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crusty-chronicles · 8 hours ago

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You Have to Treat a Car How You Treat A Woman

Synopsis: A pathetic virgin law oneshot where he's an absolute mess trying to flirt with women. The catch? You feed off it and encourage his catastrophic blunders.

Trafalgar Law was undeniably pathetic and awkward around women. He couldn't flirt for the life of him, choosing instead to bury himself in work. The result is having absolutely zero dating experience. He's so touch starved he doesn't know whether to run away or lean into physical affection.

But then you practically bulldoze your way into his life, unfazed by his distant and dismissive behavior. You follow him around throughout his alliance with Strawhat. And like the hopeless fool he was, he begins to yearn for your presence.

It's constant and warm. He seeks you out when he can't sleep. Being stuck with you in his quarters when you were sick didn't help his case. He starts to notice all your little quirks. The way your eye twitches when you're frustrated, or how you take a lap around the deck when you're excited. The subtle way you lean towards him when you're tired. The smile you get when you're planning something mischievous.

All of it has him falling a little deeper every time.

It's a complete shock to his system when you seem to return his ‘advances’. Or much to the terror of those around to witness it, his poor excuse of an attempt to flirt. There's no tact in his pursuit of your affection. Often times saying or doing things that would have given anyone pause to process what was happening.

“Would you mind if I ripped off all your clothes with my teeth?”

It doesn't come out seductive like he wanted. No teasing smirk or flirtatious lead up when he blurts it out. His expression is deadpan and his tone is flat. Save for the red spreading to his ears, his face is unreadable.

His crew shrieks in horror and second hand embarrassment from afar. Hands over their mouths in shock and shaking their heads in disbelief. So sure that Law managed to scare you off. Even a few members of the Strawhats stopped to gape at the situation.

But you're a little freak. You lean towards him with a lovesick grin that spells out danger.

“God I'd be honored.”

More chaos erupts on deck, with Sanji screeching out “IT SHOULD'VE BEEN ME!!!” You don't react with repulsion or disgust. You didn't even hesitate. And Law can't believe how unaffected you were by his lackluster delivery.

He doesn't know why he expected any different. You'd most likely heard worse from the cook and musician on the Sunny. But that's besides the point because leading up to the incident, you'd started treating him differently. Sweeter. It's what makes him a little less skeptical of your response.

You like talking to him while you work on projects for the crew. Letting him spout medical jargon as you fiddle with new cannon blasters. Then there's the fact you'd make him replicas of whatever caught your eye from a Sora comic. Displaying it proudly and asking him if there were any inaccuracies. (They were always perfect.)

You've been showing blatant interest in him.

He just hadn't been picking up on it.

His favorite way of flirting is taking out your organs and showing them to you. Something that should highly be considered a red flag and absolutely insane to anyone unfamiliar with his devil fruit. But his brain is wired different. The human body is fascinating.

Why wouldn't you wanna see how your most vital parts work? How, when he removes your heart, it beats a certain rhythm against the room it's contained in. Or watch the way your lungs inflate with each breath and deflate with each exhale.

Most people expect their partners to give out sweet compliments. “Your eyes are pretty.” “I love your smile.” “Your laugh is like music to my ears.”

Law's are always almost borderline deranged.

Bepo walks in once to see your liver laying flat on the table. A prideful smile on Law's face as you look on in fascination.

“It's surprisingly healthy for a pirate considering how much you drink,” he praises.

And you take the compliment???

In fact, you go a step further and encourage it. Making him take out his own heart to compare it with yours. Asking him if it beats only for you. You poke and prod at your lungs. Joking about how Sanji's must be blackened and shriveled up.

Law took your brain out once. Surely this isn't normal. Surely you're a little off put by his display of affection. This has got to be at least ten red flags combined. But you aren't the slightest but fazed. Looking utterly enamored by him as he holds the very pinnacle of your being with reverence.

“Your brain is the most beautiful part about you.” He said softly.

He adores the interesting ways your mind works. How you're so open and trusting with him. How you take his inexperience with stride and let him learn with you. And of course, the way you match his crazy with your own.

“I wanna see yours,” you ask.

He's smitten.

There are times Law gets insecure. He doesn't know what he could possibly offer you besides his appearance. Everything he could give you, you already had on Strawhat's ship. He's seen the way you interact with the other members of your crew. The way you laugh unabashedly at their antics and take on a more relaxed state.

He knows his personality wasn't the best, often standoffish and cold. He's also busy most of the time you're around, so sure you feel neglected by him. It's hard to believe you actually wanted him.

But when he starts geeking out over Sanji in his Stealth Black costume, the words slip past your lips.

“I kinda wanna have your babies.”

You were so in love with how excited he was to see something from his comics come to life. The awe in his expression watching Sanji fight. His fanboying endeared him greatly to your heart. A swell of affection coursing through your entire being.

Law’s face immediately flushed and he has to do a double take.

“I- What!?!”

And your poor crewmates who'd unfortunately been forced to hear you, don't let you get away with it.

“That's SUPER freaky, bro.” Franky comments while Sanji is once again shrieking in the background.

It's not as raunchy as straight up saying you want him intimately. It's still up there, make no mistake, but there's a note of sweetness to it that has Law’s heart racing. You found his nerdiness endearing enough to want kids with him. You love every side of him. Even his most embarrassing.

In a rare moment of privacy, you found yourself in his cabin. Basking in each other's presence after such a taxing day. It's sudden, the way you grab his hand as he's listing off what he still has to do. You bring it close to your lips, kissing over the inked lettering on his knuckles.

It's a foreign feeling, having spent most of his childhood devoid of touch. Especially not as reverent and soft as yours. It's soothing. And when you look up at him with a sweet expression, he freezes.

“You should've got 'love' tattooed instead,” you coo out before reaching to press kisses against his other hand.

“Because that's what you deserve.”

He's freaking out internally, once again blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Love’s four letters not five.”

He feels like the biggest dumbass in the world. You're trying to be romantic and he ruined it. Unintentionally pushing the affection he craves away. It feels like he's always messing up when it comes to you. But then you laugh. Not mockingly, but teasingly.

“How about adore?” You question, lips trailing up his arm. Skimming over the inked pattern. His body feels like it's on fire. Searing with warmth everywhere you place kisses. His heart beats in overdrive and his head is nothing but mush.

“That works,” he breathes out.

He can't help but dwell on your loving onslaught. Kissing him on his face he was expecting. Everywhere else? Not so much. Tracing his tattoos tenderly with your lips. Maybe you're the weird one. It's not like he hated the sensation, quite the opposite in fact. He's just not used to this. So he asks his crew the next day.

“Is it normal for your partner to kiss you in places besides your face?”

The usual suspects burst into laughter. Taking the opportunity to rag on their captain because what kind of question is that?

“Waiter! Waiter! My steak is too juicy and my lobster is too buttery!” Penguin teases.

“My partner loves me, should I be concerned?” Shachi adds on.

Law pulls his hat further down his face in embarrassment and walks off.

It's not his fault love is so foreign. How was he supposed to navigate what he'd never experienced before? By now, he's accepted he's pathetic for you. Knowing he's committing blunder after blunder, only for you to encourage it with your own brand of hectic.

You’re definitely the one for him.

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An: I'm a fiend for this man and I saw that one weird Al interview which inspired this semi crack fic and spawned it into existence.

#one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #trafalgar d law x reader #law x reader #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law x reader #pathetic law #law one piece #law x y/n

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cameronsbabydoll · 2 days ago

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OBX CHARACTERS AS LANA DEL REY SONGS

a/n: this was a lot of fun!

RAFE CAMERON — “DEALER”

“i don’t wanna live, i don’t wanna give you nothing”

“why can’t you be good to me?”

rafe doesn’t know how to be loved, and he hates that it still matters to him. this song is spiraling, erratic, dissociative—just like his inner world. lana screams over jazzy breakdowns like she’s begging someone to save her, but she’s too far gone to be touched. that’s rafe. there’s no straight line between cause and effect in his pain. his mind runs like a broken record—father issues, white boy rage, unmedicated mental illness, unchecked privilege. “dealer�� doesn’t follow rules. neither does rafe. the fact that the song is uncomfortable to listen to is part of its truth. you can’t love rafe without getting hurt.

the line “why can’t you be good to me?” feels so simple. but it’s not. it’s the child in him asking why nothing ever felt safe. why the people who claimed to love him used him. and it’s the adult in him blaming you for it. he wants you, but not in a way that’s survivable. he doesn’t know how to hold anything gently.

rafe doesn’t fall in love—he crashes into it, gun in hand.

JJ MAYBANK — “OFF TO THE RACES”

“light of my life, fire of my loins”

“he knows i’m wasted, facing time again at rikers island”

jj is the boy you can’t stop watching, even when you know you should look away. “off to the races” is glamorous and rotting all at once. it’s the chaos of loving someone destructive. jj is a product of violence and neglect, and he’s figured out how to make it funny. but it’s not funny. it’s tragic.

this song is manic and high—drugged up and dancing with a gun in your boot. the line “i need you like a baby when I hold you, like a druggie like I told you” captures jj’s entire worldview. love isn’t something you ease into. it’s something you crave, something that fills the hole where a parent should’ve been.

he’s a crash in slow motion. and he wants to be loved anyway.

JOHN B. ROUTLEDGE — “RIDE”

“i believe in the kindness of strangers / and when i’m at war with myself, i ride”

john b isn’t free—he’s drifting. the “ride” is a metaphor for grief, for survival, for clinging to the illusion that something better is out there. this song is heavy with romantic delusion—and that’s john b. he believes in the fairy tale. the girl. the chase. the surf. the magic. and it keeps him alive, even when everything he loves is gone.

his mom left. his dad died. his friends are his only anchor. but there’s a restlessness in him that never quiets. “ride” is about a girl who’s tired of being alive, but too addicted to the movement to stop. that’s john b’s sadness. he doesn’t have time to grieve—he’s always running.

he’s not wild because he’s reckless. he’s wild because he doesn’t know how to be still. if he stopped for a second, he’d drown in the loneliness. so he rides.

POPE HEYWARD — “HOPE IS A DANGEROUS THING FOR A WOMAN LIKE ME TO HAVE”

“i’ve been tearing around in my fucking nightgown / 24/7 sylvia plath”

pope is brilliant and burdened. he's the one who tries, who plans, who puts the weight of the world on his own shoulders. and this song is what happens when trying still isn’t enough. when your ambition becomes a cage. when being the good one gets you nowhere.

he’s angry, but it’s the quiet kind—the kind that festers. he feels too much. thinks too much. and no one sees how close he is to cracking.

he wants to believe he can change things. make a better world. love someone fully. be enough. but deep down, he’s terrified he was born to be forgotten. that his pain is invisible.

hope is the cruelest thing he owns—and he still won’t give it up.

KIARA CARRERA — “FUCKED MY WAY UP TO THE TOP”

“this is my show”

“lay me down tonight in my diamonds and pearls”

kiara hates being seen as a hypocrite. but she is a hypocrite, in the most human way. she rails against the kooks while living in a nice house. she lectures about right and wrong but falls for boys who burn down the rules. this song isn’t literal—it’s psychological. “fucked my way up to the top” is about weaponizing your femininity, your intelligence, your presence in a world that commodifies you anyway.

kiara has spent her whole life trying to prove she’s better than the system she’s in. but she also wants to win. she wants to be chosen.

this is a song about someone who’s been underestimated for too long. and now she’s turning the power imbalance back on you. it’s a love song, a threat, a confession. so is kiara.

SARAH CAMERON — “WILDFLOWER WILDFIRE”

“baby, i’ve been running on stardust, alone for so long”

“my father never stepped in / when his wife would rage at me”

sarah is the girl who everyone claims to adore, but no one truly knows. this song is about inherited trauma. about being raised in a house of glass where love is conditional, appearances are everything, and independence is punished. wildflower wildfire sounds soft—but it’s a eulogy for every version of yourself you had to bury just to survive.

sarah has always felt out of place. she’s the crown jewel of the cameron name, but all that money didn’t protect her from being used, silenced, manipulated. she wants to be wild—she craves realness, truth, freedom—but she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to have it.

she runs because no one ever stayed for her. not really. this song is what happens when you’re done pretending you’re not hurting, but you’re still too afraid to stop smiling.

