#it's a reminder of how fleeting we really are as humans | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 6 months ago

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third hour of the night

Baby Trap + Gaz x Fem!Reader | 24k

The latest brush with death opens a wound, a chasm on the underside of his ribs that hungers for something he can't discern. He eats and it’s still empty. Gorges himself tirelessly but the maw still growls for more.

(He thinks it might be a sense of homesickness. And his home has always been you.)

OR: Icarus tries a different approach to capture Apollo once and for all.

18+ | SMUT: dubcon. baby trapping, contraceptive tampering. emotional manipulation. brief violence, near death experiences. obsessive/possessive Gaz. jealousy. unsafe sex. breeding. implied stalking. trauma and the consequences of almost dying several times. reckless behaviour.

MASTERLIST | A03

The thing about dying is that it tends to put everything into perspective.

Things like the fleeting, ephemeral blink of life itself. The fragility of human existence. How vulnerable this glasslike body of his really could be.

In a matter of seconds, he would have been erased. A soot stain on the pavement where the metal frame of a small charter plane impacted the ground, bursting into flames almost instantly. Incinerating him. Melted skin, charred bone. Suffused with plastic and steel. Entombed in a crumpled husk of iron and pipedreams.

The real cruelty, he finds, is how empty this brush with death leaves him. Gaping. A chasm. He sticks his fingers into the hole and feels nothing—

Nothing but hunger.

It happens in a blink.

Eyes open, and he feels like Icarus. Wings of metal, feathers, and beeswax. He soars above the treeline in a seamless incline, gaining altitude over the ochreous dunes in the distance. The great pyramids that once took dominion in his field of vision were soon to be specks in his periphery.

There's something about flying that makes him feel both endlessly invincible and damnably fragile at the same time.

Man's hubris—

Eyes half-mast, squinting against the smoulders of the sun, he feels the heat on his skin as they grow nearer to its coruscating flames. The window is hot. He places his palm against it. Feels the tremble of the machine as it works against gravity to free itself from those stifling confines.

Kyle’s eyes slip closed—

—and he's suddenly reminded of why hubris is defined as a defiance of the gods.

(Nemesis rakes her nails down the metal flesh of the bird, unyielding its wiry skeleton underneath; where are your wings?—

—man, willful creatures with their desire to be within the stars; cosmogyral. and oh, she laughs—)

Like Icarus, the plane meets the sun in a hard, hateful kiss, sputtering out in a series of agonising whimpers. The cockpit screams. Howls, shrieks, warning them all of an impending doom—

(—apollo, apollo, apollo—)

And then he's falling. Weightless. Wingless.

(too low, terrain, terrain; pull up, pull up—)

“Fuck!” The curse is garbled in his headset, nearly swallowed by the agonal hiccups of the plane nose-diving to the ground. “I don't know—I don't—” (—pull up, terrain, terrain; pull up, pull—); “we're stalling, we lost the engines, we're—”

In his periphery, he can still see the blurry blots of the pyramids smeared under the plunging freefall to the ground that Pharaohs have kissed with the soles of their feet. They flicker in and out of his line of sight, a taunting reminder that his kin don't belong in the skies. That they build from the ground up.

Amid the chaos, Price shouts something—a warbled hiss, words stuck in the back of his throat, limping out of his pale lips in a wheeze; gravity wraps a mocking hand around his neck, giving a tight squeeze. Kyle can see the whites of his knuckles against the armrest, skin prickling with goosebumps as they're dragged back to the dirt.

by the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return

He folds suddenly, torso flopping down over his thighs, hands screwing themselves angrily against the nape of his neck. Protective embrace. Through the angular cut of Price’s bent arm, a blue eye gleams in the flickering dark—electricity cut; the only light source inside the cabin a devastating flash of sun each time the plane rolls—and the anger there, he knows, is pasted evenly across his face.

Fuckin’ helicopters. We'll take a bird instead.

Hubris, he thinks, just as Price barks out, get down, Sergeant!

Survival training ensures his movements are fluid. Unconscious. He tightens his body into a ball, hiding all his fleshly organs from spilling out across the aisleway. Scarred palms cupped over his head, his stem.

Couched into the claustrophobic space between his knees and the hard plastic of the seat in front of him, he finds he can't breathe like this. That training hadn't prepared him for the way gravity feels when it's trying to crush something into dust—but he heaves through the hypoxia, blinking furiously against the phosphenes spooling like ink blots over his eyes.

There's a whistle in his ear, a swooping nausea in the pit of his stomach. He tastes blood in his throat. Feels the fluttering winds of his trapped heart beating against his larynx with every swallow.

His thoughts are tangled. Knotted. The edges fray, unravel. It slips through his fingers, translucid. Weaving through the gossamer fogging through his mind. A thick, impenetrable cloud of mutinous emotions. All frothing over the other, intangible. They're drowning each other in a desperate bid to stay afloat, and Kyle can't bring himself to reach for one over the other, opting instead to save none at all.

There's a roar. Brontide. It echoes in his head as the pyramids once again fill the entirety of his vision. Close to the earth. Close to death—

Kyle doesn't pray. Doesn't beg for forgiveness, for salvation.

His mum might. He thinks he ought to, but where he should find repentance, sorrow, fear, he instead feels anger. Uncovers it like a forgotten relic. A childhood toy. Holds it like a knife to his throat.

It's vicious, this fury. This rage. Consumes him from the inside out, blisters through his veins. Chokes him—

In between the apoplectic bitterness, memories flicker by. Broken, fractured remnants of a youth wasted in his grim, spiteful anger. Ironic, now, since he tastes fury, bellicostic and wrathful, in the back of his throat, bubbling up, florentis.

Bathed in the endless red fury of his mindseye, he thinks of his mum. Standing up in church, her fingers knotted tight against a rosary as she murmured along with the passages, his father sat beside her. His brothers, and sisters. The life he led up to this point, and then—

—you.

Life in stages. Snippets. Him, you. It rushes by in a maelstrom of want, need, and anger.

It's short. The distance between knowing you and now charted in a paltry decade; an infinitesimal amount of time that leaves him feeling bitter, and regretful. He barely had you, and now—

Reincarnated as Icarus. Cobbled together from clay and feathers, subsumed with the ghost of a wilful man. Haunted by fate. Tortured with the endless agony of a looping, meandering death to kiss the sun and fall from grace, wingless. Scorched.

His life is a mere echo. Smoke from a snuffed flame.

And you— You. You, you, you:

Kyle finds you when he's running after a man through the tangled, indifferent streets of London.

Weaving, bobbing around the crowd gathered around—clusters of tourists standing still on the sidewalk, forcing the herd to mould around them; idle passersby meandering through the throng of a Saturday afternoon rush—the man he's chasing uses them all as an obstacle. A place to hide.

It nearly works, too. And if anyone else had been pursuing him, Kyle knows he'd have been long gone already. Seamlessly swallowed up by the rabble.

But Kyle's different.

For the entirety of his career, Kyle has been told he's more instinct than man. Reactive. The sort of person that was undoubtedly reincarnated from a wolf, one who used to prowl the boreal forests for musk ox and caribou.

When people run, he just—

Chases.

It's innate. in his blood. Instinctual.

And everyone knows better than to run from a predator. To trigger their prey (hunt, kill, consume) response.

So, when the man slips from his partner’s grasp and flees down the crowded streets of London, Kyle doesn't think. Not for a second. He locks his eyes on the man's back and follows.

