess was right, but it still hurt to know she was leaving everything behind. Joro gripped both of Sonaka's shoulders and squeezed tightly.

"Do this not just for her, but for you. You deserve a real job, real life, a real man who isn't-"

"Don't you dare mention his name! I don't care wherever he ran off to or whatever he does, whether it be picking turnips in Russian or being a stripper in the States, he's more than dead to me."

Joro raised her hands. "Fine, I won't say it. But you should tell Nusuma when both of you are ready."

The mother sighed but nodded anyway. There would be a time Nusuma would learn about her father, but today was not that day. Suddenly, Sonaka realized something.

"You wouldn't come here just to help me. I know you better than that."

Joro's tough demeanor fell she awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck. "Bladespinner requires us to come to fight with him."

Sonaka snorted. "Can't he do it himself?"

Joro shook her head. "It's not that simple. A bunch of his lesser lackeys wanted to prove themselves to him so they started attacking the city."

"This includes us why?"

"Bladespinner was just going to let them captured but realized only one hero and his interns showed up to the fight. He thinks we can make a name for ourselves if we cause some real damage."

Sonaka frowned. "I just told you I wanted to leave the life. You told me you'd help me accomplish that goal. Now you want me to throw it all away just because some hotheaded dumbass wants to stroke his ego?"

"It won't only help him support his superiority complex," Joro explained. "It'll also keep him distracted on his victory, giving us enough time to help you two escape."

Sonaka knew Joro was right. Bladespinner was not only a ruthless demon-like man but an egomaniac who lived to support his delusions of grandeur. If this battle was a success, he'd be too busy basking in the light of "his" glory to notice one of his minions had gone missing.

But what about Nusuma?

Nusuma, her pride, and joy, the reason Sonaka got up every morning, the catalyst for this entire escape attempt, still had no idea of her mother's day job. Sonaka did everything in her power to make sure Nusuma wouldn't become a target for Heroes or other villains. Joro was the only exception since she still had some honor still left in her (plus she was a great babysitter). Nusuma, despite her young age, was already growing suspicious of her mother's activities.

"Why are you always hurt?" Nusuma asked one day after Sonaka returned home from an intense battle with some Heroes. The previous head of her syndicate believed that attacking a known meeting spot for heroes would weaken both them and society's moral. It failed miserably with many villains in critical condition or spent to Tartarus.

"Mommy got into a little trouble at work, sweetie. That's all." It was a weak explanation, but Sonaka hoped it'd placate her.

It didn't as Nusuma scrunched up her nose. "You're lying! You and Mrs. Nakamura always say lying is wrong."

Sonaka let out a silent curse to herself and her daughter's kindergarten teacher.

"Well, I'm not lying," Sonaka struggled to think of what to say next. "Only telling... A half-truth."

"Half-truth?" Nusuma questioned.

"It means I'm not lying, just not telling the full story. To protect you." Sonaka explained.

"But you're always protecting me! Why can't I protect you?" Nusuma whined.

Sonaka chuckled. "Because you're five."

"But I already have my Quirk!"

Sonaka winced at that. Nusuma's Quirk had shown itself early and was similar to her father's. Too similar. It was why Sonaka had to pull her daughter out of kindergarten after the aquarium incident. Possessing a child like that would only lead to skepticism amongst her peers and adults.

"You will protect me. Just let me do it first. That's my job."

"So that's your real job!" Nusuma gasped with joy, tackling her mother.

Sonaka sucked in a yelp of pain as Nusuma leaped onto her bruised legs. She put on a fake smile and rustled her hair. "Oh no! You found me out!"

"Sonaka?"

Sonaka snapped back into reality. Joro was nearly pressing her face into Sonaka's. She jolted backward in surprise. Joro genuinely looked hurt as Sonaka tried to regain her bearings.

"Sorry, I just-" she took a deep breath. "My costume is in the wastebasket. Over there in the corner."

Joro went to place a hand on Sonaka's shoulder. "Are you oka-"

"I'm fine." Sonaka backed away. "Let's just go before Bladespinner throws a fit."

The villain looked over her shoulder and called out. "Nusuma, dear, can you come here."

It took a few moments, but the little girl shyly opened the door. She was clutching a toy figure of a Hero. Once she saw her mother's shining face, she ran over and gave her a tight hug. Sonaka ran her fingers through her hair.

"Mama's got to go out one last time, okay?"

Nusuma looked worried. "But... What about-"

"Everything will be okay. Mama just has to go do this one thing and we're gonna go to a magical land called 'Korea'."

"Koreena?" Nusuma attempted to sound out.

Joro snickered at mispronunciation, causing Sonaka to glare at her. "Korea. We'll have a new life."

"But I like it here!" Nusuma pouted.

Sonaka sighed. "You'll understand when you're older."

"Sonaka," Joro warned, glancing down at the phone she produced from her skirt pocket.

The mother bit her bottom lip. Nusuma was still looking bitter about the whole arrangement. She couldn't ask Joro to stay, knowing Bladespinner's temperament but she couldn't just leave her.

"Tell you what," Sonaka said with an attempt at a smile. "What if I get you something while I got out. Would you like that?"

Nusuma rocked back and forth on her heels, pondering the question. A smile broke out on her face. "A rose!"

Both Joro and Sonaka looked at her confused. "A rose?" Sonaka muttered.

"Yeah! I watched a movie where there was a magical rose and a princess and a beast but the beast was a good guy and the rose helped them fall in love!" Nusuma looked up with a Cheshire grin. "I wanna have you fall in love!"

Her heart tore at that statement. Joro could clearly tell that this the time to step in. "Your mama and I have to go now. Please be a good girl and stay in the house. Do not open the door for anyone. Do you understand?"

"And Nusuma," Sonaka dropped to her level. "I'll be home after this, I promise. Do you understand?"

Nusuma dipped her head. "Yes, Mama. Yes, Auntie Tsuchigumo."

Sonaka planted a kiss on her daughter's head before exiting the apartment. Noticing Joro's black car in the parking lot, she turned to her friend and saw her costume in her arms.

"I got it when you were dealing with Nusuma," Joro explained, seeing her friend's perplexed face.

She thanked Joro and, once she got into the back seat, began changing. Joro smirked. "Shouldn't I be paying for this?"

"Shut up!" Sonaka shouted, but the playfulness in her tone wasn't lost on Joro. "At least my costume is decent! With yours, nothing is lost to the imagination."