CLEO — “BLACK BEAUTY”

“you have no room for light / love is lost on you”

cleo learned to stop expecting softness. this song is about loving someone who can’t love you back the way you need. it’s about finding strength in your solitude.

“i paint the house black, my wedding dress black too

she doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve—she protects it. cleo has known abandonment, betrayal, exploitation. “black beauty” is her internal monologue: how do you stay soft in a world that punishes vulnerability? how do you keep loving people who don’t know how to love you?

she’s not bitter. she’s tired.

BARRY — “CRUEL WORLD”

“got your bible and your gun”

barry doesn’t pretend to be good. he just wants to be in control. this song is greasy, sexy, and devastating—it’s about detaching from anything real because it never served you.

“it’s a cruel world / but I like it”

barry’s done hoping. done pleading. he lives in chaos and leans into it. he’s dangerous because he’s honest. he won’t lie and say he’s the good guy. he won’t lie and say he won’t hurt you. but that’s the trap—he still makes you want him anyway.

he doesn’t want redemption. he wants you to burn with him.

WHEEZIE CAMERON — “DID YOU KNOW THAT THERE’S A TUNNEL UNDER OCEAN BOULEVARD”

“don’t forget me”

wheezie is always watching from the sidelines. this song is about quiet grief. the kind that lives in your bones. she sees everything. hears the screaming. the lies. the violence. and she learns to make herself small.

“when’s it gonna be my turn?”

she doesn’t have a storyline. she has an ache. and this song is her voice in the dark, whispering, “i’m here. i matter.”

she’s the girl in the corner of the room who remembers every secret—but no one remembers her name.

ROSE CAMERON — “SAD GIRL”

“i’m a bad girl, i’m a sad girl, i’m a mad girl”

rose plays the part. she’s elegant. controlled. but bitter. “sad girl” is the voice of someone who gave up on being respected and learned to make power out of being desired.

she doesn’t believe in love. she believes in leverage. she’s not evil—she’s disappointed. this is the song she hums as she drinks wine while the family burns. she’s already accepted that no one will ever really love her. but they’ll fear her. and sometimes, that’s enough.

WARD CAMERON — “ULTRAVIOLENCE”

“he hit me and it felt like a kiss”

“he hurt me but it felt like true love”

ward was born at the bottom. we forget that. born a pogue, born poor, born knowing what it’s like to be disrespected, overlooked, humiliated. and he decided never again. he built an empire off the sweat of his own hands—but when he got power, he didn’t use it to uplift anyone else. he used it to punish. to dominate. to control.

this song—“ultraviolence”—isn’t just about physical abuse. it’s about love that masks itself in power. about worship, control, emotional dependence. about making someone believe your cruelty is devotion. that’s ward.

“he’s ultraviolence / ultraviolence”

he thinks he’s protecting his family. but in truth, he’s protecting his legacy. his name. his pride. ward doesn't want love that’s soft or equal—he wants obedience. loyalty. loyalty at all costs.

“he used to call me poison / like i was poison ivy”

ward is the poison. he destroys what he touches, but he makes it look like a blessing. you should be grateful, he tells them. look what I gave you. look where you are because of me.

he raised sarah like a doll. kept rose like an ornament. tried to mold rafe into a carbon copy of his own ambition—and when he couldn’t, he let him rot.

but here’s the tragedy:

ward thinks he earned the right to control everyone. because no one gave him anything. and he resents the hell out of the world for making him into the man who could survive it.

the orchestration of “ultraviolence” is haunting, twisted, beautiful. just like ward. expensive suits. violent hands. a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. everything about him is performance. everything about him is fear wearing a tuxedo.

and worst of all?

he still thinks he’s the hero.

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obvithe-bestsoph · 1 day ago

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if he wanted to, he would.

masterlist requests word count: 7.2k (🫩)

a/n: guys we have a new winner of the longest fic on this blog. i love this one, it's so cutesy! i'm saying this is in celebration of 300 (319 because i may have missed 300 when it actually happened) followers and 5.1k notes in a month! genre: fluffy. warnings: none.

summary: you run into pedri again years after high school, where he used to bring you hot chocolates and offer to carry your bag, and slowly realize he’d been in love with you the whole time. now he’s back in town, showing up to the bookshop every day just to see you, and this time you finally see it too.

You’re half-asleep when he slides into the seat beside you.

First period hasn’t even started yet, the classroom’s still buzzing with sleepy murmurs and backpack zippers, and you’ve got your cheek pressed to the desk with a pen hanging loose between your fingers.

“Morning,” Pedri says, soft but already grinning.

You blink up at him, confused, then sit up quickly and try to hide the pencil smudge on your face. “Did we have homework?”

“No,” he says, laughing a little. “Not for today.”

You sigh and slump back into your chair. “Thank God.”

It’s always like this. Pedri gets there two minutes before the bell, finds your table, and plops down next to you like he’s been doing it forever. Most of the time, he doesn’t say much, just hums along to whatever’s playing through his earbuds or lets his head fall to the desk like he’s more tired than anyone else in the world.

But not today. Today, he’s fidgeting.

You don’t know what it is at first, the way his leg bounces, the way he’s playing with the strings of his hoodie, how he keeps glancing sideways at you like he’s working up to something. You chalk it up to a game day. Las Palmas has a match tonight, you’re pretty sure. You’ve never been, but it’s all anyone talks about when he’s in the starting eleven.

“Are you coming later?” he asks suddenly, like he’s read your mind.

“Huh?”

“The match,” he says, like duh. “We play Unión Viera tonight. It’s at home.”

“Oh,” you say. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying to stay cool about it. “You should come. It might be good.”

“Are you saying that because you think you’re gonna score?”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes and open your notebook. “If I come, I’m bringing a book.”

He leans in closer. “If you come and bring a book, I’ll be offended.”

You don’t reply, just shake your head while trying not to smile, and then class starts and he finally goes quiet beside you.

But that afternoon, he’s waiting for you by the lockers - again.

You’ve barely zipped up your bag before he reaches for it. Just takes the strap right off your shoulder and throws it over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

“Pedri, I can carry my own stuff.”

“I know.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why are you..?”

He grins. “Training.”

“Training for what? The backpack-carrying Olympics?”

“Strength,” he says seriously. “Endurance. Discipline.”

You snort. “You are so annoying.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t mind. “Wanna walk with me?”

You don’t say no. You never do.

It’s not just that Pedri plays for Las Palmas. Everyone knows that. It’s a big deal. People come up to him between classes, asking for updates or tickets or how his training is going. His face is starting to pop up in local papers and matchday posters at the little cafés near school. Teachers talk about him like he’s already gone. But with you, he’s just… Pedri. Still goofy. Still the guy who offered you his last pen in 2nd ESO and called you “the only person in the Canary Islands who reads during lunch.”

“You nervous for tonight?” you ask, just to make conversation.

He shrugs, adjusting your bag on his shoulder. “A little. But it’s not that deep.”

“It kind of is, though,” you point out. “Scouts come to those matches.”

He glances at you, face unreadable. “Yeah. I guess.”

You don’t know what to make of that. There’s something quiet in the way he says it, like he’s already thinking about leaving. About what happens when this year ends and he’s not just Pedri from class anymore.

You slow your pace without realizing. He matches it.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, kicking a rock along the sidewalk. “Do you want notes for bio? I copied all of it during free period.”

“Wait, you took notes?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

You laugh. “Yeah, sure. That’d help.”

He hands you his notebook when you reach your bus stop. You flip it open, eyebrows raised at the messy scribbles.

“Your handwriting is a crime.”

“You’re welcome.”

The bus rolls up before you can say anything else. Pedri hands you your bag like it weighs nothing, and you hesitate for half a second before stepping on.

“Good luck tonight,” you say over your shoulder.

He nods. “See you tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

He grins like you just said yes.

That was the last normal week of school before summer hit - before finals, before graduation, before the real goodbye. You remember Pedri's last day more clearly than you want to admit: everyone signing each other’s shirts and hugging too tightly and promising to stay in touch. You didn’t cry, but you felt it coming the whole day, like a wave threatening to knock you sideways.

And Pedri?

He found you at the end of the day, shirt already covered in signatures, and held out a marker.

“Don’t leave me out.”

You signed his sleeve and watched him try to pretend he wasn’t nervous.

When you handed the pen back, he lingered. Looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.

Instead, he smiled. “I’ll see you, yeah?”

And you just said, “Yeah.”

You didn't.

It's a quiet Monday. The kind where time stretches thin and quiet, sun streaming in through the shop’s front windows, dust drifting in the light. You’re behind the counter, half-focused on the stack of returns you’ve been meaning to sort since Monday. The bell above the door rings, and you glance up without thinking.

Then freeze.

Pedri González walks into the shop like he’s just another customer.

For a moment, your brain doesn’t catch up. He looks the same and not the same - older now, taller, more composed. His hair’s still got that soft curl, and his shoulders are broader beneath a plain white tee. But it’s his face that really stops you: familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop and twist all at once.

He doesn’t see you at first. His eyes scan the displays near the front, casual, unbothered. Just a guy looking for something to read. Until he turns, and his gaze lands on you.

And then?

That smile.

It pulls across his face like it’s automatic - soft and sure and immediate. Like he was hoping it’d be you.

You swallow hard. “...Hi.”

His grin grows. “Wow. Didn’t expect this.”

You blink. “Pedri?”

He gives a little wave, sheepish. “Hey.”

Your chest feels tight. It’s been years, actual years, and somehow your first thought is he hasn’t changed that much. He still carries himself like he’s trying not to be noticed - like he’s always halfway between invisible and unforgettable.

You clear your throat. “What are you doing here?”

He gestures vaguely to the shelves. “Looking for a book. It’s my mamá’s birthday next week.”

Of course. Rosy González. You remember her from the one time she picked him up early from school in her old car and waved through the window with the same exact smile Pedri’s wearing now.

You come out from behind the counter slowly, wiping your palms down the front of your jeans. “Okay. Anything in particular?”

“She likes emotional stuff,” he says. “Romance. The kind that makes you cry.”

You lead him toward the fiction section, still catching up with the fact that this is actually happening. He walks beside you quietly, hands in his pockets, gaze trailing the shelves like he’s reading every title and none of them at once.

“I didn’t know you were back in Tenerife,” you say, carefully casual.

“Just for the summer. A couple weeks off before pre-season starts again.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

There’s a beat of silence. You grab a novel from the “Staff Picks” cart near the romance shelf, something dramatic, lyrical, heavy in that slow-burning way you think his mom would probably love.

“She’s not picky, right?” you ask, handing it to him.

He glances at the cover, then flips it over. “If it has feelings in it, she’s in.”

A small smile creeps onto your face. “Sounds familiar.”

That gets you a glance - quick but sharp. He tucks the book under one arm and leans a little closer, just enough for you to catch the faint smell of his cologne. Something soft. Clean.

“I used to read whatever you had with you,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles, eyes still on the books. “Back in school. You always had something in your bag. I’d look at the title and try to find it later.”

Your mouth goes a little dry.

“I didn’t know that,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You always seemed like you were halfway into another world.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re suddenly seventeen again, sitting on the front steps of the school building while Pedri offers you his hoodie because you forgot yours, watching the sky go pink while he reads the back of your book instead of saying goodbye.

You clear your throat and gesture toward the counter. “Let me ring that up for you.”

He follows you back. His footsteps are easy, steady. Comfortable in that quiet way that hasn’t changed since high school - like he’s always been more grounded than most people ever notice.

At the register, you take the book and scan it. He pulls out his wallet, taps his card, and before the receipt even prints, he says:

“Have you read it?”

You glance up. “Not yet. It’s on my list.”

He takes the receipt and slides the book into the paper bag you offer, then lingers just a little too long.

“Then when I finish it,” he says, “you’ll have to tell me what I missed.”

You try to hide the way your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “Deal.”

He nods once, like it’s settled.

You expect him to turn and leave, but instead, he just stands there for a second. Looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Then he says, “You know… I’m not in a rush. If you’ve got other recommendations.”

You raise a brow. “You want to buy more than one?”

He shrugs. “I trust your taste.”

And just like that, something shifts. Slight but definite.

You hand him another book, one from the stack you’ve been meaning to read for weeks. He doesn’t even check the price. Just adds it to the bag, says thank you, and walks out with a parting glance over his shoulder.

The door swings shut behind him, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

He remembered you.

And he came back.

He comes back the next day.