He cuts a jagged path down the crowded streets, using the meandering passersby to his advantage. Thrown down to the pavement as obstacles in his pursuers' way, ones meant to trip Kyle up. To gain ground, put distance between them.

It's a futile effort in the end. He loses momentum and speed with each person he shoves, and Kyle soon closes in on him, less than an arm's length away. So close Kyle can taste the pungent burn of his cologne in the back of his throat, fingers reaching, nails grazing over the polyester fabric of his jacket, and—

You're there. Suddenly. All at once.

Thrown, roughly, into his chest. The only thing keeping you from breaking your nose on his kevlar being your fists touching his sternum before the rest of you followed.

Eyes wide, wild with fear, shock, you gaped up at him, blinking fast. Your pretty mouth opening, closing. The broken words swallowed down, crushed under the weight of your confusion, your fear.

With your chin tilted up, he could see the curve of your vulnerable neck, eyes drawn to the shadows under your jaw where your heart pulsed against your skin. Vein throbbing in tandem with your heartbeat.

Reflectively, his hands jerked up. Arms locking around you, palms bracing you—one falling to the small of your back, the other cupped protectively against the nape of your neck. It brings you closer to him, pushes the endless softness of your body into his hard, unyielding armour.

And—

Well.

It's not often—if at all—that he loses sight of a mission. Let's himself become distracted, pulled away. And even now, he's not. Not really. He can still see man in his periphery, nothing more than a bobbing head of blond hair, and he knows that his partners are waiting for him by the entrance of an alley. Crested above the crown of your head, he sees one of them—Marcus, he thinks—jump out, tackling the man to the ground. Domhnall follows suit, gun cocked, and aimed at the struggling man's head, finger never having left the trigger once since he set off in pursuit.

Kyle never had to give chase, anyway. But the man ran first, and—

A bad idea, really.

The men he works with now often joke that he's more instinct than man. Chasing after moving targets like a wolf trying to run aground an elk. Under the perceived stupidity of the action lingers a honed strategy. One passed down for aeons.

Chase, keep pace, until something gives. Something breaks.

And it's never him.

Until now.

You just fit. Like you were made to be in his arms.

Kyle knows, muted and distant; the thought all tangled up in the back of his head, that he should let go of you now. Gently nudge you on your way. Out of sight, out of mind. Go back to where the man is being wrangled into cuffs amid an agitated crowd murmuring to themselves, all trying to peek over the shoulders of the other officers, ones now congealing into an imperfect circle after spilling out of the blacked-out Tahoe parked near the curb. They'll need help to keep the crowd from fringing on their arrest. Kyle knows this. Knows, too, that he ought to join.

But he doesn't.

Can't.

In the gloom of a midday drizzle, you burn.

Bright. Ferocious. The coruscating gleam of your gaze is enough to render him to cinders at your feet. Burnt sage, sweetgrass. Bushels of charred barley. Ceremonial in this poignant unmaking; this chiseling down of his being into ash at your altar. He's swept up in it. The thick smog that congeals around you in a dense plumage of smouldering earth. Hallowed lands.

It razes him.

You: apollo—this devastating creature of pure light.

He wants to bask in it. Burn his flesh on your ethereal glow. Leans in to feel the white-hot lick of flames dancing, cosmogyral, across his flesh.

(Godlike, but you fit in his arms with an ease that belies your otherworldly splendour, that defies the partitioning between man and god—)

“Hi,” he says instead, the word chipped down to the marrow. Bare. Fractured. “You okay—?”

It's here, in this pardoning breath, where he finds the extent of your facile mortality. Beneath his hands, you're supple. Soft. Through the knitted cashmere of your sweater, he can feel the heat of your skin bleeding into his palms. His fingers clench, and he meets pillowed bone.

You're fragile. Vulnerable.

(a man threw you into him with an ease that prickles along his nape; chase hunt consume:

protect. shield. provide—)

Instinct, he thinks. More urge than man. Primal. Animalistic.

Kyle can't remember the last time he felt like this way about anyone. This heavy, poignant drive to burrow his face into your neck, to breathe in the loamy scent of you, and bite down, claim.

His teeth ache. He flexes his jaw to stem to throb under his canines. Wet, pulsing—like an infection (a heartbeat).

As saliva floods his mouth, yours opens shallowly in a huff.

“I'm fine,” you're saying. Dazed, windswept. “I'm—”

He clings to you harder. Knows that his grip is undoubtedly popping blood vessels under your skin like bubbles, but he needs this. Needs time. Needs you.

A minute longer. Just a minute more—

If it hurts, you don't make any show of it. Impassive in your shock, you gaze at him. Flay him alive under the burning charcoal of your heavy stare.

He thinks—

this is it. my apollo.

—but someone is calling his name. Fingers pry apart his hold on you, shoving him back into the iron embrace of his peers.

“I’ll take over, sir,” he hears through the clamour of noise. “I’ll take them to the paramedics to get checked over. You can let go now—”

“C’mon, Garrick, let go—”

The commotion heightens. Through the hands, the shoulders, the push and tug, your eyes never waver from its perch along his thundering jaw. The anxious, angry pulse of his ire blooming viciously in his veins.

(how dare they—? how dare they touch you—)

Your mouth opens again. Soundless, but he hears it like a gunshot.

“Go.” And then: “I'll be fine.”

It breaks. His partner wrenches him back, stumbling under the sudden momentum as Kyle lets his fingers ease up, releasing you. You're dragged away, swallowed soon by the crowd, but like a hunting dog, he doesn't look away. Can scent you even when you're gone; a thick, earthy scent collars around your neck, and leads him back to you.

He moves to follow it—

A hand lashes out, slams against his sternum. “Kyle! Come on, man, we got a fuckin’ criminal to detain—”

He blinks, wrenched from this reverie, this stupor. “Fuck,” he spits, tasting ash between his teeth. “Fuck—!”

“You never think,” is what his higher-ups often tell him after he sprints, full throttle, at a target within seconds of them making off. “Your performance is incredible, Garrick, but you just never think before you act—”

This isn't true. Kyle thinks a lot. All the time, really. Kyle's mind has the propensity to spin itself into exhaustion; to never cease. A constant loop. Endless spirals.

He thinks about everything. Nothing. All of it shaded in both abstract ideas and concrete plans.

Because the thing is:

Kyle sees the world—or rather, situations—as a chessboard. Pieces, pawns, meant to be moved in a preordained sequence.

But telling people who believe that the definition of subordination is waiting for the green light to trickle down from several floors above despite those men only having fragments of a puzzle is a lost cause. A battle he's never, ever won before.

So, he relents. “Yes, sir.”

Relents so much that his palms carry jagged crescent moons across his life and heart lines. Swallows down the fury, the rage, even though it blisters through his veins. A permanent, simmering agony burning him up from the inside out.

Flashes a grim salute to hide the hissing vitriol as it claws up his throat, tearing tissue as it climbs, until all he tastes is blood flooding his mouth.

“Good,” they simper. “Keep that up, and maybe one day, you'll be where I'm sitting.”

His ambitions are worn on his skin. He feels something hot, sticky, congeal between his fingers, and knows that he'll soon be wearing a pastiche of ananke’s brode on his flesh.

Ambition, he finds, feels like choking himself until his vision goes blurry around the edges. Until hypoxia bleeds in, dripping down his periphery in tarry black splatters.

It feels like swallowing his tongue. Burying himself alive on his—

draw the line wherever you need to, Sergeant.

—righteous fury.