Joro shrugged, turning the car on. The engine purred as she spoke. "Hey, my gift to the world is showing off my greatest assets." She motioned towards her breasts and rear.

Sonaka rolled her eyes.

Just before they were to drive towards their destination, Sonaka gripped her comrade's shoulder. "Make sure I get home. For Nusuma's sake."

Joro nodded in agreement. "For Nusuma."

---

For someone who spent almost two decades battling Heroes, Sonaka knew when a battle was starting to get rough and this battle was it.

The Hero that swooped in to save the day, some hotshot named Fantastic Devil (a red-skinned twenty-something with horns, a tail, and fire-breathing. Your standard edgy hero-style), and his four interns. Bladespinner's lackeys were barely keeping up with the Heroes before Joro (codenamed Spinneret) and Sonaka (codenamed Wraith) showed up.

Weaving into and out of the fray, the ghost-like villain pop out of the wispy form to slash at her enemies. She noticed a couple of Sidekicks showed up to attempt to defeat the villains, but she wasn't worried. They were novices compared to a master of concealed weaponry. Currently, she was dealing with an intern with some sort of speed Quirk. He dashed back and forth like a child on a sugar rush. He attempted to land some square hits on her, but Wraith used her Quirk, Phase, to simply turn into a puff of gray smoke.

Suddenly, the speedy intern landed a strong jab right in between her ribs then a swift kick to her right arm. Her blade was launched from her grasp. Cockiness must've taken hold of him because he tried to unleash another attack. But, as a concealed master, Wraith always had something up her sleeve. In this case, literally. Sliding out a blade from its hidden sheath, she let out a yell as she dug it straight into the man's orange helmet. It's pale yellow screen cracked due to the force. The intern was too stunned to block Wraith's second attack. She side-kicked the helmet, causing both the wearer and it to drop to the ground. She was about to turn away when she noticed something.

A round young face, mousy brown hair, as he laid gasping she could see braces. The most damning evidence was the giant UA logo on the back of his hero costume.

"You're... A student?"

Before he could reply, a shot of web stuck to the kid's back. He was whipped into the air and slammed into the ground several feet away from Wraith. The attacker was Joro, Spinneret, donning her infamous costume. A black mask shielded her identity, but not her vision. Even from far away, Wraith could see the intensity in her eyes. Her costume was a tight latex with a cobweb type shirt and boots. Two latex pieces were barely holding up her breasts. Wraith would've said she was beautiful, had she not slashed the throat of the student with her long carapaces.

Wraith wanted to scream but her throat had closed up. The sounds around her became muffled as the realization hit her. These were just regular interns. They were students. Children.

She backed away from Joro, no, Spinneret, as her former friend basked in the glory of her kill. As she backed up, she felt her heel step onto something. Something squishy. Wraith (could she still call herself that?) Turned and nearly throw up.

It was another student. Her costume was torn to bits but she could make out that it had something to do with constellations. A mask, probably hers, laid broken against the pavement. Sonaka leaned in to meet the girl's eyes. They were a teal. Sonaka could imagine how bright they were when this girl was told she entered the Hero Academy.

"Please..." the girl noticed Sonaka and weakly reached out for her. "Please... Help."

Sonaka choked by a sob. This was someone's daughter. No, this may potentially be her daughter.

"I'm sorry." Sonaka managed to say, grasping the girl's hand. "I'm so... So sorry."

The girl didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her eyes were dull, one of the key depictions of death. Sonaka let her hand fall back to the pavement without another word.

The world around her was crumbling, both physically and mentally. A burning piece of a car crashed landed next to her but she didn't even move. Not even All Might himself could get her to move from this position. The girl was young, sixteen or seventeen at the most. Black hair with specks of white. But despite her physical differences, all Sonaka could see was a teenaged Nusuma. Laying like that in the middle of some pointless battle.

"Who did this?" Sonaka murmured. She placed the girl on her side a gasped.

Her stomach was completely torn up. It was like a pack of wolves that had chewed through her organs. Blood was pooled all over the front of her costume and the pavement. Sonaka gagged when she noticed the chunks of meat. And all of it red. So much red.

Like a rose.

Sonaka reluctantly traced her fingers over the wound. It wasn't as messy of a cut as she once believed. It was crude, yes, but done with a clear purpose. Like it was made by a tool.

"Bladespinner!" shouted Sonaka to no one in particular. She needed to stop him. Fast.

Nusuma, I'm sorry. But I have to do this.

Sonaka's costume flowed elegantly behind her even as she threw herself into the chaos. Quirks were flying all over the place. That Fantastic Devil guy was hanging off the side of a building breathing fire onto the villains below. Mountains of debris loomed threatening around her. Sonaka could see in her peripheral another villain pounce at a sidekick. The sidekick bounced away and disappeared in a shimmery flash before appearing behind him. Normal Sonaka would've floated up to save her comrade. But that wasn't her comrade and, right now, she wasn't her normal self.

She shifted into her Wraith form to move past the burning rubble and blood spatters.

"I wanna have you fall in love!"

Sonaka dodged another flying piece of debris when she saw a familiar muscular form.

Bladespinner.

His silver was caked in blood and, most horrifying, skin. His villain outfit, a silver and black skintight costume with a saw symbol on the front and back was mostly torn, revealing his muscles and machine parts. His arms, if you could even call them that, were giant mechanical wonders. A mixture of organic and machine parts with two razor-sharp saws at the end of it. He was currently locked in battle with a pink-haired- correction, pink petaled girl. Her pink eyes were filled with terror, yet determination. Next to her was the body of another student, most likely one of her classmates.

Another intern!

Sonaka's body moved on her own. She couldn't watch another death. She was tired of it all. The fighting. The lack of trust. The hatred from society. The reality that you'd never know if you'd make it home or not.

For Nusuma

"Kaori!" Sonaka screamed over everything.

Bladespinner, before landing the final blow, angrily spun around to glare at Sonaka. The girl managed to scurry away as Bladespinner drew closer to a frozen Sonaka.

"What... Did you say?"

"Kaori... Goto... You need to stop." Sonaka waved her hands to motions towards the environment. "Look at this! Look at you! Look at what you almost did."

"I was about to defeat our enemy," Bladespinner bared his teeth. "Are you questioning my decision, Mimoto?"

Sonaka stiffened but stood her ground. "I'm questioning the fact you're about to murder a child!"