Same hoodie, different shirt. Hair still a little messy like he just rolled out of bed. He nods at you as he walks in, casual as anything, like this is routine. Like this is where he always starts his mornings.

You look up from the returns cart, caught off guard again, even though you really shouldn’t be.

“Back so soon?” you ask.

Pedri grins. “Told you I’d come give a review.”

You raise a brow. “Already finished it?”

He hesitates for a split second, just enough to give himself away. “Yeah. Last night.”

You don’t call him out on it. Not yet.

Instead, you lean your elbow on the counter. “Alright then, what did you think?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, then scratches the back of his neck. “I liked the writing.”

“The writing.”

“Yeah.”

You stare.

He stares back.

And then you laugh, turning away so he won’t see how smug your smile is. “So you didn’t read it.”

“I skimmed it,” he says, not even pretending to be offended. “I got the vibe.”

“You bought a whole book for ‘the vibe?’”

He shrugs. “Is that not valid?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

Pedri leans on the counter, watching you like you’re the most interesting thing in the building. “You got another one for me, then?”

“You’re gonna waste your whole offseason budget on novels you’re not reading.”

He grins wider. “That’s fine. Worth it.”

You give him something else. Something you haven’t even opened yet. He doesn’t look at the synopsis. Doesn’t even pretend to read the back. He just hands over his card like this is a normal exchange and not a weird kind of tradition you’re both pretending isn’t happening.

He leaves with the book in hand and nothing else.

You watch him walk past the window, down the street, flipping the cover open like he might actually try this time. He probably won’t.

He’s back the next morning.

And the next.

By day five, you’ve stopped asking if he’s read anything. He just walks in, does a little head nod in greeting, and leans on the register like this is his full-time job.

You make fun of him.

He takes it in stride.

Sometimes you talk about other things. The heat. The new windows they’re installing on the second floor. His mamá’s obsession with crime dramas. Your current reading slump. His brother Fer stopping by just to be annoying.

“Fer’s the same,” he says, digging through the candy jar on the counter. “Still makes fun of me for everything. Saw the book on my desk last night and started reading the blurbs in a dramatic voice.”

You laugh. “He would.”

“He asked if I was writing love poems again.”

“Wait- again?”

Pedri goes still for a moment, then gives you a guilty side glance.

You blink. “Hold on. You used to write poems?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s so dramatic of you.”

“I didn’t,” he insists, but he’s smiling, and you can tell he’s lying.

You don’t press it.

You do tease him about it for the next two days.

Each book you hand over is less of a recommendation and more of a challenge. You start stacking the most emotional, dramatic ones you can find. Stuff you know he’s definitely not reading - 600-page generational sagas, postmodern romance with mixed timelines, depressing rural coming-of-age stories with metaphors for the sun.

He buys every single one.

Doesn’t even blink.

You’ve got a growing stack of receipt slips under the register with his name on them. Pedro González López. You don’t point it out, but you start organizing them in a little pile like they mean something. You tell yourself it’s for accounting. That’s a lie.

You catch him loitering more and more, hanging back even after the purchase is done. Watching you reshelve paperbacks like it’s fascinating, offering to help when the delivery boxes come in. One afternoon, he ends up alphabetizing a whole table of historical fiction because he’s “bored.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him.

“I like doing nothing here,” he replies.

It makes your chest weirdly tight.

You’re still not sure what this is. It’s not flirting, not obviously. He hasn’t asked for your number or made any kind of real move. But it’s not casual either. You know the difference between someone being polite and someone showing up every day just to hear you talk.

You know what it looks like when Pedri likes someone.

You just don’t want to assume.

On day ten, he buys a novella that’s barely 100 pages and has a cover so pretentious it makes you laugh out loud when he brings it to the counter.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” you say.

“I’m branching out,” he insists.

“To books you can finish in one train ride.”

He winks. “Exactly.”

You hold the book in your hands, spine resting against your palm, and glance up at him slowly.

“You know you don’t have to keep buying them.”

Pedri’s smile falters. Just slightly.

You wait.

“I know,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

He hesitates - not embarrassed, but thoughtful. Like he’s been holding that answer for a while but wasn’t planning to say it out loud.

Then he shrugs and says, “I like talking to you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest.

And Pedri, as usual, doesn’t press.

He just takes his book and leaves, that same calm grin on his face, like he didn’t just say the most honest thing he’s ever said to you.

The cup is warm when he places it on the counter.

You don’t think much of it at first. Just another morning, another one of Pedri’s quiet little habits. But this time he doesn’t follow it with a book or a dumb comment about how he’s “branching into classics.” He just slides the cup toward you and nods.

“For you.”

You glance at it, then at him. “What is it?”

“Try it.”

You narrow your eyes a little. Suspicious. But you pick it up, peel the lid back slightly, and take a sip.

It stops you in your tracks.

You lower the cup slowly. “No way.”

Pedri says nothing. Just watches you.

You sip again. Slower. Trying to make sure your memory isn’t messing with you.

But it’s exactly the same. You know it instantly. The same hot chocolate you used to drink in homeroom. Smooth, rich, just sweet enough. And then that other part, that quiet little twist of flavor at the end. You never figured out what it was. You’d tried. Went to every café nearby back then. Ordered hot chocolate over and over again and never once found the same taste.

You even gave up eventually. Told yourself you were imagining it.

But now it’s back, sitting in your hands like it never left.

You look up at him. “Where did you get this?”

He shrugs. “Same place.”

You blink. “What place?”

Pedri doesn’t answer.

You frown. “You never told me where it was.”

“You never asked.”

“Yes, I did.”

He gives you a little smile. “You didn’t ask hard enough.”

You stare at him. “Is it close?”

“It’s on the way to the school. Still open.”

You try to think back. That one little street near the bus stop? Or the bakery side street?

“You used to bring this to me all the time,” you say slowly. “Every time it was cold.”

He nods. “Figured you wouldn’t get one yourself.”

“I didn’t even know what it was.”

“You liked it though.”

You pause.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I really did.”

Pedri takes a sip from his own cup. “You used to drink it before saying anything. Every time. Then you’d look at me like you’d just solved the meaning of life.”

You laugh under your breath. “It was good.”

“It still is.”

You study him.

“You never told me what made it taste like that.”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to now?”

“Nope.”

“It’s something weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that weird.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip. The taste hits your tongue again, but you still can’t name it. You just know it tastes like first period on a cold morning. Like plastic chairs and grey uniforms and the soft scrape of notebooks opening beside you. Like him.

You shake your head. “I thought maybe it was the milk. Or cinnamon or something. I even bought hot chocolate mix and tried to make it at home.”

“I know,” he says. “You told me.” But he would never tell you that that ‘twist’ was simply a shot of caramel.

Your smile slips a little. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

He shrugs again, more carefully this time. “I remember a lot of things.”

You look down at the drink. The taste hits again - not just the flavor but everything tied to it. Early mornings. Cold fingers. Him sitting next to you, half-asleep with his hood up, sliding the cup across your desk like it was nothing.

Back then, you didn’t think much of it. You figured he was just nice. Just a friend.

Now?

You’re starting to think you missed something.

You glance back up. “So is this your new thing now? Showing up every day with nostalgia in a cup?”

Pedri raises his eyebrows. “Depends. Is it working?”

You say nothing.

But you take another sip.

He smiles.

He doesn’t bring a book this time.

That’s the first thing you notice.

It’s late morning, sun already warming the floor through the front windows, and you’re flipping through invoices when the bell above the door rings. You glance up out of habit.

Pedri steps inside, same as always - plain white shirt, curls slightly flattened by the wind, sneakers just a little too clean for someone who walks everywhere. But there’s no book in his hand, no paper bag, not even a coffee today.

Just him.

He walks over to the counter slowly. Hands in his pockets. A little quieter than usual.

You smile at him anyway. “No reading material today?”

He shakes his head. “No book.”

You pause, noticing the shift. His tone’s different. Not in a bad way, just… more focused. Like he’s not here to joke around this time.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “So what brings you in?”

He looks at you for a second. Really looks. And then:

“I want to ask you something.”

Your stomach pulls tight.

You lean an elbow on the counter, trying to play it cool. “Alright. Hit me.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding it in.

“Do you want to get coffee? With me.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward - just quiet.

You blink. “Like. As in-”

“As in a date,” he says. Simple. Direct.

Your brain takes a second to catch up. Because even though you knew, even though the books and the hot chocolate and the soft glances all pointed in this direction, hearing it is different. It makes it real. Tangible. Inescapable.

Pedri watches you carefully. He’s not nervous, exactly. But he’s serious. Waiting for an answer like it matters.

Because it does.

You straighten up slightly. “You want to get coffee.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “You don’t even like coffee.”

“I like cafés.”

You squint at him. “You like me.”

A beat.

He smiles. “Yeah.”

You let out a breath, short and soft. Then you shake your head, smiling without meaning to.

“God, I was so oblivious in high school.”

“I noticed.”

“You really brought me drinks before class for months.”

“I remember.”

“And you never said anything.”

“You weren’t ready to hear it.”

You pause again. That one hits.

Pedri just waits. No pressure. No charming line. No performance. Just a quiet ask, out in the open, finally.

And maybe it’s the way the light hits the floor between you. Or the fact that he didn’t bring a book because today wasn’t about pretending. Or maybe it’s the hot chocolate still sitting in your memory like a bookmark.

But you nod.

“Okay.”

His eyebrows lift, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing lightly. “Let’s get coffee.”

Pedri lets out the smallest breath of relief. Then he nods, smiling like something’s finally clicked into place.

“Cool. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow works.”

He taps the counter once with his fingers, like a quiet thank-you, and starts backing toward the door.

“I’ll pick you up,” he adds.

You blink. “You don’t even know where I live.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You still in the same place as school?”

“…Yeah.”

He grins. “I remember.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that.

The bell jingles behind him, and you’re left standing behind the counter, hands warm against the wood, heart a little too loud in your chest.

You think about all the times you missed it. The glances. The drinks. The way he always remembered what you liked without needing reminders.

And now, finally, he’s asked.

And you said yes.

You almost text him to cancel.

Not because you don’t want to go - you do. God, you do. But part of you still can’t quite believe this is happening. Like maybe you imagined the whole thing. The books. The hot chocolate. The quiet way he looked at you yesterday like you already knew how he felt.

You don’t cancel though.

You wait outside your building at 10:58, chewing the inside of your lip, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves. He said “morning” like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wasn’t completely aware that mornings are his thing, his whole memory pressed into that time of day. The way he always used to show up with something warm in his hands, before your first class, before you even knew to look for him.

So when his car pulls up and he leans across the seat to wave, you don’t hesitate.

You climb in, buckle your seatbelt, and say, “Hi.”

He grins at you. “Hi.”

He takes you to a little café by the water. Not the one where he gets the hot chocolate, not a chain, just something in between quiet, local, wood tables and scratched-up floors and a chalkboard menu that’s more vibe than function. It smells like cinnamon and espresso and something buttery coming out of the kitchen.

You find a table in the corner by the window. He lets you sit first.

Neither of you says much at first.

You order something simple - tea, a pastry you can pick at if things get awkward. He orders a drink and then doesn’t touch it for the first ten minutes. You don’t either.

It’s not uncomfortable.

It’s just careful.

There’s something about sitting across from someone who knew you at seventeen. Not just in passing, not as a classmate, but someone who knew your schedule, your moods, the way you used to scribble notes in the margins of your planner with colored pens. You used to sit next to him every weekday morning, completely unaware he was in love with you.

And now you’re here.

You reach for your tea. “So. You want me to pretend this is a normal first date?”

Pedri laughs softly. “Is it not?”

“No. Not even close.”

He raises a brow. “What makes it different?”

“Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

“Surprise me.”

You take a bite of your pastry. “Okay. A) You’ve been stalking my TBR list for two weeks. B) You brought me a drink from some café I couldn’t find for four years. And C) You remembered my old address without asking.”

Pedri sips his drink, clearly unbothered. “None of that’s weird.”

You lean back in your chair. “Okay. So what is weird?”

He looks at you for a moment. Thoughtfully. “We’ve known each other forever. But I feel like this is the first time I’m really getting to talk to you.”

You pause.

He’s not wrong.

It was different back then. You were busy trying to get through school. He was already playing for Las Palmas, already half-out-the-door. You knew he had early training, late matches, extra hours on the pitch that kept him from weekend parties. You never really thought about how tired he must’ve been showing up with that drink in his hand before first period.