His palms itch,

like an infection. untreated. left to rot. gangrenous. septic. his blood is polluted. he feels the fever run, red-hot, through his veins, charring bone.

marrow burns to ash. he finds a peculiar comfort in the fire.

moth to a flame. maybe it's only natural, then, that he goes to find you.

The scent trail fades, erased under the stale tang of a restless crowd; admixing into the nauseating smells of London after dark.

But where it began, he finds a flickering ember. Discovers your chevelure, and winds it around his aching palm until it hides his brode under starlight.

Everything is murky grey, but he finds you in pure white. The cashmere sweater is a beacon, luring him in, and he hides his intentions under the guise of militaristic concern. Altruism. Crossing t’s and dotting i’s. Tells the paramedics hanging loosely around you that he has a few questions for you. Purely professional.

They don't question him. Eagerly offer up your name, your date of birth, your address, your status. He doesn't even have to pull rank to get it. When he bites into the thought, it tastes of bittermelon.

How easy could it have been for anyone to discover, then. To pick pieces of you between their fingers, plucking ripe cherry tomatoes off the stem.

Kyle bites back a snarl, and offers then a wide, gleaming smile instead. Baring teeth. Says, “thanks, mate,” and weaves around them before they can see his fists shaking by his side.

He finds you standing by the curb, curled fingers tucked tight against your temple as you survey the throng of lingering onlookers with an impassive, flat stare. Limned in hazy red and blue, you look almost like a picture. A painting. Something archaic. Special. He wants to hide you away from the prying eyes of the reporters congregating down the street, all rallying for the biggest headline on a new story.

At the same time, though, he wants to stay aside. To watch. To let the rest of the world see you behind a thick sheet of plexiglass. Visible to their voyeuristic gazes but untouchable to all,

(bar him)

His heart thunders when you turn. Chin tipping, tucking against your pearled collar to peek over your shoulder. Even in the matte grey gloom of London, you burn. He blinks. Blinks again.

You're turning now, brows drawing together as you struggle to piece together why he's lurking behind you like a shadow, but—

You brighten at the sight of him. Recognition chewing through megrim. Still curled into a loose fist, you lift your hand and give him a small, perfunctory wave. You must expect him to stop here, a modest, safe distance away.

Your brows knot once more when he doesn't. When he steps, boldly, outside of the lines of societal propriety, and into your orbit. You wear this flummoxed uncertainty like a mask. Kyle finds it more endearing than he ought to. Finds, too, that he wants nothing more than to see you bare.

“Hi,” he greets again, just shy of an arm's length away. Even with proximity, it feels too far. “You alright?”

Breathless, you murmur: “yes,” and then, hurriedly, like you've just remembered yourself. “Thank you. For, um, catching me, I guess?”

Catching you. The wording needles under his skin, an ugly, vicious itch he can't scratch. But he supposes that's what it looked like from the outside in. Stopping a fall. Protecting a civilian.

You were pushed, shoved into him, and he caught you. Held you aloft as his partner took Kyle's place in the pursuit.

So, he takes it. Smiles again, softer this time. All that rugged, boyish charm that his friends used to tease him over.

Deadly that is, mate. Dunno how any bird can resist a smarmy fuckin’ grin like that.

Model, ain't he? Pretty boy. Maybe you should change careers, eh? Bet Givenchy is frothing at the mouth for a looker like you.

And it works. Of course, it does.

Hook, line—

“Had me worried there that he might have hurt your pretty face. Was proper ticked off, so I thought I'd come and check on you—”

At pretty, you duck your head shyly in response, lips warbling around a nervous smile. Eyes bright, gleaming, under the hazy smear of red and blue light.

He makes a show of checking his phone, brows tightening at the time played in neon white.

“Gettin’ late. You live close by? I, uh, I'd feel terrible sending you home by yourself at this hour,” there's an immediate protest on your lips. He nips it with his teeth. Gives a bashful grin. “And, ah, I like talking to you. Wouldn't mind continuing the conversation if you're interested?”

You're burning. Grinning under a plume of demurred appeasement. Sweetened by his bold words, and the wide, boyish smile he wears.

And—

—sinker.

Dazedly, you offer him your hand, stammering as his thumb brushes delicately over your knuckles. Lips wet, glossy. He wants to lean down, lick across them, and taste you on his tongue. But Kyle refrains. Rocks back on his heel, reluctantly dragging himself away.

It's endearing, endlessly sweet when you unconsciously follow. Leaning forward, eyes wide and full of wonder.

In the next beat, you give him your number.

He takes that, too, and holds it.

At the foot of your door, you thank him once again for catching you. The joke rolls off your loose tongue in a playful quip that he snatches up from the air, holds in the palm of his hand.

“Anytime,” he says, softened under the pale moonlight.

caught. catching you.

he sees it much differently.

to Kyle, you were a gift thrust into his unexpected hands. a pretty little box for him to unwrap, unravel.

(his, and his alone—)

As he hits the ground, he thinks of you.

As flames fold over his body, ripping through broken metal, he hears something crack. Hears it shatter.

And he still thinks of you.

Kyle crawls from the burning wreckage with the bloodied, broken tips of his jagged nails digging into the scorched pavement. Emerges a phoenix. Rising from the smouldering husk of a plane mangled on the pavement with fawnlike legs and an ache in his jaw.

Intact, he finds, but there's an echo in his head. The sound of breaking glass. Bones snapping like twigs. Something shatters. Something breaks.

He holds his hand to his chest and knows, then, that it's not so much a fracturing of bone or tissue, but a cage. A prison. Something housing the things he'd rather not think about.

It's fine. It'll be fine.

He crawls through the smoke to get to Price and doesn't think about the oil spill he left behind on the pavement.

Price says, “that was close,” in a tone so unbothered, so unconcerned, that Kyle has to take a moment to reacclimate himself to his trauma after being knocked so far off-kilter. Jerking back into flight or fight after that blase dismissal when the smouldering ash begins to clog the air, spewing noxious poison from the chemicals, the metals, now completely aflame.

He might think Price is numb to this, to falling from the sky like every parable of Icarus he's ever heard (if the ambitious god had metal blades instead of feathers for wings), but adrenaline makes his senses keener. Sharper.

As the idea of his captain being an unrepentant sociopath (the jury, though, is still very much out on that one) starts to congeal from its incorporeal shadows, he catches the shake of his hands as he pats his beast pocket down for the stash of cigars he keeps on his person.

Trembling, white-knuckled. Each pat feels much too heavy than it ought to be. Too forceful.

He gets it, suddenly. Thinks he might understand Price in a way he didn't before.

So, he says, “yeah.” And when it comes out far shakier than he intended, he clears the soot, the iron tang of adrenaline from the back of his throat, and adds: “a bit too close, mate.”

In the end, they take him away on a gurney to a medical ward in a nearby city.

Kyle isn't hurt—barring the contusions, the bone-deep bruises, the cuts, the lacerations—but they pay little attention to his protests when they poke him, prodding at his insides to find a phantom crack in the tender network of his body.

Physically, he's fine. Nothing amiss at all. Everything is in good, working order—if a little scraped around the edges.

They decide to keep him overnight for observation, though. The doctor's worrying about head trauma, concussions. Price, too, is forced to stay—not so much kicking and screaming, but certainly with a lot of complaining that echoes down the hall (bloody fuckin’ muppets—can’t you see I'm fine?)—and he takes a marginal amount of comfort in knowing that he's not the only one on mandatory best-rest.

It all could be worse.