"A child!?" Bladespinner scoffed. "That's our future enemy! The ones that might kill us! It's better to strangle the weeds before they overrun the garden!"

"This isn't one of your stupid analogies, Kaori! These are innocent lives!"

"You have no right to call me that!" he snarled. "If you wanna protect them so much, you can die with them!"

Bladespinner had raised his arm to strike, but Sonaka already had disappeared in a poof of smoke. She reappeared just above him. She swiftly tapped her ankles together and two blades shot out from the back of her boot's heels. She raised her left leg. She struck down, but Bladespinner managed to just barely dodge. Still, she managed to graze his cheek. A trail of blood dripped down and onto the ground.

A rose?

Sonaka snapped back into reality when Bladespinner used the back of their arm to bat her away. She wheezed as all the arm was forced out of her. She went tumbling across the ground, hitting several mounds of rubble. She was sure his attack at least cracked a rib or two was cracked but she needed to move. Like a raging bull, Bladespinner began to charge. Just before he made it towards her, she managed to disappear and poof back into existence right in front of him. She just managed to dig a knife right across his chest and popped out of the way.

I'm going to get a serious migraine after all this Quirk usage she groaned, already developing a headache.

"Stay... STILL!"

Bladespinner tried to punch her but she already was gone. Before he could blink, his throat was already slit. He choked out blood with it splattered on a broken pile of bricks. Before he could even get another word out, another knife was planted in his back. Then another. Then three more.

All Sonaka could see was red. Both figuratively and literally. Bladespinner had hit the ground several seconds ago, let she just kept stabbing. All the pent up rage she had built over the years were being unleashed on the body of her murderous boss. Was she just as bad as him? Probably, but she just needed to be free.

Free.

Nusuma!

Struggling to stand due to her shaking legs, Sonaka started to shuffle her way back towards an alleyway. Maybe she just shed her costume and make it back to her apartment just before nightfall. The last train left at eleven in the evening, she cod make it. She had to.

The sounds of fighting and over the top Quirks were dulled by the memories of her child. Nusuma's birth was a painful, lonely, yet beautiful experience. Her first words 'up, Mama' might've been small to everyone else but the world to her. Her smile was so precious. Her laugh was music to her ears. Her first ever A was on a math test; basic, but God did she almost cry at seeing her child succeed.

Succeed. Nusuma would succeed.

Nusuma, Mama's coming. Don't worry.

"You!"

Bladespinner? No, it was a feminine voice. Joro? No, too young.

Sonaka turned around. She wasn't prepared for the thick piece of wood going straight through her chest. Sonaka let out a deep wheeze. It pierced her lung, she could feel it. Her attacker? That same pink-petaled intern/student from before. Except her eyes were now a green, a green that reminded Sonaka of the grass at the park she always took Nusuma to. Although rage was pouring out of those emerald eyes, Sonaka also detected loss and hurt. Sonaka couldn't blame her. She was a child pretending to be a great Hero. This was probably her first experience with death, at least death that involved her friends and Hero's life as a whole. She wanted to tell her that she was sorry, but the girl raised another arm. It was covered in wood like a thick armor plating. Her hand, although covered, managed to sprout another tree branch.

"I-"

Sonaka couldn't finish. Her heart was immediately struck and everything slowed. She always thought death was supposed to be painful but she just felt tired and, in a twisted way, peace. All the stress dissolved at the moment of impact. The girl's face was still morphed due to all the suffering she was struggling with. Sonaka wanted to give her peace to her. But she couldn't.

She was falling.

Darker and colder was the only place she was heading and she embraced it with open arms. Sonaka let out a tear; it was her final regret.

Nusuma, I'm sorry. I didn't keep my promise.

#oc #ocs #mha oc #bnha oc #fanfiction #fanfic #ficlet #body horror tw #body horror #gore tw #gore #major character death #backstory #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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hibibun · 4 years ago

Text

A New Perspective

Series: The Magnus Archives Pairing: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims Summary: “Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding a tome that… appears to transmogrify humans to have catlike features. Statement given direct from subje—Ow,” Jon glares, trying to ignore the unintentional way he feels his newfound tail swish to reflect his annoyance, ears flattening. Elias’s normally well-manicured nails have elongated to claws, and currently one was digging through the thin fabric of his skirt and into his thigh.

“Oops,” Elias says, infuriatingly blasé. Jon hesitates another moment, before sighing and leaving the tape recorder going. If the topic ceased being important, surely it would turn itself off.

“You could at least pretend you didn’t do this on purpose.”

for day 5 - alternate universe Notes/Warnings: Catboy Leitner, Seduction to the Dark Side, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Demisexual Jon, Nonbinary Jon, Intercrural Sex, Misuse of Beholding Powers, mild bloodplay this is the self indulgent fic i gifted to myself this week and by virtue of that very little set up for this AU dynamic. i just wanted to use the day five prompts for catboys and was encouraged. thank you theo for suggesting specifically catboy leitners.

also jon's gender identity is not super elaborated on here, but he has been experimenting with presentation and finding comfort in some more typically 'feminine' clothing, but hasn't given much thought to pronouns or labels beyond it yet. he just realized after hiding out at georgie's and needing to borrow her clothes again that wow skirts are nice and he deserves to feel good about that after everything that's happened. if i ever play around in this universe again, the progression may develop, but for now. here we go!

AO3

“Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding a tome that… appears to transmogrify humans to have catlike features. Statement given direct from subje—Ow,” Jon glares, trying to ignore the unintentional way he feels his newfound tail swish to reflect his annoyance, ears flattening. Elias’s normally well-manicured nails have elongated to claws, and currently one was digging through the thin fabric of his skirt and into his thigh.

“Oops,” Elias says, infuriatingly blasé. Jon hesitates another moment, before sighing and leaving the tape recorder going. If the topic ceased being important, surely it would turn itself off.

“You could at least pretend you didn’t do this on purpose.”

Elias makes a noise implying he’s listening, but doesn’t do much else besides repeat that same flexing of claws and Jon hates the hiss that leaves his mouth. It’s unnatural, and for that reason it catches Elias’s attention, an upturn to the corner of his already smiling mouth, which Jon recognizes as the man holding back laughter.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t curious,” he tries to justify knowing it to be the truth, but one Jon will protest.