You just drank it.

You stir your tea. “Why didn’t you ever say anything back then?”

Pedri rests his arms on the table, his voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

You glance up at him.

“I liked you,” he says. “A lot. But you had no idea. And I think part of me liked it that way. I could just… show up. Be there.”

You exhale, staring at your cup.

“I think I knew,” you admit. “But not really. You know?”

He nods. “Yeah. You didn’t owe me anything.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I kind of hate that I didn’t notice more.”

He smiles gently. “I don’t.”

You meet his eyes.

“If I had said something then,” he adds, “we might’ve dated, yeah. But maybe we would’ve broken up after school, when I moved. Or drifted. Or lost touch.”

You blink. “That’s… optimistic.”

“It’s realistic,” he says. “And I didn’t want to lose you completely.”

You sit with that for a second.

Then you look down at your hands. “So why now?”

Pedri doesn’t look away.

“Because you’re here,” he says. “And I am too. And for once, there’s no reason not to try.”

Your chest tightens.

There’s no pressure in his voice. No panic. Just a quiet steadiness, like this isn’t a line, just a fact. He wants to know you now. On purpose. No more half-hinting. No more warm drinks dropped off like favors.

He wants this.

And suddenly you do too.

You reach for your tea again. “Okay. So now what?”

Pedri tilts his head. “Now we drink. We eat. I try not to do anything embarrassing. You pretend I’m cool.”

You smile. “That sounds fair.”

“And maybe after,” he adds, “we go for a walk. Or talk more. Or make plans again.”

“Like a second date?”

He grins. “Like a second date.”

You look out the window. The sky is clear, and the breeze is moving through the palms across the street. And for the first time in a while, you feel still.

No guessing. No overthinking.

Just here.

With him.

2 years later - in Barcelona.

The light comes in slow.

It creeps through the gaps in the curtains, soft and golden, brushing over the white sheets tangled around your legs. The room is still. Quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t notice until you really stop moving. The kind that makes you stay exactly where you are.

Pedri’s arm is draped across your waist. Warm. Heavy. Familiar.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, slow and even, mouth slightly parted where his face is pressed into your shoulder. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls behind you, bare skin against bare skin, like his whole body is relaxed in that way it only gets when he knows he doesn’t have to be anywhere else.

You shift slightly, just to get a better look at him.

He’s still completely asleep. Eyelashes soft against his cheeks, lips a little chapped from the sun, curls a mess against the pillow. You smile to yourself. Two years in, and he still sleeps like a boy with nothing to prove. Peaceful. Trusting.

You press your nose into the side of his arm, breathing him in. He smells like sleep and sunscreen and that lemony soap you both pretend not to steal from each other in the shower. It’s too early to think about breakfast. Too early to move. You’re not even sure what day it is.

You don’t care.

You just lie there, warm and tucked in beside him, his leg slotted between yours like he’s still making sure you’re close enough, even in his sleep.

This morning isn’t special. There’s no holiday. No plan.

Just him.

Just you.

And the way it all feels so easy now.

You look up at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the city outside the window - faint noise, a car horn, someone laughing on the street - but it feels far away. Like nothing could really touch this.

You glance back at him.

He twitches once, like he’s on the edge of waking up. You press your hand to his chest gently, and he settles again. His skin is warm under your palm, heartbeat slow and steady beneath it.

You let your fingers trace soft circles there, careful not to wake him. Not yet.

You want to stay like this a little longer.

You’re not thinking about how you got here, not replaying old moments or comparing who you used to be. You just feel it. Right now. This morning. This boy. This love.

You turn your head and press the smallest kiss to his shoulder, just a whisper against his skin.

Pedri stirs, but doesn’t wake.

You smile.

And close your eyes again.

Just for a little while.

Just to hold onto this feeling a bit longer.

You must drift for a while, somewhere between asleep and not, because when you open your eyes again, the light has changed. Brighter now, warmer, stretching across the hardwood floors in thick golden lines. The corner of the sheet has slipped off your shoulder, and you shiver just slightly before tucking it back up.

Pedri’s breath stirs at the base of your neck.

You can feel it - the moment he starts waking. It’s subtle. His fingers twitch lightly against your stomach, then settle again. His head shifts, nuzzling closer into the curve of your shoulder blade. He hums softly under his breath, too low for words, more instinct than anything else.

You don’t say anything. You just reach down and brush your fingertips across the back of his hand where it rests on you, slow and soft, until you feel him squeeze gently in response.

“Mmm,” he mumbles.

You smile without turning around. “Good morning.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. Barely there. A habit more than anything. He always does that first, before opening his eyes, before even saying your name. Like his way of checking you’re still real.

“Too early,” he says eventually, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s not,” you say, still smiling. “You’ve already slept in.”

“How much?”

You glance at the clock on the dresser. “Past nine.”

He groans into your back. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Sabes que no me gusta eso,” he mutters. His Spanish comes out more when he’s sleepy, words lazy and unfiltered.

“You love it,” you murmur, shifting slightly so you can roll onto your back. His arm stays wrapped around your waist, and now you’re facing him, his head half-buried in the pillow.

His eyes are still barely open. Warm brown, soft at the corners. Sleepy and familiar.

“You love this,” you add. “Lying in. No alarms. No travel. Just… this.”

He huffs a breath out through his nose, but there’s no argument. He shifts closer instead, tucking his face into the crook of your neck now, hand slipping under the fabric of your shirt to rest against your bare skin.

You let him.

You always do.

He sighs again, this time more content.

It’s been two years, and he still holds you like this every chance he gets. Like he wants to memorize the weight of you against him. Like this is the part of his day that matters most - not the goals, not the interviews, not even the training. Just this. You. Him. Morning light and messy sheets, and no need to speak unless you want to.

You slip your fingers into his hair and gently rake through the curls. They’re soft today, still damp from last night’s shower, flattened weirdly on one side where he slept too hard.

He doesn’t complain.

He just melts.

“Do we have to get up?” he asks eventually, voice muffled against your throat.

“Not yet.”

“How long can we stay like this before it’s irresponsible?”

You smile. “Let’s find out.”

He laughs quietly, breath warm on your skin.

You shift again so you can look at him properly. His face is relaxed, pillow-creased, the last traces of sleep still softening his features. You brush your thumb along his jaw. He catches your hand in his and kisses your knuckles.

“I like waking up next to you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

You don’t answer right away.

You just look at him, really look, and try to wrap your head around how something can feel so normal and so unbelievable at the same time.

Then you say, just as quietly, “I like waking up next to you too.”

Pedri grins. Eyes crinkled, warm and slow. “Yeah?”

You lean in. Press your forehead against his. “Yeah.”

He kisses you then, properly this time. No hesitation. Just the kind of kiss that says good morning and I love you and I don’t care what time it is, as long as you’re right here.

When you pull apart, neither of you says anything for a while.

You just breathe in the same rhythm. Hands tucked against each other. Legs tangled under the covers. The sun pouring in like it was made for this room and this morning and this version of you two.

You close your eyes again.

Not to sleep.

Just to be here.

With him.

You both fall continue resting.

It starts with the smallest shift, his leg sliding against yours under the blanket, a soft groan into the pillow, and then the weight of his arm dragging you closer, like you could somehow still drift away if he doesn’t keep you there.

Then comes the breath.

Long. Deep. The kind that says okay, I’m awake now, but I don’t want to be.

You smile before you even open your eyes.

“You’re awake,” you murmur, voice still raspy with sleep.

Pedri hums, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Barely.”

“You slept in.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You shift slightly so you can see his face. His eyes are still half-closed, lashes tangled, lips puffy with sleep. He looks good like this, warm and soft and completely real.

“Not a bad thing,” you say, brushing a hand through his curls. “Just rare.”

He cracks one eye open. “Means I’m relaxed.”

You kiss his temple. “You’re getting soft.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles into your skin, “I live with someone who tucks me in like a kid and lets me sleep on top of them half the night. What do you expect?”

“Dignity?”

He laughs, low and warm, and then finally pulls back enough to stretch. His arm reaches behind him, and he lets out another long groan, face scrunching up like he’s trying to wrestle the sleep from his bones.

“Hungry?” you ask.

His head flops dramatically back into the pillow. “Starving.”

You smile. “Let’s go then.”

“I don’t wanna get up.”

“Well, if you want breakfast, you have to.”

He groans like a child.

You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder until he finally, finally, gets up. He’s still shirtless, hair a disaster, underwear sitting low on his hips as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and yawns.

You get up too, dragging the sheet with you until you find your sweatshirt from the night before, slipping it over your head. Pedri watches you from the bed, still half-asleep and clearly trying to pretend he’s not checking you out.

“Stop staring,” you say.

“I’m not,” he lies, stretching again. “You just look good in my clothes.”

You ignore him and leave the bedroom barefoot, and he follows a few seconds later, trailing after you like a puppy, yawning every ten steps.

The kitchen’s bright. Morning light bounces off the tiled counters and hits the pale cabinets in a way that makes everything feel cleaner than it is. There’s a mug on the counter from last night, and you shove it aside to make space.

Pedri leans against the fridge, watching you as you rummage through the cupboards.

“Eggs?”

“Sure.”

“Toast?”

“Obviously.”

“Are you gonna help?”

“I’m moral support.”

You throw a kitchen towel at him. “Chop something or I swear.”

He laughs and finally moves, grabbing a cutting board and pulling out the tomatoes. You grab the eggs, crack them into a bowl, and start whisking lazily while he slices - a little too slow, a little too uneven - but you don’t care. It’s not about speed. It’s not even really about food. It’s just this.

Being here.

Doing this.

The eggs go into the pan, and the tomatoes hit the skillet next to them. Pedri stands behind you at one point, arms slipping around your waist while you stir. He rests his chin on your shoulder and just stays there for a minute.

“Smells good,” he says softly.

You glance back at him. “You did nothing.”

“I did emotional labor.”

You laugh and bump him with your hip. He presses a kiss to your jaw and grabs two plates, setting them out on the counter.

When the food’s done, you both sit at the bar stools in front of the window. The city outside is alive now - cars moving, people walking, the occasional bark from a dog passing. But it still feels quiet in here. Like the noise can’t really reach you.

Pedri eats slowly, like he’s in no rush. He reaches out with his foot every so often, nudging yours under the counter just to feel you close.

“You’re domestic now,” you tease.

He chews dramatically. “You love it.”

You smile down at your toast. “Maybe I do.”

He grins. That sleepy, happy, I-know-I-have-you kind of grin. You let the moment stretch between bites, between lazy glances and shared silences that don’t need to be filled.

Two years in.

Still the best part of your day.

Still him.

Still this.

The shower’s already running by the time you step in, steam curling at the edges of the glass. Pedri’s standing under the spray, head tilted back, water streaming through his curls as he blindly reaches for the bottle of shampoo.

You step up behind him and take it from his hand.

“I got it,” you say.

He glances over his shoulder, grinning lazily. “Service with a smile.”

“Shut up and turn around.”

He does. You squeeze shampoo into your palm and reach up, lathering it slowly into his hair, fingers massaging through the soft curls. He hums under his breath, eyes fluttering shut, leaning into your touch without hesitation.

“You’re spoiled,” you mutter.

“Keep doing that and I won’t deny it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you rinse him off, fingers gentle as the water runs clear. He blinks down at you, water dripping from his lashes, lips parted slightly like he’s going to say something - but instead, he just leans forward and kisses the tip of your nose.

“Your turn,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s nudging you to face away.

You hear him pop open your bottle of shampoo - the one he always pretends not to use even though he loves the smell - and then his fingers are in your hair. Careful, thorough, slower than necessary. He takes his time, thumbs pressing little circles into your scalp while you close your eyes and let your shoulders relax.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

“Should’ve gone to cosmetology school.”

You laugh, and he leans in to kiss the back of your shoulder.

Rinsing off turns into another excuse to stay close. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you both stand under the spray, and you lean back into him, warm water running down your skin. Neither of you talks for a bit. There’s no need.

It’s just comfort.

Closeness.

Hands in hair. Skin on skin. Routines turned into rituals without even meaning to.

You turn around, water splashing between you, and kiss him once - slow, wet, and sleepy.

“Best part of the morning,” he mumbles.

You grin. “Told you you’re soft now.”