He thinks, then, of Soap. Of the gaping wound in his head—blood spilling everywhere. Ghost leaning over him, sounding less like a human with each harrowing Johnny! that was ripped from his throat.

The endless trawl of uncertainty as they carried him away, his hand falling from the gurney. Hanging there, pale and limp. Jostled with the movements of the medical team as they tried, desperately, to stabilise him.

And then—

The aftermath, he supposes.

Soap sitting up in a hospital bed, head wrapped up in stark white bandages. He smiled, laughed. Said he had too much to do to leave them now, but there was something wrong. Something—

Missing, almost.

Gone.

They don't speak about it, but he knows Price and Ghost feel it all the same. Must, of course, because Price is firm, unyielding, when he tells Soap to piss off somewhere for a while. Takes each excuse to the chin, stalwart in the face of Soap's pleading negotiations.

It could be like that. Medical leave. Mandatory. Something was absent in Johnny's eyes. A hollow vacancy where hazel once burned bright in the gloom.

Kyle places his bandaged hand on his chest, feels every brag of his heart through aching skin, and knows, somehow, that it's not the same. Not quite, but—

He thinks he might be missing something, too. He's just not sure what it is, and that—

That scares him.

Because if he didn't feel the jagged glass digging into his flesh, he might not have known something broke free. Escaped. Fell, perhaps, to its death when the helicopter started to whine like an injured animal, barely able to limp through the sky.

Standard procedure would dictate that he calls someone. Schedule a session with a licensed therapist the moment he gets back home, and let them determine if he's field-ready.

But he doesn't. He thinks about Soap, and the anger in his eyes when Price told him that he was on leave, dismissing him with a simple flick of his wrist.

“How long, cap’n?” He ground out between clenched teeth. “How long are ye sendin’ me away fer?”

And Price just levelled him with a flat look. “As long as it takes, Sergeant.”

That was that. That was—

He's not what compels him to call you, but he does. Drags out his phone from his pocket, unlocks the (cracked, of course) screen with a shaking finger, and pulls you from his contact list. His nickname for you isn't anything special—can’t be, really, in this line of work—and it's boiled down to something so inconsequential, so mundane, that he feels a little bit untethered seeing it now. If he really did die, if he was seriously injured—

How would they know to call you when your name in his phone is simply: doves. A lingering remnant of your second meeting.

Doves. A pretty pair perched on the curb when you met again after texting for a week, pecking idly at the scraps left behind. You surprised him, then, when you materialised out of the air, murmuring to yourself about the sorry state of them.

Too pretty for crumbs, you lamented and reached into your pocket for a rolled-up bag of sunflower seeds. You barely paid him much mind at all, too busy scattering seeds for the birds, and watching as they scurried toward it.

It was the ease with which you moved through the world—seamless, untethered—that drew him in. The peaceful serenity that leaked from your pores, clouding around you, seemed to scour the anger that hung tight to his shoulders, hitching itself across his nape. Weighing him down. You picked the anchor up, letting him breathe for a moment through lungs that didn't feel as if they were being crushed under unfathomable pressure. All his rage accumulating right by his heart now cupped in the palms of your hands.

You turned back to him, then, a defiant tilt to your chin as if begging him to say something about feeding pigeons on the street. Readying yourself for a fight despite the loose set to your shoulders, the flat, open palms dusted with powder from the seeds.

Gone was the sheepish woman who tripped into his arms. In her demurring place stood a thunderclap. A lioness.

He knew, without any sense of uncertainty, that he wanted to know more about you. Everything, if you'd let him.

(And you had. Without any sense of hesitation or uncertainty, you—)

He stares down at your name for a moment, thoughts in tatters much too thin for him to pick out. But he feels. Too much, not enough. Arguably the worst in its abundance, in its raw, fractured ache somewhere deep in his chest.

It's a want. A need. Desperation drapes itself over his shoulders in a way he's never felt before; all soot-stained, and foul. Rank. It smells like an infection: gangrenous and putrid, rotting tissue leaking puss. Skin sloughing off in blackened, festering clumps. The stench of it sits in his nose, clogged in the back of his throat. He can almost taste it.

Despite its nauseating miasma, the horrid tang pooling between his teeth, there's an odd sort of comfort in it. A familiarity he can't place.

He wonders if Soap felt this way after he woke up in the hospital with a hole gouged in his head from a bullet. Left wondering what piece of himself was torn out along with a bloodied, mangled mess of tissue, bone, brain, and grey matter that once filled the space. A vacuum the width of a thumb. A permanent pockmark on his forehead.

The thought shakes him, and drags his tender leg up to his chest, rests his forearms on his knee, ignoring the tremble in his hands, and he calls you.

His face appears on the screen, stuffed into a box. He stares at it as the call connects, taking stock of the way he looks.

In the gloam of an Egyptian sunset—swaths of ochre coruscating across dunes of gold; glinting off the desert sand as if the sun was trying to inch closer to this haven, the place it called home—the cuts on his face are limned, turning the colour of ripened pomegranates; crushed cherries. Highlighted under the mournful torpor of the sun, he looks worse for wear. Bruises under his eyes, framing them heavy kohl. Splotches of yellow—the same shade as a fresh bushel of wheat—halo around the worst of them, painting a striking picture of injury on the high arches of his cheekbones.

He should angle the phone away. Sit back into the deep blue shadows and let the absence of light hide the worst of it all from your eyes. It's what he normally does. What he should do.

But there's a hollowness on the underside of his ribs. A gaping maw that hungers for something he can't discern; rapacious. Unknowable. It wants. Yearns.

(He thinks it might be a sense of homesickness.

And his home has always been you.)

So, he calls. Waits for it to connect. And somewhere in the back of his head, he knows something isn't quite right.

But he doesn't fight it.

Can't, really, even if he wanted to because your face appears on his screen, filled out in a perfect box. The smile is already there, blooming daffodils against dark indigo. The greeting on the tip of your tongue has a flash of pink and gleaming white splitting the tomato red of your lips apart, happiness draping itself heavily over you.

But it falls, instantly, when he moves. Winces. You catch it, then, the unmistakable ugliness splattered across his face. Bruises framed in hazy, blood orange. Cuts illustrated by the last vestiges of a stubborn sun refusing to yield.

Kyle dips his chin. The stitches on his forehead pull against the inflamed skin. It's the worst of it, he knows. It catches in the fading embers of an ethereal twilight, and the hitch in your breath echoes in the room.

“What—?” The words are ashy whisper in your throat, falling over him. A rainfall of soot.

The frown on your face is a dagger. It twists, turns. Scraps muscle from bone. Leaves a gaping hole between the milky bracket of his ribs.

“Oh, Kyle—”

There are a multitude of things he ought to say. I'm fine, first and foremost. And it's the truth. He is. The cuts, the scraps, the bruises, all hurt less than the ache in his head, the throb in his muscles. The fallout from the adrenaline rush following the crash hurts more than anything else.

He should calm your worry. Laugh about it in that paper-thin way he's wont to—like it doesn't bother him, doesn't hurt despite both of you knowing he'll be up all night long for the next several weeks, running along his own desire path carved between the living room and kitchen. Not thinking at all, and—

And thinking too much.

The juxtaposition, a blatant oxymoron, will curdle in his chest, growing moss, leaking spores. He's good at pulling them out before they mushroom inside of him, burrowing deep and leaving gaping pockets behind. Scrapes them from flesh. Douses them with gasoline. Purification with fire.