“Yes, but I’m not so rash as to mess with any of those cursed things; which leads me to believe you knew what it would do,” Jon retorts, as there are now too many concerns and questions arising that he doesn’t know the answers to and will simply have to wait out. It is possible Elias knows, but extremely doubtful he’d tell him.

At least if he was stuck in this state as well that had to mean whatever they were in for couldn’t be dangerous—just unpleasant.

He shifts back trying to squirm away from Elias who had only been getting closer. It wasn’t like he had very many places to go what with being on the edge of the sofa and a coffee table in front of him. Next time, he’ll think twice about Elias asking if he’d like to see something in such a vague manner when he’s over. Not that he wasn’t prepared on some level for it to be undoubtedly supernatural, but this was something he hadn’t necessarily signed up for.

During his complaints, Elias has now fully managed to straddle the leg that isn’t pressed to the side of the couch, and Jon is mentally cataloguing the notion that whatever the book did to them, it must have made him feel the need to be twice as physically annoying. Surely.

“Still unpleasant?” Elias whispers, mouth ghosting the shell of his ear. He raises a hand to gently tug at the corner of one of Jon’s cat ears, observing the way it flicks out of his grasp.

“Get out of my head,” Jon bats at his shoulder, but doesn’t try to move away. Rather than pull again, Elias has moved on to experimenting with different petting styles. Reluctantly, Jon finds himself relaxing when his scratching lingers between his ears and drifting to the base of his neck.

“You were fond of this even before getting these, but it is interesting to see how you react now,” Elias starts, pleased in the way Jon’s eyes unwittingly close. “See, you’re even purring.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles back though any bite in it is absent. He’s content and this was Elias’s fault anyway, so he should deal with the consequences.

“You are fixing this after,” Jon cracks an eye open to stare at Elias, who was still scratching gently at his nape. He closes it again soon after, trying not to stress too much about how strange it felt to have appendages he shouldn’t.

“After?” Elias muses, closing their distance again this time to nip at his earlobe. The hand Jon had been resting on the arm of the sofa flinches, tearing into the cushion. The discrepancy between one calm activity and one that gives a very different implication startled him, and he certainly did not feel bad about the outcome.

“I’m not paying for that,” he lets out testily, followed by a short gasp as Elias begins making his way down his neck. In lieu of a proper response, Jon’s only given a hum before the bites turn sharper, harder. There’s a slightly different edge to it than usual, as if whatever the tome did even managed to sharpen Elias’s teeth, but it’s a detail he only thinks in passing.

As much as he complains about it, beyond familiarity, what makes these things bearable with someone like Elias is he can see and read his boundaries before even Jon realizes them. In that regard, he trusts the man. He shouldn’t, case in point with this whole situation, but he has only ever promised him the eventuality of answers and assurance they will be to his expectations. Jon may not enjoy or have wished for the experiences he’s had, but he knows deep down he doesn’t necessarily regret them as much as he should. Not when he knows now just what they’ve done for him. The answers they gave. The power.

He’s lost himself in that sometimes. The Knowing and the Seeing. He is forever seemingly a moth to that blindingly atrocious, yet beautiful light.

Something he had denied and feared for so long, but with Elias there’s freedom to it now. Acceptance. Even if his patience is constantly tried.

He inhales sharply as a hand unbuttons enough of his dress shirt to fondle a nipple. Gently, ever so gently that he barely catches on in time, Elias shifts his legs apart enough to press one knee to approximately where his crotch would be hidden under the folds of the skirt. A whine leaves him unintentionally because through the fabric it barely feels like anything at all, even as his cock twitches in response. Jon doesn’t need to voice his complaints—he knows Elias can hear them and feel them, but he knows similarly he won’t actually do anything until he speaks up.

Adjusting for discomfort immediately without question is one thing, making him beg as a form of consent is another.

“How would you like this?” Elias asks so simply. It’s the option for an out, but the question has thoughts and images rushing through Jon’s mind. Things they’ve done. Things he wouldn’t mind again right now. The burning question of whether their current ailments are causing any influence, and if that was another thing Elias knew and refused to share. Somehow, he doubts that part—which lends itself further to the theory that Elias had his own ideas and irritatingly is keeping them to himself.

The man in question smiles at him in a chiding way, applying a touch more pressure with his nails against the skin of his chest. “I believe I asked a question, Jon.”

Hesitantly, he grinds into that knee, still thinking things over. The question does make him want to hide, squirm away into that place he can go to when they start proper if Elias lets him. Usually though, like now, he’s dragging him out bit by bit—quite appropriate of one who wants to watch and strip him bare both physically and mentally.

He isn’t afraid of sex. On the surface, it is a messy activity that occasionally is worth the pleasure that comes with it. It’s the intimacy that comes with it, however, that truly scares him. That raw sensation of uncontrollable openness Jon has no way of hiding from. It’s terrifying, enthralling. But he’s found acceptance—Elias has accepted him. Wants it. Wants him.

Jon doesn’t vocalize what he’s thinking, but he does focus on one image. The fantasy of it playing behind his eyelids broadcasted for Elias and he must be feeling kind if he isn’t still pushing Jon to speak.

It might have something to do with putting them in this situation in the first place. Even then, Jon is surprised he’s being so nice.

“Very well, we can do that.” With all the grace Elias normally has, it feels even more fluid this time as he slinks off him and stands. Delicately, he leans down and presses the stop button on the tape recorder. They both know if it wants to keep recording, there will simply be another one waiting for them in the bedroom. Whatever else their new forms cause in this regard though is something even Jon is fighting himself on wanting to catalogue—not that he sincerely believes what they’re about to do has any relevance to how the tome has changed them.

He turns and heads there now, and in a daze, Jon moves to join him feeling much less graceful in comparison.

Jon typically hates showing skin wishing to avoid the sensation of feeling exposed. When clothed it’s easier to hide and vulnerability aside, it’s also simply easier to pretend his body isn’t nearly as scarred as he knows it is. Considering who’s looking, there won’t be the lingering and questioning stares like those of strangers when he’s on the tube. Right now at least, it’s freeing if only for the sheer fact his new tail has a little less pressure from the elastic that was pinching it to his back as he slips the skirt off. If this lasts longer than the next day or two, he’ll have to make adjustments to his clothes, but such a mundane fact is the last thing he has on his mind right now.