He shrugs. “Only for you.”

And you believe it. Completely.

#pedri gonzalez #pedri #pedri gonzalez fic #pedri fic #obvithebestsoph!pedri #pedri gonzalez x reader #pedri x reader #fc barcelona #fanfiction #football #football fic #culer #PG8

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superfroak · 1 day ago

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For the most part I guess I can’t disagree with this, I’m just more willing to buy into the story’s ideas of using magic to cope. And I think it’s interesting using it as a way to escape otherwise impossible to escape trauma, like using magic to escape an impossible locked room. But I think you’ve made good points that it isn’t as much about accepting the good with the bad as I thought. There’s a couple points I wanna argue against though. I don’t think the red flashbacks being framed as “tearing out the guts” was to preserve kinzo’s honor or anything, it was clearly done in the meta narrative to distress ange and lion, which I think was the point: not that revealing these things is airing out dirty laundry, but how does learning these things actually help them at all, personally? Sure, we as readers want to understand Kinzo’s character better, but does knowing the exact extent of his crimes actually do Ange any more good?

I think keeping the memory of others alive, and how exactly you remember them, is supposed to be framed as a tool specifically for your own benefit in the present, not really to actually honor them, which is why the actual truth doesnt really matter, and why remembering the good is framed as more important than remembering the bad. Of course the only reason this coping mechanism is at all feasible is because Ange’s entire family is dead, we directly see how poorly it works out for Maria when she’s forced to face actual reality with it. And yeah it does kinda require ignoring the other living relatives of the victims, maybe the idea was that they all already had faith that their family members weren’t at fault, and ange was the one most wracked by that doubt and thus still searching for the truth? I dunno, but if any of them were still invested in learning the truth it does fall apart a bit. So it only really works on this scale for Ange’s very specific situation, I guess (does it undermine the themes of not revelling in tales of abuse for entertainment if the most significant way to apply the thesis of the story is to one specific story of abuse designed for our entertainment?)

And I do wish kuwatrice was more of an actual character, its a bit unfortunate. Maybe you could say that’s the point, she never had enough autonomy to become a person, or that her character was meant to be filled in by chick beatrice, but ehhh.

And I think ryukishi shoulda done a lot more to make the trick ending actually neutral and valid, it claims it’s really just our choice but it really isn’t even at all. But I suppose the point is more to reward you for understanding his thesis enough to buy into it. But I’ll definitely be thinking on these points whenever I eventually reread it because handling these things carefully is part of what makes umineko work at all so I think it is worth reconsidering.

Also, not really relevant, but I think there’s some room to speculate on if those red flashbacks were even true, though I figure they probably are, the only one that really has room for speculation is kinzo wanting to steal the gold. I also disagree that it shows kinzo actively twisting the narrative to frame himself better, the theatregoing authority that gets him to tell his story at all is supposed to only show the truth, which I’d interpret as him telling the story how he truly believes it happened. I don’t know whether to interpret that as kinzo subconsciously whitewashing his original motivation being from greed and not loneliness, or if he was so crazed by lonliness that he set this plan in motion in a convoluted effort to “save” Castiglioni. But I think it makes it more interesting. Though also, I think Kinzo having the power to “write his own narrative” being reflected by Featherine is a notable theme so i suppose thats still an element of it too.

Is it ACTUALLY possible to solve Umineko on your own? Like, realistically?

This article contains no spoilers beyond chapter 2, which is the bare minimum you need to read to even understand what Umineko is about.

As I was reading the answers arc of the Umineko no Naku Koro ni visual novel, also known as Umineko When They Cry, also known as Umineko no Naku Koro ni Chiru, I wondered:

Can this mystery actually be solved before the story explains the solution? And by “actually” I mean “being an average reader that spends a couple hours thinking really hard about it”, since I assume that it is solvable if you are a die hard fan with 4.000 free hours that is willing to re-read each chapter 10 times and write a book full of notes.

Also, by “possible” I mean that the solution makes perfect sense and can be reached by following logic steps.

I feared that looking up the answer on the internet might produce an accidental spoiler that ruins the whole experience. Still, I took a peek, since I needed some guarantee before committing the time to try and solve it.

I found some threads on reddit where everyone agreed that it was in fact solvable. Some people going as far as claiming they solved it all by episode 4.

So I tried to solve it. I spent some hours on it, rereading some chapter and competitions of red truths. I had some theories, but nothing that neatly explained all the murders. It didn’t look like I could get any further, so I kept reading.

After having finished the whole visual novel, reading over the manga, watching 8 hours of video on youtube, and reading old forums for even more hours, this is my red truth:

It is impossible to properly solve Umineko.

But then, how come that all those people claimed to have solved it themselves?

The truth about those people is that they did not solve Umineko, not by a long shot.

What those people did:

- Figure out a certain twist in the story that heavily implies who the culprit is and assume that’s the solution.

What those people didn’t do:

- Actually go through every murder and provide a proper explanation of how that character could have done it, supported by clues in the game and without contradictions.

Why is it impossible to properly solve Umineko?

- Most of the actions that the culprit must have taken are not hinted at all. - There is no limit on how many culprits/accomplices there are. - There is no guarantee that the accomplices or even the culprit are the same in all the games. - There is no guarantee that the culprit is not killed. - Anything that is not a red truth can be disregarded as “lies of the narration”. - Red truths are valid as long as they are technically true in any possible context or interpretation, which makes them worse than useless (more on this later). - It’s never explicitly stated that the Umineko mystery follows any of the “rules of a good mystery” explained in the story.

So, basically, there isn’t nearly enough information and rules to find the truth. Even if you reached a solution, you could never be sure it is the solution, and coming up with a solution given the listed conditions is unsatisfactory and trivially easy.

Before proving that, let me quickly address the riddle of the epitaph.

Is it possible to solve the riddle of the epitaph?

No.

Why is it impossible to solve the riddle of the epitaph?

Because the solution requires:

- The map of a certain country during a certain time period (none of which are mentioned in the first 4 chapters, I think, and I doubt you could even find it on the internet). - Expert knowledge of Japanese kanjis and a some Chinese. - Solving metaphoric riddles of questionable logic. - To be actually present in Umineko’s world so you can examine and interact with “the door to the golden land”.

However, the riddle of the epitaph is possible to guess.

This is what anyone who claims to have solved the epitaph actually did. They guessed the answer using these 3 steps:

1- Ignore the most convoluted parts of the epitaph and assume the location of the door to the golden land based on what would make sense for the narrative of the story. 2- Solve a play on words by interpreting it in the only way that would fit the description of that place. 3- Roughly guess how opening the door to the golden land could work.

—-

Now, let’s go back to the solution to the murders. I claimed that coming up with a solution given the listed conditions is unsatisfactory and trivially easy.

Let me demonstrate. Here is the solution for all the murders in Umineko assuming the culprit is whatever character you want:

- All the servants, Nanjo, and all the members of the family required to make it work are accomplices. They are either bribed, threatened, convinced or tricked. - Every death is being faked unless stated in red. - Every scene not directly witnessed and described in a literal fashion by Battler is a “lie of the narration”, so it never happened. - If it is stated in red that your chosen character is not the culprit, it is because the word “culprit” is not being used to mean “the mastermind behind the murders” but “the responsible for some particular action” that your chosen culprit is not directly responsible for. - If it is stated in red that your chosen character is not a murderer or did not kill a particular person, it is because while carrying out the murders they were roleplaying Beatrice, so the red truth is considering that the actual murderer is their Beatrice impersonation, not their actual self.

Easy, right? Completely unsatisfactory too.

You would assume that the actual solution is elegant, doesn’t require twisting the red truth so much, and is completely supported by hints, but you would be wrong.

The VN doesn’t even explicitly confirm who the culprit is and it doesn’t go into detail about how each murder was carried out either. However, the manga does. I will refer to this as the “official solution”.

The official solution is so bad and full of holes and contradictions that a lot of people think it’s actually a trap set by the author for “people who stop thinking”.

So there’s 2 possibilities here:

- Umineko is a disappointment and is not solvable. The author did a poor job shoehorning explanations that were not hinted and forgetting details that contradict them. - Umineko is a hidden masterpiece. The author committed to a master trolling and pretended, even during interviews, that the flawed official solution is the truth, all just to hide the proper solution for those who don’t stop thinking. Let’s call this the “hidden solution”.

Why is the official solution so bad? Short edition.

I’ll go into more detail later, but in brief:

- The solution requires fairly ridiculous “anime logic”. - The solution doesn’t follow the rules of a proper mystery that Umineko itself explains. There are no clues to figure out how most of the murders where carried out or by whom. - The are as many clues pointing to the culprit as there are red truths contradicting it. - The solution is willing to disregard basically everything that is not a red truth as “lies of the narration”. - The red truth directly contradicts this solution, unless we interpret it in arbitrary and twisted ways in order for it to mean something else. - The logistics and details of the murders are ignored. Corpses are moved around like pillows. The culprit is never stained by blood. Shots are not heard unless the plot requires so. Etc.

Is it possible to reach the official solution?

It’s possible to figure out who is the official culprit. There are heavy hints for it, hard to see initially, but sorta obvious in retrospect. Since it’s a big twist, you should be fairly certain that you found it when you do.

However, for the reasons listed before, finding the culprit doesn’t allow you to find the solution to the murders, since anyone can be an accomplice, any narration can be a lie and any red truth can be interpreted as something else.

So, what about the hidden solution?

Is it possible to reach the hidden solution?

I’m not saying a hidden, elegant solution doesn’t exist, but for the reasons listed under “Why is it impossible to properly solve Umineko?”, you would never know if it is elegant enough to be the actual truth. It would also certainly require 4.000 hours if not more. Such a hidden truth would require you to disseminate and analyze almost every single word of this 120 hours novel.

However, I don’t see how you can make sense of all the red truths without twisting their logic and meaning so they don’t contradict real facts or one another, which makes me think that the actual solution being bad is more likely than a hidden, perfectly logical solution.

Up until chapter 6, I would have totally bought that the whole story was perfectly thought off up to the last detail, but chapters 7 and 8 are so bad I don’t believe that anymore.

Why is the official solution so bad? Extended edition.

Since I don’t want to spoil it, let me give you a fictional example of a solution that is roughly as bad as the official one, with the same kind of justifications.

The following are not spoilers, just a completely fake theory I just made up that not only appears to fit perfectly as a solution, but also appears to be heavily hinted through the game:

The culprit is Maria. She is actually not 8 but 20 years old. This is the big twist that makes people think they have solved Umineko upon realizing it, regardless of whether it completely fits or not. Then they reinterpret everything as needed to make it look like it’s supporting this truth, as I’m about to do.

This truth is right in your face the whole time, as Rosa is constantly scolding her for not acting her age. It makes no sense that she would be that bothered by it if Maria was actually 8 years old.

This is also heavily hinted by the way Rosa abuses Maria in front of other people while they all allow it. Hitting a 20 years old is not nearly as abusive as hitting an 8 years old.

All the characters agree to treat Maria as an 8 years old since that’s the way she acts and they don’t want to be mean to her, unlike her mother. This is also the reason why she is visually depicted as a little kid; as far as anyone is concerned, she is a little kid. “Without love it cannot be seen”; because they love Maria and respect her personality, they can see her as a kid.

This is all a facade maintained by Maria to trick everyone. She’s such a fanatic of the occult that her mask slips when talking about the topic and she starts acting like the creepy adult she actually is. Another massive hint that’s in your face the whole time.

She’s also shown to know Hebrew and have the whole Bible memorized. There’s no way she could be a little girl.

Even her appearance reveals the truth: She’s the only one who wears a crown, signaling that she’s the queen of the chess game.

If you have read up to chapter 5, you should recall a scene in which a certain character seriously confronts her about the existence of magic as if she was an adult, to the surprise of everyone else, who think this character is being rude. This is another massive hint that she’s actually an adult and everyone is pretending for her sake.

The reason she carries out the murders is because she truly believes Beatrice exists and will be resurrected with the ritual depicted in the epitaph. She is always saying so openly and being unaffected by the murders no matter how grueling they are or if the victim is her own mother.

The kind of person who claims to have solved Umineko would have stopped here and decided the mystery is solved. The twist is obvious in retrospect and it seems like Maria could actually have carried out the murders if she was an adult. It’s obvious that this is the solution, so there’s no need to think it further or go through every murder to check if it actually fits and is supported by clues. This story is a masterpiece!