With your touch. You'll wake the next morning and find him dozing on the couch. Will rain kisses across his face, gentle and soft, before wandering away to make something for him to eat. Later, you'll drag him to the tub. Wash his body as he leans against your chest, the hollow spaces inside of him slowly filling with warm, lavender-scented water.

He'll come back in pieces. Inchmeal. And then hold you as close as he can in bed as though he's trying to fuse your skin together. Crawl inside of you and stay in the brackets of your ribs.

It's all—

Routine, maybe. Carved out from years of this. This slow crawl to the inevitable end, hand-in-hand.

And yet.

(and yet: he can't.)

Can't bring himself to reassure you when his heart is racing in his chest. A naughty child sneaking cookies off the counter when his mum isn't looking.

“Almost died,” he offers, fractured and raw. “I—uh, shit. Sorry. I don't know. Just—needed to see you, is all.”

And it's the truth.

You feel it. You must. The urgency, the desperation. This time is not like the others.

“No, no, Kyle. Don't—don’t apologise. Don't ever apologise, I—fuck. I'm glad you're okay, I'm—”

Pearlescent tears puddle in your lashes. You've never cried before. Not in front of him. Never. Preferring instead to bite your knuckles, to press your face into the pillow. Unwilling to let yourself ask for more than what you think you deserve.

(And it's never enough. Not to him.

your plate is empty, you're starving. but you refuse to eat.)

And when they spill down your cheeks, he leans back with a huff. Satisfaction is whitehot in his veins and he doesn't know why. Doesn't understand how the sight of you crying over him like this almost makes him want to preen. To purr.

Blames it on the fall. On the taste of burning metal still clogging the back of his throat.

“I'll be fine,” is offered, scratched out of his throat with jagged nails. Birthed into the world on a whisper-soft scream. “You don't have to worry about me.”

Your face falls. “Of course I’m going to worry about you.”

“I promise I'm—” he chokes a bit. Tries to cover it up with a cough. The frown on your face grows, eclipsing all the prior happiness that once glowed when you first answered the phone. “I'm good. Just need some rest.”

“Yeah, that might be a good idea.”

The tension is thick. He feels it thrum against his jugular; this living, breathing thing. This heady, undeniable agitation.

Your worry manifests itself in the deep canyon between your brows, heavy and all-encompassing despite your attempts to hide it from him. The weight makes your lip tremble, and Kyle wants to devour your sorrow, your grief, from the source. Taste your sadness. Feel it on his tongue.

He leans against the knotted fingers pressed tight to his windpipe until phosphenes prickle across his vision. Midnight black against burning blood orange.

Breathlessly, he quips: “and maybe to stay away from helicopters, too.”

The laugh you let out sounds like it's underwater. Garbled, choking for air. It's drenched in hysteria, in misery.

He wants to crush it between his teeth, but settles, instead, hanging his head low, shoulders shaking. From the angle, he knows you'd never be able to tell if he was laughing or crying.

(It helps, he supposes, that he doesn't know, either—

Is just slowly being consumed by this vacuum of want, one that keeps tugging at his insides, flaying pieces of himself off and dropping it into the maw.

He wonders, then, what'll happen after he eats himself whole. Will he disappear or will the masticated scraps of himself reassemble into a Frankensteinian lump of who he once was—)

You stay like that for a moment. Both of you pretend you're not falling into pieces for all the wrong reasons.

As he's saying goodbye, you add, nonchalant, unconcerned:

“Oh, David's calling me. I was supposed to help him pick out an outfit for a wedding.”

“David?” His tone is flat. His fingers tighten around the phone. “Who's that?”

“My friend from work. You met him, I think. He was at that party we went to. In Kent.”

“Huh. No, I, uh, don't remember.”

“Oh. Well, I won't be long. And I'll have my phone on me, so if you need to talk, just call, okay?”

You're unbothered. He can understand why. Neither of you have ever really had much reason for jealousy—Kyle trusts you. Implicitly. Both of you have friends of the opposite sex, and there's never been any sense of distrust in that friendship.

But—

David. Something about it burns through his chest, twisting and ugly. And the awful thing is, he trusts you, he does.

You have everything except a ring, and—

Well.

Synergy is a knife sliding across bone. Understanding skirting on the edges of his periphery, within his grasp. Obtainable. He reaches for it, clawing with eager fingers—

It breaks against his knuckles in blooming anguish, dissolving into the same gaping unknown, unknowables, that sets his teeth on edge.

In retaliation, he sinks his fist into the wall, and tries to remember the last time he felt so out of control—

Your conversations take on a strange tone. Jovial, blase, but the topics are endlessly lour.

Things like perhaps the lease ought to just be in your name. And maybe he should update his emergency contact—just in case.

Just in case.

It hangs over you like a stormcloud. Just in case. He can see it in the tremble of your lip, your fingers, ones you desperately try to hide behind sips from your chamomile tea. Faux indifference to the garishness of it all. To the fact that this is a real, pragmatic conversation that's happening, that ought to happen. Because you never know.

But you avoid these conversations by telling him about your day. And soon, your time is divided between pretending as if seeing him hurt like this doesn't make you cry yourself to sleep at night, feigning strength despite the darkening lines under your fatigued eyes in an effort to not become a simpering burden to him when this is just another hazard of his occupation, his chosen career; and helping David search for a suit.

And then a tie. And then shoes. The perfect wedding gift—

Kyle, too, pretends. Acts indifferent. Unbothered. As if it it doesn't irritate him. It shouldn't. He knows it shouldn't. He trusts you. Gives you free reign to every part of himself you'd ever asked to see.

Your palms are the perfect plinth to his aching head. His shoulders broad enough to carry your burdens sat right along with his own. He knows you. Jokes, sometimes, that he could pick out your soul with his eyes closed. And you volley back that no matter where life leads you, you'd always find your way to him.

“Every lifetime,” is whispered between kisses, folded in the brackets of his ribs. “All of them. It's always you—”

So why—

Why does he feel sick to his stomach when you talk about David, as if he'd gorged himself on too much of his rage?

(why, why, why—)

This chasm inside of him grows. Gets bigger. Hungrier.

Where he could normally shove inside a box, ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist, he instead finds fractured glass, fragmented and broken to a jagged point. He cuts his finger on a shard, and watches, hollow, as the blood puddles up, dripping down to his split knuckles.

He gets it, then.

The want, the greed, the hunger will consume him from the inside out.

But what, exactly, it wants is still a mystery.

(But he knows himself. Knows what he shoved into that awful, putrid chasm, and is sure that whatever it is, it can't be good—)

Egypt is a distant memory soon after. An aged polaroid of sunlight spilling over sand, watery and thick; an ocean of ochre, of burnt umber. He thinks, fondly, of the locals and their chatter as it fills the sun-dried streets, with the heat, an oppressive blanket of warmth, tucking against him.

Winter nights are static with the buzz of life. Of distant echoes of temple prayers in harmonic songs; haggling patrons and hissing vendors just outside his window.

Kyle thinks he'll miss this place for it could have been, not what it is.

Because what it is ends up being a cockpit in distress. Wind shrieking in his ear. The crunch of metal slamming with all its might against the cobbled pavement. The hiss of gas.

He didn't know fire could roar like a lion until then. Until it blooms, white-hot and wild, mere inches from his face. The snarling, drooling maws of a starving pride.

Clawing from ash, soot. Metal raining down around him, liquified under the intense blaze of the fuselage on fire. His leg twisted up in the seatbelt. Unable to get free. To get out.