Elias is once again watching him seated from the bed, and that shiver returns as to why he doesn’t normally like to be naked. His expression reflects how effortlessly the man has mentioned that watching him is one of his favorite things to do, and Jon personally can’t understand it even now. It at least made sense when he was plotting; quietly maneuvering all the pieces on his elaborate board game, but maybe in a way he’s still doing that. After all, he had freely admitted that Jon learning his place on the board and coming to willingly take those moves on his own wasn’t a part of his initial plan—just one he seemed happy to see nonetheless.

Slowly, he unbuttons a few more buttons of his dress shirt, but ultimately leaves it on. Elias doesn’t comment, not even to tease on how it was more notably the top buttons below the collar he slips apart, and merely continues to watch. The way his ears flick just slightly, alongside how well he’s come to know the man are the only indications Jon has on any of it. His steps take him to beside the bed, and after a beat of hesitation, he straddles one of Elias’s knees and braces his hands on his shoulders.

Immediately, Elias’s hands find purchase on Jon’s hips, one hand drifting closer to his lower back. Jon lets out a shaky breath as that hand brushes just below the waistband of his pants where his new tail meets his skin. Jon shifts so it’s more of an embrace than a balancing act, wanting instead to hide in the crook of Elias’s shoulder as he slowly begins to guide himself along the other man’s thigh, moving closer so he can rut at his chest. He can feel himself already leaking and it’s embarrassing, not at all helped as the hand on his lower back starts playing with the sensitive tail he never asked for. As he’s starting to get comfortable, Elias tugs on the tail. Not sharp enough for genuine pain, but testing the sensation to see how Jon would react.

What he likely wasn’t expecting was for Jon’s hands to tighten their grip, impulsively shredding down the cloth of Elias’s dress shirt, tearing it enough for slivers of blood to rise at the newly made cuts.

It’s satisfying hearing the exhalation of pain soaked pleasure, a sure sign that the bastard got what he deserved and wouldn’t try that again. It’s less satisfying when it only dissolves into a chuckle as Elias moves his hand away, instead navigating Jon away from where he’d been trying to hide and into a kiss. He indulges him briefly, before biting Elias’s lower lip. None of this dissuades him though, and irritatingly Jon can tell it’s acting as encouragement.

At some point during the kiss, he’s moved back to holding him, and in short work, Elias slips the hand holding Jon’s waist under his thighs, lifting him just slightly to shift him properly on the bed. The movement is a little jarring, but more so that his tail seems to move on its own out of the way of being crushed by his back.

Elias hisses in a not quite human way himself as he slowly removes his now ruined shirt. Jon doesn’t feel the least bit sympathetic, instead a little entranced by the severity of the lines staining the back now facing him. An odd impulse to lick at the wounds flickers through his mind, and while he’s quick to dismiss it, it definitely catches Elias’s attention.

He sits back at the edge of the bed and looks over his shoulder at the Archivist sprawled. There’s no need to say out loud what his eyes say for him. So Jon sits up again and slinks forward to splay his hands on Elias’s back taking in the extent of the damage. In that same daze, he’s moved forward the rest of the way, tentatively licking up a bead of blood along the stripe of reddened skin. Jon feels more than hears Elias’s sigh and he snaps out of it.

“Elias… what exactly did you intend when you read from that book?”

A shiver wracks through Elias and Jon is startled as he didn’t think he’d been asking that earnestly. In truth, he hadn’t really been thinking at all.

There’s a pause as he catches his breath, and with deliberate patience to prove he’s still in control, only then does Elias offer an answer.

“I wanted to see what you would do,” he twists around, a familiar smile in place as he knows it isn’t a satisfactory answer at all, however true he means it. Jon’s frown speaks as much.

“Now then, will you let me finish undressing or were you not finished?”

His irritation bleeds into arousal as even though he’ll complain about everything else regarding their current state, Jon has been given the reins with this one. He remains where he is until Elias has left for the adjoining bathroom and then tries to get comfortable. It’s easier when there aren’t eyes directly on him, even if he knows truly that he’s never really free of them.

The brief sound of the faucet is calming, and by the time Elias returns his annoyance, while still present, has simmered back down. He joins him soon enough, and all at once again he feels the dual maddening sensation of being quietly observed in all its assurance and fear. He watches too though, as Elias kneels on the bed above him and traces his hands up Jon’s thighs causing shivers in their wake. Elias’s hands are still slightly cold and damp, and being exposed like this always makes him fidget.

“Would you be a dear and tell me what it is you’d like again? I believe in all that excitement, it must have slipped my mind,” Elias asks, fingers now playing along the waistband of Jon’s panties, not quite taking them off, but teasingly letting the silk fabric brush against his cock. Whatever amount of kindness he’d attributed the man earlier clearly meant nothing, and the smug smile presented towards him now only makes him bare his teeth.

“What does it matter if you’ll do as you like anyway?”

Elias lowers himself, his hands having abandoned their place at Jon’s waistband and now rucking up the bottom of his dress shirt. His breath ghosts the skin of Jon’s stomach before biting down and sucking harshly. Jon yelps and reaches for Elias’s head, though he doesn’t attempt to pull him off so much as tugs at his hair in response to the treatment—almost pulling at one of his cat ears instead. He only feels him moan in response, not letting up until he’s satisfied the mark will be a vibrant purple. The momentary lick Elias gives before pulling back has Jon thankful again that their tongues hadn’t been changed as well.

“I’m sure you’ll give me your input regardless. Now then, shall we?”

If he wasn’t busy panting, Jon would call him out for being a bastard, but judging from his expression Elias knows well enough what he’s thinking. Feeling Elias rub his hands along his sides is placating to a degree, but the motion is also a gentle reminder that he’s waiting for an answer.

“I-I don’t want any penetration—but between my thighs is fine,” Jon finally gets out, a twinge of annoyance at being forced to admit it out loud. The desire is in equal parts wanting an easier to clean mess and because he can’t see a particularly comfortable way to prepare for anything more with the state their nails are in. A fact that is likely obvious and one the man above him could have realized on his own, but he’s almost certain putting Jon in situations like this where he must confess his desires is pleasurable in its own way.

Still, for all his irritation, Elias moves back up and distracts him with a kiss. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s genuinely trying to ease the jittery sensation he’s caused or chase after it. It works in calming Jon down enough though that when he feels the palm of Elias’s hand brush and rub at the bulge threatening to escape his underwear, his nervousness doesn’t get in the way of enjoying it.