But now we are on the internet and there are idiots who claim this solution is bad or contradictory, so let’s prove them wrong:

First chapter, first twilight:

Maria enters the parlor with a gun and kills everyone.

Yes, she kills 6 people by herself without missing a shot, even though in later chapters it’s said that the guns in the mansion don’t shoot straight and are very hard to reload for an amateur

She then carries 6 corpses to the storeroom at the other side of the garden all by herself, without getting blood stains on her clothes or on the path to the storeroom, and without anyone hearing a thing.

Later on, Natsuhi also has a gun. This confirms that there are guns in the mansion, so Maria could also get a gun, making this crime hinted and solvable.

First chapter, second twilight:

Maria goes to Eva’s room. Eva has no reason to suspect her, so she lets her in, then Maria kills her and Hideyoshi with the gun she carried hidden on her purse (another big hint; she’s the only one who can carry weapons around without being noticed).

The chain on the door was never set, that was a lie of the narration. This makes sense since Battler himself didn’t witness the scene. Genji and Kanon find the bodies and go tell other people.

While they are out, Maria somehow draws a giant magic circle in blood on the door, without moving the bodies or staining herself, the floor, or the bed where the corpse of Eva is laying. She had drawings of the same circle on her notebook, making this crime hinted and solvable.

You get the point, so let’s skip the rest of the murders and assume they can be explained by Maria somehow.

Let’s assume that in later chapters it is said in red that Maria is dead and her death was a homicide. This might seem to contradict our theory that Maria is the culprit, but it actually doesn’t. The sentence is referring to “Maria the kid”, which is treated here as a different entity from “Maria the adult”, in a similar way as how Maria treats her mother as either her real mother or “the evil witch” depending on whether she’s angry or kind. “Maria the kid” being dead means that she has discarded that facade and won’t use it anymore*. This can be considered a homicide since “Maria the adult” is the one who decides to “kill” her facade.

*She will actually use it one more time when it’s convenient for the plot, but this is treated as a resurrection and doesn’t contradict the truth that “Maria the kid” was dead at that point in time.

All of this makes sense and is solvable.

This is what the official solution apologists believe.

Umineko completely betrays the player.

Umineko is constantly asking the player to solve its mystery, going as far as to insult readers who don’t try hard enough, and seemingly assuring you that the game is perfectly solvable and follows the rules of a good mystery.

All of this is a lie.

I take particular issue with the red truth.

The red truth is introduced in a way that requires trust and cooperation from the player. It is not realistic to think that Battler (or you, the player) would be convinced that a lying witch that is trying to trick you would be trustworthy when explaining the rules of the game or the nature of the red truth.

However, you do the concession because you are, in fact, playing a game. You understand that the game is challenging you to solve it, so some rules must be laid out.

The red truth is accepted as a shortcut to avoid having to read through 2 hours of explanations for every minute detail. You accept that when “character X is dead” is said in red, the purpose is to tell Battler (and you, the player), that you should not waste your time trying to find ways in which the death of character X could have been faked, and for the story to not waste time either trying to deny every possible way to fake that death (which would be futile anyway since you can’t believe anything the witch says).

Red truths are sometimes used for misdirection, but that’s all good and part of the fun as long as they can still be taken at face value and interpreted literally. “Character X didn’t exit the room” tricks you into assuming that character X was inside the room to begin with, but the solution here is to take the red truth literally and don’t make any extra assumptions, not to change the meaning or the context of the red.

Eventually, however, the game provides consecutive red truths that directly contradict each other. The official explanation is that a red truth is valid as long as there is a way in which it could technically be interpreted as true. For example, if you and I are in the same room, I can claim in red that “there’s only one person in the room”, because I’m speaking out of context and by “the room” I’m not referring to this room, but any other room with a single person in it, or because you did cruel things in the past, so I consider you to be a “monster”, not a “person”. Therefore, the red truth “there’s only one person in the room” is no truth at all.

You might think it’s a cool twist that the red is not reliable and the witch was tricking you all along, and I agree that from a narrative standpoint it is.

However, from the point of view of a player being encouraged to try and solve the mystery, it is a complete betrayal of the truth you placed in the game.

The ending of Umineko is awful and the whole “solvable mystery” is a hurtful lie.

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writingdevil · 1 day ago

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Is toxic yaoi on the shelf? Because I kinda wanna see a Smitten x Opportunist toxic yaoi based solely on how they’re both probably absolutely horrendous about the idea of being alone, plus the whole ‘in love with being in love’ vs ‘will stoop to any level to be wanted’ thing is like- idk i need it in between my teeth

um only if toxic yaoi IS on the shelf tho so literally no pressure :P

(OOHH I love toxic Smittunist!! They can both be so unhealthy with each other, I love it! They CANNOT deal with loneliness well at all, so this'll be fun to write- enjoy!)

"I love you."

Opportunist hummed, enjoying the feeling of Smitten's body against his own as they slow danced- before he realised what had just been said, and he froze.

But his mouth moved before he knew what he was doing.

"I love you too," he declared boldly, leaning back just enough to look Smitten in the eyes.

Smitten looked elated for a second- and Opportunist had thought that he had gotten away with it- but then uncertainty clouded his vision.

"Are you sure you do?" Smitten asked, pulling Opportunist backwards with him as they danced, and Opportunist blinked in surprise, before going, "Do you not believe that I love you?"

He didn't let it show, but fear clutched his heart, at the thought of Smitten questioning his love for him. Has Opportunist not been that great of a partner so far? He's pretty sure he's memorised all of Smitten's likes and dislikes at this point, and took him out on as many dates as Smitten yearned for. Was Opportunist still doing something wrong?

No, no, no. Surely it wasn't that serious. Smitten loved being with Opportunist, and Opportunist was quite proud of himself for being the perfect partner to Smitten, to be his true love.

Opportunist gave Smitten his most charming smile, picking up the pace as they danced. "My dear, I love you more than anything else in the world. Is that not obvious?"

Smitten quickly squeezed their intertwined hands, going along with the pace easily. "Of course it's obvious, my love. It's just-" Smitten cut himself off with a sigh, eyes downcast in a way that Opportunist genuinely didn't like looking at.

He was so used to seeing Smitten smiling and laughing, that seeing him look unsure felt-wrong to Opportunist.

"It's just that, sometimes, I feel as if we aren't showing each other the entirety of our souls," Smitten explained, and then he leaned his face closer before Opportunist could reply, a pleading look in your eyes.

"I know you have your secrets, but you trust me, don't you? You trust me with your heart?"

'I trust that you're easy to please,' a fearful voice in Opportunist's head whispered. But what he actually did was chuckle, then swiftly dipped Smitten, earning a surprised, "Oh!" from him, before Smitten instantly wrapped his arms around Opportunist's neck.

Opportunist smiled down at Smitten, spreading his wings wide, so that he was the only thing that Smitten could focus on.

"Smitten, you're the love of my life. I would trust you with my very soul."

Smitten's eyes sparkled at the confession, just as Opportunist planned. He needed to keep Smitten in love with him. He just needed to make sure that Smitten saw Opportunist as the perfect soulmate and nothing less than that, because that was Opportunist's ticket to freedom and safety.

"You love me that much?" Smitten's voice was breathless, in awe at just how deep Opportunist's love for him was, and if Opportunist paid enough attention, he could probably hear the relief in his voice.

He didn't pay attention.

Opportunist smiled at him like a lover would, like Smitten adored being looked at. "I will happily declare any secret that you require of me, anything to prove my love for you is everlasting."

Smitten gazed up at him with eyes full of love and affection, leaning up to press a kiss to Opportunist's cheek. He did not sigh at the feeling, nor feel a fluttering in his chest.

Still, he gently lifted Smitten back up, glad that he's gotten rid of those silly doubts from Smitten's mind. Who knows what would've happened if Smitten didn't believe Opportunist was the one for him?

Then again, the thought of Smitten trying to end a relationship was laughable. Smitten wouldn't have the guts, so maybe Opportunist shouldn't be worrying so much about it.

Once Smitten was on his own feet again, Opportunist figured he would make a romantic dinner for Smitten, let him see that Opportunist was more than capable of taking care of him and showering him in affection.

He just had to prove that Smitten needed him.

Opportunist could keep Smitten in love with him, for however long he desired.

Smitten could give Opportunist everything he needed. Smitten could make Opportunist not feel so lonely anymore- what does it matter if Opportunist lied about his preferences, or overworked himself to impress Smitten? So long as Smitten wanted him, that was all Opportunist needed.

But as he opened his mouth to reply, Opportunist suddenly let a yelp out as Smitten suddenly spun him outwards with one hand, then spun him back, leaving Opportunist's back pressed against Smitten's chest with their arms wrapped around each other.

He felt Smitten lean in to whisper in his ear, "Do you promise not to leave me alone?" There was something and desperate and dark in his voice, but Opportunist was too busy coming to terms with their close proximity and the feeling of Smitten's breath against his cheek to truly understand it.

"You promise our love will never wither and die?" Smitten's grip on him tightened. "You promise that I make your heart burn with passion for me and your head spin of our future together? I bring you such joy? You love me that much, yes?"

There was a growing panic in Smitten's voice, and Opportunist frantically nodded his head, if only to stop Smitten from crushing him to his chest any further.

"I love you with all my heart, yes!" Opportunist nervously declared- and then he heard Smitten sigh, before swiftly spinning Opportunist around to face him again.

Opportunist braced his hands against Smitten's broad shoulders to help get his balance back, and he felt Smitten wrap his arms around his waist and bring him even closer.

Once Opportunist could focus again, he was hit with Smitten's loving gaze again- even more intense this time, somehow.

He could feel the way Smitten gripped him, as if afraid of letting him go, at letting this love that Opportunist has orchestrated for him go.

Opportunist wasn't too keen on being abandoned anytime soon either.

Smitten's gaze was suffocating Opportunist, and he whispered in a voice full of passion and longing, "I love you."

Opportunist pulled his mask of a perfect, doting lover up as he smiled and said, "I love you too." He ignored the painful ache in his chest.

Then Smitten pressed their lips together, and it was just another step in their dance.

#slay the princess #stories #my writing #stp opportunist #stp #stp voices #stp smitten #voice of the opportunist #voice of the smitten #smittunist #writing request #Once again- not sure if it's that toxic- it's kinda more just really sad for the both of them

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zhemariart · 2 years ago

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aight aight aight

been obsessed with Baldur's Gate 3 for the past couple months, time to churn out some of all the art I day dream about. Starting with one of my Tavs, Xarmir <:

#Baldur's gate 3 #tav #bg3 tav #oc: xarmir #gotta remember to upload stuff <:#have much much planned I wanna show with him #so this is a bundle of chaos #came to chase halsin #somehow picked astarion up on the way #may be the voice of reason for the party #but the party quickly learns he makes worst possible choices for himself #so they gotta look after his dumb ass #did i mod the game #maybe c:

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thelien-art · 2 years ago

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✨Him✨

What is he thinking about? You tell me

#tolkien #silmarillion #jrr tolkien #melkor #morgoth #silm art #tolkien art #digital art #my art #i bet he got a bit to interested in mairons look instead of mairons war plans #pushing my melkor lost his ability to create color since he had to be pretty as that was how the humans described him #and he had to have been hit with a drastic change in his form(s) for the theft of the silmarils #and i hc him as original blue eyes #i also hc ainur cant change their eye color like they can change how much sclera iris and pupil show but thats it #so being used to see him as blue eyed suddenly meeting a cloud of black smoke with red eyes you gotta assume the worst #so yes i still think he can change his form although it gets harder the more he pures himself into arda and the more insane he gets #and he has his preferable he feels best in #and of course it will be a form without pigmentation #mairon cant decide if he wanna sleep with him or study him under a microscope

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greennoobartist · 3 months ago

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Have some school shenanigans from Thursday and today cus why not :)

Thursday:

Vio and Shadow helped me with my work again :) We had to write a vignette (basically a short story with only two characters) and *sigh* yeah... I chose Vio and Shadow. Fluffy? Nope :) Would've been angsty asf if I didn't remade it to match like slice-of-life style :D

My computer science teacher plays Nintendo music during class and i love it sm ^^ So far she played Courage from TP (i love that song it makes me wanna cry), Mario Galaxy, and a lot of pkmn soundtracks :D Since I only played Kanto and Johto so far, i didn't recognize much but I knew it's from pkmn. And that day, she played a soundtrack of a route from Leaf Green. I don't know what route it is, ill try to find it, but I wanted to cry. It, it brought such nostalgia and memories i wanted to cry right there in the middle of the class. Leaf green is my first pkmn game and I love it sm and hearing that soundtrack was so nostalgic 😭😭😭 I literally barely held back my tears until it was over and she played another soundtrack from pkmn again but with no deep meaning for me. LEAF GREEN MY BELOVED I MISS YOU 😭😭😭 VENUSAUR MY SON I HOPE YOU'RE STILL ALIVEEEEE 😭😭😭💚💚💚

I don't wanna brag but I think im too smart for my class :)

Friday:

I had to edit the vignette for my teacher to grade it and it was actually so hard 😭 Im bad at editing my own work and it was so hard bcuz i love to detail stuff but a vignette is supposed to be short. I barely made it. When I kinda did it, i showed it to my teacher and this is exactly what happened:

Teacher: I see that you're a passionate reader. This is great!