Smoke in the air. In his eyes, his nose, filling his lungs.

He'll die, he thought. Is dying. His fingers scrape over concrete, flesh gnashing against grainy sand. Unable to get a grip on the slick blood that puddles out, staining the pavement and his hands.

He doesn't think of you, but he feels you there on the edge of his periphery. Lingering like a phantom, reaching for him. Get out, get out, get out—

In the bloom of gunmetal smoke that plumes around him like a sweltering cloud of heat and ash, a hand appears. Covered in grit, in grime. Blood.

“—out! We've gotta get out, Kyle. Grab my—”

Pawing in the dark, nebulous cloud, he finds Price's rough hand and latches on, hauling himself to safety. But what emerges from the soot, the smoke, is a version of himself that feels raw, fractured.

He's agitated. Leg bouncing, restless.

Price notices it on the plane ride home, eyes slanting over to stare, pointedly, at the continuous bob of his knee. Up, down, up, down. Kyle should hide it. Bite the inside of his cheek until it bleeds instead, but he doesn't.

It won't be enough to stem this urge to run, to flee.

“Almost home,” Price huffs, shifting in his seat. He, too, seems to feel that same prickling sense of unease. Kyle lets it wash over him. Not quite a comfort, but something. “Get some rest, Sergeant.”

At that, he scoffs. “Feels like I've been doing nothing but resting, cap.”

“Mm, you're young. Take advantage of it while you can.”

As Kyle rolls his eyes at that, Price makes an aborted move, hand jerking to his breast pocket as the plane rocks over a patch of clouds, turbulence shaking the frame. Searching for his cigars. Then angrily throws his hand down, fingers tight around the armrest, white-knuckled, when he remembers he can't smoke here.

“Might be a good time to quit,” he quips, chin jutting toward his hand, fingertips turning pink with the grip he has on the plastic.

Price follows his gaze, staring at his hand for a beat. And then he snorts, and pries his fingers loose.

“Nah, ‘m too old for that nonsense—” Kyle’s brows buoy, but he swallows down the harsh retort on his tongue (aren't you only thirty-eight, mate?), letting Price continue, uninterrupted. “‘sides, will probably need it once we land.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

He grunts, and settles into the seat. The look he fixes Kyle with feels like having a cold, metal blade pressed to his jugular.

“Gonna have to make a report, Sergeant. Falling from a bird twice now? And what's this? Third time for you? They'll want a review. Full. Will probably make us talk to a doctor or somethin’.” He cocks his head to the side, presses his pink knuckles to his temple. “Make sure we're all right up here.”

Kyle flinches. Tries to hide it with a cough when Price’s eyes tighten.

He's not sure he wants to do any of that. Have someone crack his head open and rummage around looking for defects to toss in his face later on as an excuse to kick him out. Medical discharge. Honourable, they'll say. An early retirement.

“And—” he swallows down the bitterness on his tongue. “And if we just didn't—”

“Can't do that, Sergeant.”

He struck for a moment. Anger quivers in his veins, rearing up like a viper ready to strike. He has to wonder if it was Ghost or Soap, would Price—

“Believe me,” he continues, eyes fixed on the open cockpit. Intense. “If it was just us, if it was one of our own, I'd have said piss on it. As long as none of you were seriously injured, why bother wasting time? But we have to be held accountable now.”

If it was one of our own—

“Right,” he rasps, hollow. Anger scorches his insides. “Okay.”

“Believe me, Sergeant. I want nothing more than to go home, and drink this whole bloody mess away, but—”

“I get it, cap.”

And he does. He's just not sure he can really talk about it in a way that won't show the world the gaping hole in his chest, the hairline fractures that crisscross along him, all screaming the same thing—

Terrain, terrain, pull up. Pull up. Terrain, terrain—

“Gotta let it go, Kyle.”

All he sees is fog. Fire crackling from within.

“And if I can't, captain?”

“Then it's been a pleasure working with you.” Kyle swallows again, blinking furiously against the dense cloud of smoke in front of him. “I know the commander at Scotland Yard. Could put in a good word for you. Might be for the best.”

Anger is a poison, he finds, but fear—

Fear is quicker. A knife to his heart. Left bleeding on the pavement before he knew what hit him.

“Or…” Price drawls. “Hide it away. Nothing bad happened, did it? You're still alive.”

Another hand appears from the midst of the fog.

He reaches for it.

“How?”

“Lots of ways. Best one I find is to just give in to whatever it is you're feeling. Let it consume you. Then just bury it.”

“Right,” he whispers, paper-thin. But he gets it now. “Thanks, cap.”

“Anytime, Kyle.”

He does as Price asks. Buries it deep inside of himself, and greets you when you come to pick him up at the airport with a wide grin, and a tight hug. Pulling you flush into his body, breathing in the scent of you until it stains his lungs. Sickeningly sweet.

“I missed you,” you whisper into his neck, words humid against his skin. “So, so fucking much Kyle—”

“Yeah,” he rumbles, caught on the feeling your chest makes when it heaves against his. Little, breathless hiccups of relief, worry. Elation. Fear. It tastes good in the back of his throat when he steals another lungful of your scent. “I missed you, too. Fuck, dovie. Don't know how much I fuckin’ missed you.”

He clings just a little bit tighter to you, holds on a few moments longer than he normally would. Leeches the comfort your presence brings like he's starved for it. Kyle breathes in the scent of you—lemongrass and fennel; sweet and earthy—and feels that gaping wound inside of him close, just a little bit, when you fold him into a tight embrace, letting the vice of your grip speak the words he knows you'll never utter.

Things like, please, don't ever do this to me again; and, don't go, Kyle. Please don't—

There's a multitude of things he wants to say to you. An endless bastion of sorrow and happiness and grief and elation all coalescing into this heavy anchor that hangs off his rib, pulling him down, down, down—

But he can't speak through the pulsing want in his throat. The urge to bite, to sink his teeth into you and never let go.

So, he doesn't.

He holds you back instead, presses your soft cheek to where it aches the most, and buries his nose into your crown.

Tries to satiate himself on the potency of your scent, the way it fills his lungs to bursting, and pretends the gnawing feeling in the pit of his chest is a purr and not a growl.

The ravenous roar of a starving beast, hungering for something Kyle can't name.

(He wonders if Soap felt this vacuum inside of himself, too.)

The comedown of the mission is spent with you tendering his wounds, and pressing trembling fingers to his pulse just to remind yourself that he's alive, that he's here with you. Present as warm flesh instead of a cold box full of ashes.

In these soft, aching moments, he's forced to contend with the fact that he almost died. Again—

—(the word echoing in the recess of his mind, over and over; an accumulation of all those incredible near-misses)—

Almost left you alone in this world with nothing but broken, fragmented memories that would eventually fade. Fingerprints on a rusted handrail. Tangled in a gossamer of time, nearly forgotten as you grew older. Changed. He'd be the ex-boyfriend lost tragically. The one who died too soon.

Someone else, he knows, would take his place when the grief took shape, becoming a corporeal feeling you could tuck away inside your pocket instead of a molten shadow burning you up from the inside out. Ever present.

And that's the thought he gets stuck on. The one that cuts through him the most.

You—his girl—belonging to someone else. Going on dates, kissing each other, laughing together. Falling in love.

It's selfish to want you to stay single for the rest of your life should anything happen to him. Impractical, too. But it needles under his skin. An itch he can't scratch. A want he can't satiate.