His noises are their own quiet admissions that he’s enjoying this and Elias happily swallows them all, pinching Jon’s lower lip between his teeth again as a reward. Jon has already seen the lengths Elias will deny him if he tries to quiet himself or close his eyes.

“Hold yourself for me,” Elias tells him, leaving one final kiss on the scar adorning his neck. Once they break, anticipation pools in Jon’s stomach. He’s slow and deliberate as he moves away again, finally sliding down the slightly soiled silk from Jon’s waist and watches him. It’s mystifying still for Jon, being looked at like this considering what he knows his body looks like. Yet, Elias looks at him like he’s everything, as bizarre as that feeling is.

“My Archivist… do you want to see for yourself?” The man muses in response no doubt once again reading what he’s thinking. Jon intends to say no or ignore the sentiment, but like the times before he’s shown anyway.

Through Elias’s eyes, he watches the man trace the remnants of worm holes, long scarred over. He trails down his arm and lingers on his hand, palm holding his burn scar as his thumb brushes along the faded pink scar Michael left him. He shivers again with the weight of that gaze. It’s more than simply being Seen when Elias talks to him like this he’s found.

It helps a little, oddly enough. Jon will never quite understand it beyond knowing Elias had a vision and a plan for him, but to be gazed at like this is nice.

Moments after, it’s disorienting to return to his own line of sight, and it takes him an extra minute to realize he’s supposed to position himself. He raises his hips, uncomfortably shifting to hold his legs together and hates the way Elias leaves him hanging like that. His prick is pressed against his stomach smearing precum, and he wants to look away out of embarrassment. The man is obviously just enjoying himself, but Jon’s tail swishes in impatience.

“Sheathe your claws, I was just admiring the view,” Elias reassures and closes their distance, taking a hold of Jon’s calves and places a hand on his hip. It helps significantly in easing Jon’s tension, no longer needing to hold himself up on his own. His breath hitches soon after though as he feels Elias position himself between his thighs. The sight is somehow more erotic even though what they’re doing is a mere pantomime of the act itself—though, it’s likely the similar enough sensation along with watching Elias’s cock move in and out that gets to him.

Jon doesn’t even quite know where to focus his attention after a point. There’s the aforementioned view of the act in question, his own body in frame next to it and then there is Elias. Usual, perfectly composed Elias is wonderful to view like this. Jon has more than once thought the man was obnoxiously beautiful to the point where his tastes and sense of decorum were annoyingly impressed upon Jon. Even the moment he’d divulged wanting to once more express himself outside the confines of what was thought to be strictly male business fashion, the man was relentless in his gifts of long silk skirts and dresses designed for galas he’d only attend once, maybe twice, if negotiated, a year.

Like this though, that carefully constructed image he pieced together fell to pieces. Jon knows by now, Elias isn’t ‘human’, that he himself is becoming less human as the days go on, but right now they’re doing something that feels unlike whatever godly status Elias strives for.

It’d be easier to lose himself in the sensation if allowed to close his eyes, but Jon knows and already sees the disappointed stare that would greet him if he tried. Perhaps more threatening is the awareness that Elias would do more than just that. His disappointment while devastating is nothing compared to the teasing and repeated denial he’d impose to get what he wants. To ensure that Jon knows better and acknowledges not only that he will watch, but that deep down Jon would prefer to see too.

Elias is mostly quiet above him, the set of heavier breaths come from the movement involved and surely the pleasure he’s feeling. Jon’s legs feel just as messy the more he feels Elias move, his member spreading slick precum between his thighs with each thrust.

He doesn’t notice himself how good the watching and the sensation of it make him feel, but Elias must as he shifts their position just slightly. Opening Jon’s thighs more, he slots himself in easily, instead moving the hand he’d been using to help hold the Archivist’s legs up to instead grip both their pricks and stroke them together.

Jon moans and arches into his touch, having it hit him all at once how desperately he’d been wanting that and wanting Elias close. Without needing to speak it, he’s granted the kiss he wanted, too lost in the feeling to realize how noisy he’s become with his mouth now open. When Elias tries to move back, Jon chases his mouth. The kiss resumes with a chuckle that Jon quickly silences with another bite.

“Eager thing aren’t you?” Elias teases him when they break next and too swept up in it all, Jon doesn’t even register the inhuman growl he lets out at being teased or denied contact once again. As to which bothered him worse, even he doesn’t know. Never once does it occur to Jon that he’s become less dependent on air when they kiss and that each time they break it is for different reasons entirely. Elias is pleased nonetheless from that reaction, and rewards him by increasing his pace just slightly.

His vision shifts dramatically as release hits him, Elias once again making his point loud and clear. Layered across his skin are dozens of eyes rapidly opening, and if he isn’t mistaken, there’s a few on Elias himself no doubt wanting to capture the event as thoroughly as possible. It borders on overwhelming. The fear of acknowledging himself like this—seeing the way Elias practically adores it.

Jon comes back to himself slowly, unsure if he’s uncomfortable by having to view himself that way or by distinctly how filthy he’s aware his stomach and legs have become. What’s worse is, as he looks down when Elias gets off the bed to fetch a washcloth for them, Jon sees his tail is still there.

There is absolutely no reason to think sex would fix this. Nothing suggested as much obviously, but it was a momentary distraction from how much the situation irked him. Now that it was over, he’s also aware that Elias likely had meant it as such. A poor attempt at changing the subject and maybe an even poorer excuse of an apology. No, the man wasn’t sorry in the least bit—he probably was genuinely excited by the inhumanity of it given how pleased he looked at… the eyes.

Jon shivers as he recalls that part too. It isn’t the first time he’s seen it, and while he’s made his choice, acceptance only comes sparingly. Whatever it meant to become the Archivist was something he’s given into. This change, he thinks trying to ignore his new appendages once more, however, he direly hopes is temporary.

For now, Jon finally closes his eyes and resolves to prod Elias for a proper answer when he returns.

#writing #writing: tma #pairing: jonelias #character: Jonathan Sims #character: Elias Bouchard #character: Jonah Magnus #joneliasweek2020 #jonelias #bro what if we were transformed into catboys............. and we kissed #im also late crossposting this apologies

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goodjohnjr · 6 years ago

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Ghost In The Shell: Arise

Source: IMDb

What is it?

The 2015 anime original video animation (OVA) television show Ghost In The Shell: Arise.

What is it about?