TSoTT Shadow in my imagination: *gently bumps me with his elbow* hehe, told you. I told you your writing is great! Now ya shouldn't doubt TSoTT cuz ya actually try very hard with it!

Me: Yeah, i do love to read lots of stories. Im actually writing one.

Teacher: great job! *writes a 100 in the grade book*

TSoTT Shadow: *grins mischievously at me*

Me: Thank you.

(Yeah im a crazy person I actually imagine my TSoTT boys talk to me and interact with me during regular day. Shadow is most commonly bcuz imagine him coming out of my Shadow and it isn't rare for Vio to be too)

This time my computer science teacher played pkmn soundtracks again, but this time there was no that caused such nostalgia from me. I tried to take my headphones to find what route it is, but my headphones didn't work so i had to leave it for later.

I spedran all of my work as fast as I could just so i can be free for spring break :D I was actually barely able to do it and im so happy :3 I was literally staring at the clock and zapped out of the classroom when the bell rang, i really wanted to leave bcuz this week wasn't really nice to me :(

And again: i think im too smart for my class bcuz this was literally me today:

I literally quoted him without regrets bcuz oh my God why is everyone in my class so immature and DUMB?? Like am I acting WAAAY too mature or y'all never grew up?

Anyways that's it :D

I just had to yap for a bit bcuz when I yap about random stuff it means that im happy and i am actually happy since I have lots of stuff planned out. Everyone continues to be pessimistic around me and today I think it was even worse idk. But I don't wanna focus on that now, i wanna take care of myself and be positive after 3 fucking years :3

(me to all negative people around me: mess up with my mood and you're dead 🔪)

#fresco's chatterbox #random ik :]#school shenanigans #yeah im actually crazy having imaginary friends :)#i just love my boys sm <3 #i can't wait to draw their designs and show em to y'all ^^#that's what im planning for spring break :D #i just have to figure out how to color 🤔#and no exaggeration intended i really wanted to cry on Thursday bcuz of LG ost T-T #I'll try to find what route it was #ugh why does nostalgia have to hit so hard T-T #and yes i quoted my husband 💜#i sometimes feel like him bcuz everyone in my class is stupid and immature #i know that im too mature for mt age but like THIS MUCH 😭😭😭#it's hard for me to make friends bcuz they're all like too childish and have no respect towards adults #i do wanna be like them a but and relax but HELL NO Y'ALL ARE TOO CHILDISH!!!#ill stay too mature for my age if it means ill be respectful towards authorative ppl #i quoted him but no one heard me which is okay :)#no one never hears me #whatever I say is never heard but I got used to it #im okay :D 👍

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sixhumansouls · 2 months ago

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Ralsei rambles

Sorry I'm a little obsessed but let me get into a collection of just. Random unorganized thoughts here for fun

So one of the first things we learn about Ralsei is that he's been waiting his whole life to meet Kris and Susie. I'm not going to completely deny the possibility that he's lying about any given thing here (we don't know for sure yet) but for the sake of this post I'll assume he's being honest because I don't think he's an evil liar and that's not how I'm looking at his character right now. So right off the bat- he's been waiting his whole life, in that castle, presumably not talking to people (the great door was closed, he seems very inexperienced in social situations, he's never hugged anyone before, he's never had friends before). So he's a very isolated, touch-starved person relying on a prophecy as his one hope in life.

The legend describes himself being some sort of hero, along with two companions. Before even meeting Kris and Susie, he wants to be friends with them, because he knows they will be heroes and he knows he will meet them and those are some of the only things he knows at all.

His mindset is also very "lightners are like gods, darkners are just objects", which isn't something exclusive to him and I am very curious how the narrative will explore that, I can't imagine it'll stay that way throughout the game (at least not in an all recruits route). Either way, this means he puts the other heroes above himself. You see a lot in chapter one this sort of worship for Kris ("if you ARE jealous, I could find a leaf and fan you!" "I could hem floral patterns into your ascot!"). It's especially with Lightners, but generally I think he is very desperate for validation which is pretty obvious because He's Never Had It Before and he wants to know he's doing things Right.

Also talking about this I am getting vague thoughts of his low self worth sort of being reflected in his stats, his defence and health are very bad and he's most useful to use as a tool to heal the other party members. Kind of interesting.

We don't know what object he is in the light world, but we do know that as a darkner he is a literal object (or I guess some darkners in cyber world are programs so maybe it doesn't have to be something physical? idk but he's probably an object and if not he's still not what we'd traditionally view as a person when not in the dark world) and I think that very much relates to how he views himself. When he says he doesn't know what "being Ralsei-like" means, I think it's in part because he's not used to viewing himself as a person. He is some sort of object, he is a hero in a prophecy already laid out before him, and he is the prince that lives alone in an empty castle. He doesn't have much perception of himself outside of these sort of roles he's been filling out.

I talked about this in my "puppet scarf" fic, but I think Ralsei is a puppet as well. Not as literally as Kris, of course. I think his metaphorical strings are the prophecy, and he's so set in his role that he can't even consider breaking away from it. And, until he does, I think he'll have a hard time finding himself, because he needs to have an identity outside of what's expected of him and right now he doesn't really. I think Susie will almost inevitably help with that, because she's sort of the opposite. She's nothing like what he expected and she's constantly breaking rules and expectations. I think that if anyone could teach Ralsei to be more independent and to break away from his current mindset and perceptions, it would be her.

And she's already started. She's taught him sarcasm, she taught him that a friend isn't necessarily a kind person and that she's great the way she is, she demonstrated that (while breaking away from the team and attacking enemies wasn't necessarily ideal) she was able to find belonging and friendship in that through Lancer. Lancer himself, as far as we've seen, is barely in the prophecy, so him becoming so important was probably unexpected to Ralsei- things are already somewhat diverging from the story laid out before him.

(Super irrelevant side note- Susie says in chapter 2 that she taught Ralsei sarcasm, presumably while the team was split up at the crossroads, but Ralsei actually uses sarcasm in chapter 1 independently from her. When in prison, he says "well this is a fine 'how do you do', isn't it Kris?" and I HIGHLY doubt that that was genuine so.)

Susie and Ralsei's friendship will definitely be an important one. It's harder to speak on him and Kris because we just don't know how Kris feels about him exactly. He clearly resembles a Dreemurr (to the player he most closely resembles Asriel, but we don't yet know how Asriel currently looks in this game and I don't believe any character has directly compared the two out loud yet? Their names are anagrams, but I think all there's been so far is Susie saying he looks like Toriel and Noelle saying "he looks kinda like" before being cut off. Anyway) , and I imagine that probably makes their relationship awkward considering Kris is currently really missing their brother. We don't know how much Kris might know about dark worlds independently of the player, they did have that save point prior to the game, but I doubt they know much more about Ralsei than we do other than maybe something from those brief moments they have alone with him while we're off with Susie.

Other than the resemblance to their brother, we kind of just have the tea to go off of, which gives me the impression that they feel neutral about him. Still heals them, but not as much as other teas. Ralsei and Noelle's teas heal each other just a bit less than Ralsei does for Kris, and I imagine Ralsei and Noelle are about as neutral feeling towards each other as you can get since they Don't Know Each Other, so it being a bit more is probably a good sign? Obviously both Susie tea and Kris tea heal Ralsei a lot those are his best and only friends and he loves them so so so much

I'm not much of a theorizer so overall my thoughts are: Kris feels pretty neutral towards Ralsei. They probably think it's weird that he looks like their brother and there may be context we don't have with their conversations away from the player. Considering that I don't think he has bad intentions, I doubt Kris thinks that either because where would they get that idea if there's nothing to imply it, so I don't think they actively dislike or distrust him. In Puppet Scarf I had them be upset at him for not helping with their soul but they don't hate him there they're just kind of annoyed that he won't even try to help them because he thinks it's all destiny ANYWAY THIS ISN'T ABOUT MY FIC

I do very much like his friendship with Lancer. I've explored it a bit in my fic "uncertainty" and it's certainly a dynamic I think about a lot, I might write another fic about them at some point. As I mentioned earlier Lancer wasn't really in the prophecy beyond "that one teardrop headed kid who's just there to represent darkners" and prior to the game Ralsei's perception of him is probably mostly just "this guy is the king's son and works for the king and therefore is working against us". So Ralsei had like no intention of being his friend because if anything they'd probably be enemies. And yet….

Ralsei I don't think has it in him to be mean just in general- he's not even mean to the King even though he really should be. And Lancer isn't very good at being mean either, considering the way he "insults" Ralsei tends to just be weirdly phrased compliments? ("Kindboy" "Delicious little apple" "sweet little peas we love to see" "earn a second doctorate smart genius"). They both can't help but be nice to each other and through Susie being their mutual friend it's sort of inevitable that they become somewhat unlikely friends. They come from completely different mindsets, Ralsei obviously being super dedicated to the prophecy while Lancer was completely dedicated to his dad and the fountain before meeting Susie (and still probably doesn't care about the prophecy itself, moreso about his friends in particular) but they're both like. Yeah of course they'd be friends anyway.

Also they're both princes which always seemed significant to me. Like we're drawing attention to a parallel. Although I guess now Lancer's a king but shhh. Also neither of them know how to run a kingdom who left these kids in charge

Anyway um. I like Ralsei a normal amount clearly. Very excited to see where his arc is going I hope he finds the journey of self discovery fulfilling and I hope he finds freedom from the roles he's been assigned

#not super relevant but I've seen people headcanon him as trans #and I am not trans myself which is why this is just a small thing in the tags #I don't imagine it'll be canon but I can see how that could hypothetically tie into #his self-discovery and identity problems #like I can see the connection in these concepts very good very nice #I don't plan on talking about that much though because as I said. I'm cis oops.#me giving him a skirt in my design for him is unrelated to this that's just how I want to draw him #my design for him is super self indulgent because I wanted my fave to have a comfort zone design #so he gets a hoodie and a skirt #anyway I could probably keep rambling forever about him because I have so very many thoughts #send an ask if you wanna hear more I guess #but that's all for now 👍#UM WAIT one more thing. do you ever think about his many many hobbies #(crochet and sewing and baking and home renovation and poetry and singing)#and how those were all self taught ways to pass the time while in complete isolation waiting for his friends to show up #and feel very very bittersweet about them #okay I'm done

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koko2unite · 1 year ago

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so many expenses this month and most of it isnt even for me :(

#i hate that my family thinks i have lots of money even though my brother made a lot more than me #mom keeps telling me my brother might need it in the future so she refuse to ask him any #really shows that they do not respect me at all about this #and the worst thing is its always very sudden #a cold 5 min call where mom tell me “pay for this now! dont postpone it” and the payment is almost 1K #and my stupid ass cant even say no because if i say no they will make me feel guilty and then i feel like i wanna kms and end up paying anw #god #parents are gonna go on vacation soon #watch they'll be calling me soon to give them more money #and then go hom from there #and not bringing me any gift as usual #why should they care about the faggy child that failed to achieve his parents assigned goals #if anything putting all family expenses on me will quicken my death or worse force me to go back to them #so they can hold me and mold me back into what they want #i know their plan and i refuse to follow it #but they probably just need to shout on me once and i'll follow whatever their ask.. sad #i want to recoup by taking commissions but last time this happened and i took too many comms it ended up taking more than a month #i dont think i can handle that much anymore #AAAAAAAAA im tired

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kateis-cakeis · 1 year ago

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rewatching bbc merlin really has me like buzzing in my mind with so many thoughts. Like I'm kinda watching it backwards atm going from S5 to S4, I think I will jump around 3, 2, and 1 but just,,,, there is so much especially in S5 that makes me !!!!!!!