It won't even matter much when he's gone. He knows this. But it bothers him relentlessly. Souring his mood for days. Making him retreat, inward, to dismantle this unfathomable feeling taking root inside his chest. This bitterness, this anger.

The thing about dying is that it tends to put things into perspective.

Most common of all, he's told, is the fragility of the human existence, of life itself. Such a shallow thing, in retrospect. Barely a droplet in the unfathomable vastitude of time, and yet—

Something he never really thought about until it was unceremoniously thrown in his face.

It's this, the sudden realisation that he's not as invincible as he's often tricked into thinking, that seems to shake the foundations of his life in ways that would be unthinkable to the him that lived weeks before his brush with death. But that man, that version of him, is swallowed whole by the unrelenting fear that pulses through him each time it passes through his mind.

A fear of one thing:

Permanence.

Or, rather, the lack thereof.

Memories will be all you have left of him, and, well—

That simply won't do.

But the problem is this:

He doesn't know how to fix it. Doesn't know, really, how to stem this nauseating desire, this urge to own, possess, consume that roils through his chest each time he catches a glimpse of you unawares, tending to some mundane task.

The idea of you floating through life without him is not a poison, but a fear. A whitehot agony that trickles down his spine. They're all thoughts that gut him, that make him agitated. Restless. He paces again, roaming from the foyer to the living room, feeling too much like a trapped animal. A snarling tiger in a zoo. He needs an out. An escape—

So he runs.

And sometimes, you join him in the mornings before you have to go to work, setting out for a jog around the block in tandem. There's a quiet ambience to these outings, a comfort that makes him sigh—relieved, in parts, that the ache in his jaw, an unfamiliar urge to bite, abates in your presence. Your proximity is the balm to a hurt he didn't know he had.

Most times, though, he's alone. Left with his thoughts and the taste of iron in his throat as he paces the streets of Birmingham with a lour twist to his lips and a tightness in his shoulders he tries to shake out by running his body to the ground. Replacing the ache in his stomach with one in his thighs, his hamstrings. His lungs. Breathes in the humid air of a midsummer morning until they feel like they might burst.

It works. Marginally. Helps in the same way he's sure chamomile tea before bed does for an insomniac. But it's something. Something to suckle on until the quiver in his guts, the gnawing chasm in his belly, abates. Surrendering—albeit, mutinously—as the heavy taste of iron floods the back of his throat, and lactic acid leaves him groaning in the morning when he swings his sore, overworked muscles over the ledge of the bed.

Kyle's in perfect health. Peak physical condition. The burn in his thighs, the tremble in his knees, is a sign of pushing himself too hard. Of edging to the very brink.

But he can't stop.

Not when his body hums like a livewire. Vitriol coursing through his veins, seeping into his tissue. Infecting him from within until he's irascible. Always on the edge. Always tense. Agitated.

Everything feels like it's plunged underwater. As if he's staring down into the pool of an emerald lake, watching from above on dry land as the world goes on.

(A place, now, where he doesn't belong.)

He knows all too well that this is just a duct tape solution to a bigger, more devastating problem, but opening the floodgates without a sluice will drown him under the crushing weight of what rushes out.

It just makes sense, then, to bury it.

The problem is:

The tinderbox where these awful thoughts, this anger, went to moulder has been crushed, broken to pieces when he fell back to earth.

He has nowhere to put them anymore.

So he keeps them between his teeth, but being so close to you makes him want to bite—

(Bad dog.

Let it go, drop it. Let it—)

Something has to give.

He calls Price.

Hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway leading to the living room, and tries to pretend that this isn't a cry for help.

Price picks up after the third ring, gruff and irritable. His surly tone balmed by the heavy inhale of his cigar.

He calls Price.

Hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway leading to the living room, and tries to pretend that this isn't a cry for help.

Price picks up after the third ring, gruff and irritable. His surly tone was balmed by the heavy inhale of his cigar.

“Better be important, Garrick. It's the weekend.”

“Crime doesn't work nine to five, captain. Thought you knew that better than anyone. Must be getting soft.”

“Soft,” he repeats with a derisive snort. In the background, he hears peals of laughter, the distant echo of, only thing soft about you is your midsection, honey. A grunt. A thwap. A squeal.

This must be his wife, Kyle realises. The one he never speaks about directly, but can't stop bringing up in his own way. Home, he calls her. I’m going home. I'll be home for the weekend, don't bother me. Home is missing me, I reckon. Better pack it in, then, boys.

They learned this only a few short weeks into knowing Price. Home, to him, is a person. Her. His wife. The echo, the silhouette; the one who lives in the brim of his hat, the end of his cigar. The scabs on his knuckles.

The one he left at the door when had to beat a man, a father, for information. Picked up with bruised, shaking hands as soon as he was finished. Kept tight in his breast pocket.

This little glimpse into his captain's life, heard through the tinny phone, makes Kyle swallow down his jealousy. The nausea. It's all so—

Sweet. Domestic.

“Get outta here, this is a business call—” comes the brusque rasp, pulled away from the phone, and Kyle heaves out a breath. The voice comes back, gruffer than before. All tenderness shelved back in that box labelled only for her. “This better not be a business call, Garrick.”

“Been thinking about what you said,” he murmurs, and lets his head fall against the wood frame with a thud that rattles through his teeth. “About—lines, you know. And where to draw them.”

“Ah,” Price grouses, huffing. “So this is a work call, then.”

“Dunno, honestly, cap. Just—I don't know. I don't—”

“You bothered me on a Sunday, Garrick. Better know quickly—”

“How do you do it? Going out each time when you—with your—”

“Mm,” he steamrolls over Kyle's floundering question, humming deep in his chest. “I was wondering when this might come up.”

“Were you? Was that before or after the second helicopter crash?”

“Before, smartass—”

“Right. And? Any sage wisdom to impart on me, sir?”

He sucks in a breath. “What's botherin’ you, Gaz?”

Kyle blinks, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. In retrospect, he supposes he should have expected it. Price is nothing if not brusque.

“My girl,” he murmurs, quiet. Soft. As if it was meant to be a secret. “I just. I don't want to leave—leave her alone,” he thinks of David and has to fight back the dizzying anger that burns through his veins. “I know what this job entails, and I can do it, but—”

“So don't.”

“Don't what? Don't die? That's a little unhelpful considering what we do, cap—”

“No. Don't leave her alone, Gaz. That's really all you can do.”

The thing is, he's sure Price means something sentimental, something metaphorical, like memories. Pictures, videos. Time spent together.

But Kyle has never been much for abstracts in the past. Prefers, instead, the concretes. The tangible. The corporeal. Things he can touch. Feel.

“My wife is expectin’. Has me running around the goddamn city for banh mi so unless there's anything else to add, sergeant—”

Expecting. He knew, of course. Despite Price saying very little at all about his wife, the silence has always been loud. Black and white ultrasound photos, phone calls. Dates scribbled down on the Staples calendar he has spread out on his desk in the office. He misses almost all of them—too busy running drills with new recruits, or on the field (or yelling—you did what, you fuckin’ Muppet?!—at Soap through the phone following his recovery leave somewhere that's need to know, according to Ghost)—but every time, Kyle catches him sneaking away, phone trapped in the crook of his shoulder and ear, muttering low, gravelly, into the receiver.

Yeah, how'd it go? Everything good? Good. That's—

The silence, Kyle finds, is telling.

His own, too, because this revelation seems to have knocked the air from his lungs. He can't—

Can't speak. Not yet. Not now.