This is how Rotten Tomatoes describes this anime original video animation (OVA) television show:

Set in a futuristic Japan after the…

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#Anime #Ghost in the Shell Arise \ Anime Review \ ReefTV #Ghost in the Shell Arise: Border 1 - Ghost Pain (2013)#Ghost in the Shell Arise: Border 2 - Ghost Whisper (2013)#Ghost in the Shell Arise: Border 3 - Ghost Tears (2014)#Ghost in the Shell Arise: Border 4 - Ghost Stands Alone (2014)#Ghost In The Shell: Arise #Ghost in the Shell: Arise - Alternative Architecture #Ghost in the Shell: Arise - borders 1 & 2 - Coming Soon - Trailer #Ghost in the Shell: Arise - Borders 3 & 4 - Available Now #Ghost in the Shell: Arise - What Did it Do Wrong?#GitS ARISE SUCKS #Original Video Animation (OVA)#Rotten Tomatoes

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arthurmorganthings · 6 years ago

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Surgeon and the Scientist.

Pairing: Javier x Painter!Femreader

Summary: “But don't trust the surgeon with your heart, She's drunk and sips from poison cups, and don't you trust the scientist, He says "life-is-like-a-wineglass" as he spills his drink like secrets all across your dress.”

Explicit Content: +18

Hands stained with tertiary colors and the soft bristles of your brush, you practiced realism with the help of Flat Iron Lake, Clemens Point offered you peace when you weren’t off doing chores for Miss Grimmshaw. Your tent filled with journals of rough sketches with studies you’d find upon each travel. The study of outlaws napping aimlessly in saloons, working girls reeling in potential clients—your favorite person of interest to draw was him.

Javier Escuella. His soft features enthralled you, when he played his guitar with such passion, beckoned you. Though you’d been riding with the Van Der Linde boys for quite some time, you hadn’t said much to him. Occasional hellos, and small talk perhaps—but a full fledged conversation? Never sparked. You craved interaction so bad, you started to think perhaps you weren’t his type after all.

You knew the type of man he was, the men he surrounds himself with. There were times he wouldn’t come back until the crack of dawn—Javier laid with women. Charming them with his native tongue, into the soft sheets he’d lay his head on.

Jealousy found you quickly, gripping the brush tightly as you paint the undertones of the sky. Perhaps it was a silly dream of yours, but someday you’d be a world renowned painter, with suitors from every continent feigning to see your beautiful art.

A girl could dream. But until that time, you’d continue to paint until your hands grow brittle, and weak. You sensed a body hover behind you, “What chu’ paintin’ there?”

Oh. It was Arthur. You pivot with your back foot as your hand still gripped at your brush, your easel wobbles. “Hello. Nothing too important, just figured I had some free time, so here I am.”

He chuckles, rubbing freshly trimmed beard. “You kiddin’ me? It’s beautiful—err, it’s like a picture.”

He always had such a way with words, or none at all. His quirkiness was apart of his cowboy charm. You laugh wholeheartedly. “Thanks. I suppose.”

“You got time to spare?”

You blink. “I mean I-“

“Have a drink with me.”

His forwardness came as a surprise, one drink wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?

“I should put my easel away then.” You respond softly but Arthur beats you to it. Kentucky Burbon in his hand, you assume is from his Satchel. Handing it to you, you hesitantly take the liquor. The sharp smell of whiskey in filled your nostrils as you winced before taking a swig.

The taste was—well, repulsive to say the least as you return Arthur his bottle. “I can never get used to Burbon.”

He laughs, before taking his swig. “You and I both.”

You continue talk of the old days, when the gang was set on helping folk and less on the idyllic greed for money—it seems when Micah joined, was when the root of all the gang’s problems arised.

Two shots of bourbon became three, then four, then the whole bottle.

Throughout the day, you and Arthur tell tales of drunken banter such as today. It was wholesome. He’s like a big brother figure, you wished to spend quality time with but knew his role within the gang.

Arthur was their support, Hosea was the anchor.

Nightfall crept as the two of you sat near the campfire, the fire cackles as you hug your knees—thoughts of him flooding your mind. Javier had yet to return from his Homestead job with Sean, unless he was pent up in some hotel inside of a whore, they’d camped out somewhere—your cheeks flush at the thought of him doing things unimaginable.

Arthur senses your unease. “You okay kid?”

Your head perks up, staring into his. “It’s nothing.” Your words slur, dejectedly. “I’m just conflicte—Javie—shit, Arthur.”

He sees what’s going on now. “You like ‘im.” He states.

You wanted to slap yourself for setting yourself up for inevitable teasing, but you frown instead. “He doesn’t like me. I’m plain-looking, Javier likes exotic women, and I—well, I’m, me.”

Tears on the brim of coming out as Arthur sighs, “You must be a fool to sell yourself short. Javier is an even bigger fool.”

Before you can argue with him, the faint sounds of horseshoes grazing the mulch of the woods could be heard. Lenny, who was on watch calls, “Took y’all long enough to get back.” It was him.

Your heart dropped to your stomach as Javier hitched his horse. Arthur pats your shoulder reassuringly, “Remember what was said.” As he shuffles to his tent. Javier writes his name in the ledger before placing the undisclosed amount in he camp’s donation box. You felt like a lamb, watching as its prey nears closer.

Removing his clunky boots, Javier grabs his guitar from his tent before shuffling towards the campfire. He was surprised to still see you up, as most of the gang was either asleep or in town. You placed your chin onto your knees as your arms hugged the shins. Javier sits himself next you with his guitar.

A tense beat of silence ensued, almost awkward, but Javier had the first say, “You’re never up this late.”

“You aren’t ever at camp to begin with.” Thank god for the alcohol to enable your bold behavior. You would have never said something like this if you were in a sober state of mind. Javier sniggers, tuning his guitar. You took the time to observe how his fine fingers caress his guitar so smoothly. God, If only he’d do the same to you.

“Yeah well, duty calls my love.”

My love.

You suddenly felt a warm pool at your core. Javier was a man of many skills so it would seem. He strummed beautifully, the tunes releasing from his acoustic. He paused, glancing at you, causing you to look away smoothly before he could notice.

“How’s your painting coming along?” He inquired.

“It’s coming along well,” you respond sheeplishly. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Javier quirked an eyebrow, shaking his head. “I observed everything. “The drawings, how you stick your tongue out when you’re focused on the details of your paintings, how you look at me.” Your thighs squeezed together from underneath your skirt, Javier was no fool to know what he does to her.