Honestly, I feel like this fandom has to give the writers more credit. Like they did a damn good job, and to me, it's such a good tragedy. Especially how S5 plays out, it takes everything and just tears you down, and down, and down. It's perfect, perfect with flaws! But still perfect

#bbc merlin #merlin #yeah idk on that note about the writers - this fandom is way too harsh #like i know we all have ideas on how it should have gone #but i think we lose how it's still a story that they planned from the start to end like that #they did their job they set up from the beginning and it is good as a tragedy imo as someone who has studied tragedies #hot take but the characterisations are consistent - i mean like as consistent as they get for a 5 series show #they did better than most and i dont feel like any characters get like their previous characterisation assassinated #that includes Arthur and Morgana btw they clearly have arcs that work well and where Arthur's is a slower progression - Morgana's is like a #lit match - slow at first but when it gets going it's going and then gone - it's wonderful #i mean look at s5 it literally starts by talking about Arthur's bane aka his fatal flaw aka his hamartia #which is himself and i dont think it's as much as the overdone hubris but rather Arthur's love and trust for others - but that like in many #tragedies can be debated #okay something else that can be debated is the peripeteia - i think a good example of it is the Disir episode because that's when Arthur's #fate becomes sealed anything after that point is fruitless because the Triple Goddess has decided he must die because of his rejection of #the Old Religion - it's a reversal of fortune in a sense that Mordred is alive to play his part in Arthur's death - as Merlin puts it. You #could see it more as Merlin's peripeteia rather than Arthur's but still #if we wanna debate it more Arthur's peripeteia would probablyyyy be when Mordred stabs him because that's when his death becomes imminent #it's a reversal of fortune because he's dying from that point forward rather than a strong king he is a man dying #the anagnorisis is another point to make. You could say for Arthur his anagnorisis is all of the finale - like this constant realisation of #Merlin and his magic and realising all that he missed all that he didnt see and now it's too late because he's dying #I'd say Merlin's anagnorisis comes with the whole Mordred and Kara ordeal and how he realises his mistake and how it's gonna cause the #downfall of not just himself but Arthur too #then catharsis - see i think it's the only part where the tragedy falters because do we get catharsis from Arthur's death and Merlin's #immortality - where he's still at the lake centuries later?#i think in some ways yes and in other ways no because I don't think BBC Merlin is following an Aristotle's tragedy #i think catharsis comes more from Morgana's half of the tragedy - seeing her die - and i think further catharsis comes from knowing it's no #over forever that there will be a second chance for redemption for both Merlin and Arthur #but it is a more difficult one for sure #anyway point is that S5 specifically has a tragedy storyline that is very well done and we should credit that more tbh

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that-was-anticlimactic · 1 year ago

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i feel like it’s cheating to say kenji for the ask game cause everyone will (unless they Didnt. then please do). but also yosano for the ask game!!

yosano

first impression: yooo erica lindbeck! okay, okay! i know i'll love her and also omg her design is GORGEOUS what the heck also oh god poor ginger snow guy yikes but have fun ig???

impression now: HIIIIII BESTIE OMG um okay so let's kill m*ri together, kay? and then um you should wear a suit bc i think you'd look SO GOOD IN A SUIT!!! also ily btw you are super cool and omgi wanna see your character get explored with guilt bc is hurting people to heal them traumatic at all for you??? i just. oiuyftdrtfgyuhioiuygtfyghuijo i miss youuuuuuuuu

favorite moment: oh gosh... well, i love the moment when yosano greeted atsushi and was like "wanna come shopping with me" and everyone Zoomed out of the room lol but like also... the moment in s4 after the agency got framed and so she, kunikida, kenji, kyouka, and jun killed themselves but they weren't exactly dead yet and then she revived them all like healed them all that scene is just. SO GOOD??? HELLO??? MISS MA'AM ILYSM??? it was just SO DOPE and also SO PRETTY???

idea for a story: hmm i don't have too many yosano fic ideas, but i would like to maybe write a yosano & ranpo found sibling fic sometime or like... a yosano & jun'ichirou fic like idk what it would be about, but i think the two of them interacting would be very interesting. ooooh or a chaotic yosano & kajii friendship fic where they torment everyone with their "friendship" bc they SWEAR they aren't friends!!!

unpopular opinion: i really hate the yosano x k.oyou ship. so much. i cannot STAND it. i would rather yosano never date or be in a relationship with anyone than have her and k.oyou be a thing. also yosano isn't sadistic

favorite relationship: (non-romantic) this is hard bc i instinctively want to say yosano & kajii just bc i think they should become friends after the train incident bc i think they would be the most CHAOTIC friends fr imagine the science-y things they could do together... two people who wouldn't get hurt by kajii's explosions... ough... but also like. yosano & ranpo bc. DUH!!! i mean... ranpo changed her life fr and they are SIBLINGS okay wait here's another unpopular opinion for y'all: the ranpo & yosano are siblings tag should have OS MANY MORE FICS IN IT than the dazai & yosano are siblings tag. i mean. hello??? ranpo is RIGHT THERE???

favorite headcanon: yosano is a trans lesbian and she and ranpo are literally siblings and she gets chronic migraines which sucks bc she can't heal those and also she once lost her watch in jun'ichirou and yes that is a reference to a fic i read once but it made me giggle so hard that it's canon to me now~ oh and also she had a one night stand with agatha christie <333

#lena tag #kjhgfdgyhuijokiuygt y eah slava asked me about kenji tehe i could prolly talk SO MUCH MORE about him tho lol #i will 100% call myself kenji's biggest fan. i think the 21k word oneshot i wrote about him and the kenji poem poster in my classroom and #the fact that i made an entire unit plan based on kenji (like okay the actual author but STILL i love the character so much i did HOURS of #research on the author he's based off of!) supports that statement tehe #n e waysssss #thank you for indulging me!!! we have a snow day today so like i gots time tehe #and need some inspo bc i have SO MANY WIPS and want to work on them like gosh i wanna finish the tractor theft fic :(#thank youuuuuu #also my first impression for all bsd characters is about their voice actors btw lol #literally the fact that max mittelman played the lead is the reason why i started the show oiuygtfgyuhi #corey rambles:)

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trevanent · 2 years ago

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I think one thing I will say about the finale was that the most problematic aspect of the concept of the show was how it feels like they had to use the Fionna and Cake plot to Trojan horse a resolution to a swathe of loose ends Simon and Betty's arcs had. They pulled it off even better than I ever wanted to let myself hope for for the most part but I would say my main issue if anything was how cramped the finale felt when I think they could have left a lot more up to season 2 speculations (especially with the resolutions for the alt universes, they didn't really feel necessary when they basically just had to egg Scarab).

I feel I liked the understated melancholies of seeing Simon recontextualized and kinda infantilized in that temporary form hosting his mind, and some people have said the Casper and Nova thing felt hamfisted but I thought the vibes were too cute to care that it wasn't particularly "efficient" as far as metaphors go, but that does slow down the pace which probably crunched the ending a little harder :'). But it also worked in further showing the sad side-effect of the crown on Simon's relationships, including that of stunting his ability to have ever matured in his understandings of love and his relationship with Betty. I also think their last scene in the memory worked because it was Simon reconsidering how he viewed their relationship for the first time, even if his attempt to do for Betty what she did for him would have just been an inversion of their original flaw, the scene rests on them understanding it's unchangeable anyway, so that decision doesn't matter so much and it's not something for Simon to dwell on.

I also feel I liked the scene a lot in spite of how scarce it felt in the finale was because of what was most conspicuously unaddressed, which was just the sheer logistical impossibility of any different choices they made having possibly been any "better." It sticks out because Betty says they could have made better choices, which kinda seems to situate their relationship in a vacuum as if there wasn't a very high likelihood had they done anything different at that crossroads, they would have just been literally nuked into orbit regardless. Sure, it seems like enough time had passed for them to have worked out their relationship better at least and then died, but that kinda seems better by an arbitrarily less tragic amount, and really it seems the least tragic possibilities ever were either that they conceive their relationship more healthily, Simon finds the crown and protects Betty from exploding somehow and also doesn't warp her to the future, and they live some terrible survival life but at least they get a chance to live something kinda fulfilling and Betty probably would have taken care of Ice King decently for the remainder of her life once Simon was gone while also having a better understanding of what had happened to him. The only other hand would be that she also was still warped to the future he finds the crown but Simon had not enabled her self-sacrificial tendencies and so she becomes less undividedly obsessed with saving him and instead integrates into Ooo more properly and also accepts what had become of him (I find it hard to think she would have just let him die either way though lmao).

That all said, they had been around a long time to have reflected over everything. I think it is a bit of an issue that they don't really allude to that, but I find it easy to believe that they did recognize how thwarted a happy ending would ever be for them by all angles of their reality, yet they still had that tender ache of that simple and small tragedy just between them two that still exists within the torrent of catastrophe that engulfed them and the breadth of their fate. So much horror in their lives but they reconnect and find themselves primarily concerned with that last regret of not having been able to make the ideal relationship they quite thought they had.

#fionna and cake spoilers #Besides that I would say my other kinda issue with the best part of the finale was that you also don't get to see much more #of how Simon enables Betty besides the elaboration on what Betty alludes to in Temple of Mars #Like they only show the red flags at the start of their relationship but I feel they could have taken some time out of the Scarab fight #to have pretty much just one more scene of his lack of awareness in their relationship after they got together #Because we literally only see him make a misstep right at the inception and that Casper and Nova imply this was a continuous pattern #But Simon has literally no autonomy over himself or Betty for like 95% of the original Adventure Time #and tries to stop her from saving him the first time she shows up #Granted I suppose he saw it as being for his own good should he die and leave Betty alone in some alien world #But that whole situation was profoundly different and difficult to have controlled #save for Simon having not opened that portal at all but the considerations and assumptions of how that might have affected her #a thousand years ago... seems difficult to forsee mid-rigor mortis #So it just sorta feels like Casper and Nova kinda was just pointing to something we didn't actually get to see that much of #And though Simon failing to consider that it wasn't great Betty threw out her plans to do Simon's thing like it was nothing #and then overlooking that more directly and with initiative a second time even with Babette yelling at him was a strong enough prelude #for you to “get the idea” but like. Damn! I wanna see a little of the idea maybe

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rearranging-deck-chairs · 1 year ago

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bad wolf soda <3

#level of obsession reached where i zoom in on screenshots to see what shes reading #p sure that says kierkegaard in white but thats as far as im getting #'first existentialist philosopher'#okay i really gotta find out what the fuck existentialism really means now bc carmilla seems to like it #'related to the meaning purpose and value of human existence.#Common concepts in existentialist thought include existential crisis dread #and anxiety in the face of an absurd world and free will as well as authenticity courage and virtue.'#SCREAM OKAY I SEE I SEE #kierkegaard beauvoir sartre nietzsche camus yep p sure those all get mentioned #okay this is fun #kierkegaard was like an existentialist before the word and hes from the first half of the 19th century #dont know if you can call vampires contemporaries of people bc....immortal. but carmilla was a contemporary of him #technically #and then when existentialism gets named halfway the 20th century carmilla has just escaped her blood coffin punishment #and so shes alone for a little bit without direction. perhaps free or perhaps waiting for mother to show up again #it's fun that existentialism seems sort of to be abt there being a choice abt who you want to be #that youre not defined by an essence. that What You Are is not defined pre what you do #so you can shape yourself #it's interesting the tension between that belief and the position carmilla is in. no wonder theres self-loathing #but also! she starts resisting the What She Is that is imposed on her. after 1945. starts sabotaging plans #i gotta go download some books #'ive got a talk i wanna catch on goethe' hang on im googling #1749-1832 she lived through that too #oh right faust and young werther i know of those #'Goethe admitted that he 'shot his hero to save himself' a reference to Goethe's near-suicidal obsession for a young woman a passion he que #relatable #god theres so much to read in the world and i have not read any of it #carmillaposting #i wonder what she'd write her dissertation about

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rottingpink · 16 days ago

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cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

masterlist

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

johnny "soap" mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

simon "ghost" riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."

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