He could never be with her, she was too good for him. But he’ll make her feel things she’s never felt before. Closing the distance from where he sat, wrapping his arm around you, Javier says,“I know that you’re mad at the man that I am, the life I lead.”

“I never said I was Javier. It’s just—I feel like a ghost to you, but I’m no fool to know that you sleep with women. And for the longest time ever, I asked myself—why couldn’t I be the one you have your way with?”

The alcohol was definitely taking its toll, what a story will this be in the morning. Javier’s expression was masked underneath his hat, but responds nontheless.

“Because I respect you too much to.”

You blinked, perplexed. “Javier, sleeping with said person shouldn’t equate the amount of respect you give someone. Dutch has his fair share of women but you hold him to such a high level.

“You shouldn’t speak on things you don’t know girl, it’s incessant.” He mumbles, throwing mini twigs he toyed with on the ground, into the fire.

“But I know, Javier.” You pause. “I know your type, I know you. Even if I’m invisible sometimes.”

You weren’t going to wait for his response, you simply removed yourself from his grasp, shuffling to your tent, near the lake. You opted for more privacy. It was larger than most, filled with old pieces and sketches scattered across the floor. Suddenly the flaps of your tent opened, causing your head to perk near the entrance. It was hard to see during the night but knew who it was.

Closing the flaps, Javier grabbed you by the neck softly. “You think you’re invisible to me?” He questions, his voice not the same from the fire, it was husky and deep. The callouses toying up and down your arm now filled with goosebumps.

“You would rather want me to fuck you like a whore instead? On your back like some working girl?”

Your innocent eyes widened at his crass language, the shift of character only turned you on more when his chest was against yours. Javier was short, but you was shorter by a few inches. His lips found the shell of your lobe.

“Come on. I want you to say it.”

“I, want you.”

He tightens his grip, illiciting a moan. You knew what he wanted you to say. Your soft fingers pressing at his hand. “I want you, to fuck me, like a whore.”

He chuckles. “On your knees then.”

You place yourself in front of him, knees kissing the ground you walked on as he unzips the seams. Your face flushed once graced with Javier’s girth—larger than you’d expect.

It’d be foolish to say he wasn’t a man that was well-endowed. His unconscious incompetence at times was rather amusing when observing him around camp. But when it came to laying with a man you’d yearned for.

This was completely different.

“Come on girl. His hand gripped at your cheeks, as he forced you to look up at him from your compromising position. “We don’t have all night.”

You waste no time taking his length into your mouth while staring up at him doe-eyed. The taste of precum ensued. Watching him groan before you brought a warmness to your stomach before staining your bloomers with an embarrassing amount of essence sure to show once they were removed. Nothing at this point in time mattered as you took him in some more. His pelvis thrusted forward as he gripped your locks of hair, forcing his cock down your throat—the movements followed continuously as you gagged.

Your eyes watered, saliva stained the sides of your cheek as he removed himself from your mouth to avoid from cumming. Javier did not want to miss his chance of getting to be inside of you. He growled, “Take these off.”

You followed suit, removing your plain blouse and skirt, followed by your chemise and bloomers. He pushes your onto the cart, on all fours. His thumb grazing your wet cunt with content upon touch.

You gasp, pulling at your lips softly as he rubs in circles.

“I’m gonna need you to keep quiet, princess.”

Your heart fluttered at the pet name as you nod, taking that as a confirmation. Once lined at your cunt, Javier sucks in a breath, the tightness of her walls would make any man groan in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel so good around me.”

You grip at the edge of the cot tightly, biting your lip, you wiggle your way further into his cock. He watches as it disappears and reappear again—it takes a lot out of him not to grab at your hips and fuck you. The squelching sound of your wet heap wasn’t making it any better either. It was embarrassingly loud it wouldn’t be a surprise if anyone from camp could hear the sounds of coitus.

Covering your mouth with your hands as Javier speeds up his pace by grinding his hips agains your back side, it grew difficult to stay quiet. How, when you wanted to let the world know the man of your dreams was fucking you with raw, unadulterated passion? The tiny squeals, and pants could only be heard by said lover as he lets out ragged breaths.

He whispered in your ear, “How bad do you want to cum?”

So goddamn bad. The precipice was near as you knit your brows together and nod in your mouth. Fearing the sounds that could come out of you removed them. He thrusts harder, his grunts increasing in volume while he pistons into your cunt—your face flushed, squealing into your palms while your body seeps into the cot.

“I said, how bad do you want to come?”

He wanted you to answer, in such a compromising position like this. You remove your hands briefly before replying, “So bad.” Your voice higher than last time as he grunts.

“Where do you want it?”

God if he was making her choose, she’d easily say inside. Despite what that may cause in the inevitable future.

“Anywhere, haaa.” She moans loudly, abosoloutly careless of her shameless inhibitions. Javier clasps his fingers across her mouth, digging at the cheeks—sighs of his own orgasm ensuing. His thrusts grew slopper, his jaw tightened with ragged breaths. Your walls convulsed before seeing white.

Eyes fluttering closed, mouth in a silent gasp as Javier’s seed fills your womb. You fall limp onto your cot before the overstimulating feeling of Javier remove himself from inside of you before adjusting himself back in his pantsuit.

A beat of silence followed, the only sound heard was the ragged breaths of both lovers. Feeling of realization hits you.

“Shit.” You curse. “I forgot, my canvas by the board walk. My paints are probably all dried out by now.”

“I’ll go get it for you. You get some rest.” Javier replies as he leaves for your tent. You call out to him before he does, causing him to turn around.

“Can we do this again?”

He smirks before pondering. “You know, my mom once said, don't trust the surgeon with your heart, She's drunk and sips from poison cups. And don't you trust the scientist, He says "life-is-like-a-wineglass" as he spills his drink like secrets all across your dress.”

You furrow your eyebrow, “The Surgeon? Javier what does this even m—“

“In due time, you’ll know.”

Upon his exit from the Tent, you lay back down onto your cot with a quilt covering your indecency, the line still engrained in your heart.

The surgeon, and the Scientist.

BTW THE SURGEON AND THE SCIENTIST IS MY FAVORITE LA DISPUTE SONG <3 FOR @famderlinde @jungle @mollyohshea 💗

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #me #javier escuella #javier escuella x reader #lenny summers #sean macguire #clemens point #rdr 2 spoilers #lemon #reblog #yeaaah

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