Expecting. It's—

A thought. Not particularly something he'd ever really considered much himself. He comes from a large, overbearing family. Functions, dinners. Holidays. All spent crammed into his grandma’s house in Pelham. The unequivocal centrefold. The matriarch of the family.

Caught in the indivisible lines of oldest (between just his parents) and middle child (when including his two half-brothers on his father's side, and a half-sister on his mother's), he's no stranger to a big family. Something he's always wanted for himself, too. A little inkling in the back of his head that rears, purring in contentment whenever they all get together for Sunday dinners at Grandma's house and he's full of good food, lazing on the couch as his family bickers amongst each other over a game of monopoly (his older brother is always the banker, and always, always, cheats with his two younger sisters—twins, go figure).

And his older sister, too, is expecting. Had poked your stomach three weeks ago, teasing, and when can we expect one from Gazzy?

He didn't think about it much—snapped at her for using his military callsign, kissed your temple as you sputtered at her cackling laughter, and then ducked into the kitchen to help his dad cut into the pie the twins, Lolly and Lucy, had made.

(Made, though, as in popping into Tesco and making the decision to buy it.)

And now—

“No, uh…” He swallows. Swallows again. He tastes blood in the back of his throat. Realises, when his hands start to shake and his heart slams into the brackets of his ribs, that it's adrenaline. Excitement.

“Sure,” he rasps out, words slick, tacky with his blood. “I'll, uh, give her just that, cap. And—enjoy your sandwiches.”

“Oh,” he breathes out suddenly, sharp. Deep. “I will. Goodnight, Kyle.”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Night, sir.”

He says, with all the casualness he can muster, “remember Price? John Price? Yeah, his, uh, his wife is expecting.”

“Oh,” it rings like a gunshot. Your chopstick clangs against the tin of spicy mapo tofu. “That's—wow. A baby, huh? A whole—”

You swallow. Kids are not something either of you gave much thought to. Couldn't with his odd hours, gaping absences, and your school schedule. Nothing ever fit together back then; jagged edges of a puzzle. Lock and key forced to fit.

But now.

Now—

He folds a smile into the crease of his napkin. “Yeah. Price as a dad, huh? Reckon he'd be good at it.”

It makes you snort. “You think so?”

“He's, uh, complicated. But—a good man.” Somewhat. Maybe. “Kids, though.” He lets the wistfulness in his tone carry the burden for him, content to simply exist in this moment with you. Let it saturate the air, perfumed in his longing.

You breathe it in. This heavy, noxious miasma.

“Must be great,” he adds, reaching for another piece of siumai. “Bein’ a dad an’ all. Lucky man.”

Over a steaming plate of mapo tofu, he watches as your expression falls inward. Contemplative.

You know him enough to understand that he's talking about it because it means something to him. That there's a hidden want tucked neatly inside the words he says, whispered echoes of the ones he doesn't. Won't.

And he knows you well enough to know that you'll be ruminating on this tenfold. Replaying the conversation in your head like an old rerun. Over and over again. Needling away at the cadence, the words, until you find something worth digging into further.

(The conclusion, of course, has been laid out from the beginning.

He just wishes he had the wherewithal to see it much earlier through the smoke.)

He licks his finger, and hums around the meaty oil smeared over his tongue.

All pawns on a chessboard. In the gap, he inches his bishop forward.

Slow. Steady.

But you cut him off with your knight.

“Kids are a big commitment,” you're mumbling in between bites of bittermelon drizzled with honey. “And considering the nature of your job—” the slipup forfeits your pawn. You pretend not to notice. “h–his. Uh, his job. I just—”

There's a piece of pale green rind between your teeth. It slips down your tooth when you speak, dropping down to your lip like a flake of fallen snow.

You swallow. Lick your lips. The slide of your tongue drags away the fruit. Like it wasn't even there to begin with.

When you speak, it's softer. Barely a whisper. He wishes you'd yell instead. Scream. It doesn't tremble past a few, gentle decibels.

“—is that really for the best?”

(is it feasible for us?)

Kyle sucks in a breath between his teeth. He knows he has to tread carefully here. The ground beneath his feet was as fragile as eggshells. One misstep—

“Does it matter?” He volleys, paper-thin. “If it's something we—” he comes to a stop, a sudden halt.

Manufacturing a Freudian slip is easier said than done but somehow he does it with ease. Bashful, then. Sheepish. Like he accidentally flashed you his hand. Revealed his secrets. He ducks his head—the vision of embarrassment, now—but it's multifaceted. The move serves to leave the impression of fractured vulnerability. Bares his soul, and all his broken, naked wants with it. But it also gives you a horrific glimpse at the ugly, marbled bruise still popcorned along his cheekbones, his jaw. The tear in his ear, scarred over into a black valley bracketed by red canyons.

Raw, splintered, he adds: “if it's something they want, why does the rest matter?”

The silence that follows is long. Oppressive. It comes about with a swiftness he doesn't anticipate, and spends a considerable amount of time debating whether or not leaving it is the right choice. It's unlike him to be so uncertain. So hesitant.

But this, he reasons, is different than getting a pretty girls number under dubious circumstances, or finessing your landlord into not renewing your lease. This is bigger than the games he played in the past. More is at stake here.

So, he holds.

Watches, quietly, as you fold under the pressure. “It's just—it's a big commitment, right?”

He latches onto your uncertainty with his teeth.

“If you're serious about it—like they are about each other—then what's the problem? I think they'll be fine,” he shrugs, blase. Indifferent. Winces when it pricks against the scab on his collarbone. “‘sides, it ain't like Price is gettin’ any younger. Man's been itchin’ for a family of his own for a long time. Might be the best time, too, considering the man's luck with—uh—”

He coughs into the top of his curled fist when you flinch at his callous implication.

“—just… he's reckless, is all. Might mellow him out. Keep his head on straight if he knows what he has to come home to, and what he'd be leaving behind if he didn't.” Another shrug. “Could be a good thing for him in the long run.”

You take flight as soon as it steals away his piece. Fleeting. Retreating.

You should know better than that.

Kyle always chases the things that run—

It leads him to a pub downtown.

David—fucking David—sits on the stool beside you, sipping on a flat draft, and laughing at something you're saying.

It's innocuous, really. Nothing untoward. No immediate reason for his hackles to raise, hair standing on end like he's under threat.

But he feels it in his bones. Gnarled fingers grazed over his flesh. A warning. Sirens wail in the back of his head, and his stomach drops like he's back in the airplane, the helicopter, all over again. Plummeting to earth. G-force flattening him against whining metal—

He's too close, is the problem.

Curled over you like he's trying to keep you a secret from the rest of the world. Something Kyle knows well—intimately—because he does it, too. Tucks you into his side, barely letting anyone get a glimpse of you. To see you. They can imagine, sure. And sometimes he likes to pull back a little just to let a peak of you be seen only to swallow you back up under his bulk. A taunt, a tease. Waggishly waving his finger at the naughty person who dared look at his sun, his Apollo, without permission.

To see it like this, from the outside looking in—a mere spectator when he's been teaching his hand up toward you for what feels like his entire life—is infuriating. It's voyeuristic, he finds, catching a glimpse of you from the triangular window of the man's arm—elbow on the table, cheek perched on his knuckles. All Kyle can do is squint into this little opening, catching the aftertaste of your smile.

And the problem is, he's entirely too aware of every overprotective boyfriend clichè that exists. Knows, very well, when it stops being cute and becomes an issue. Borderline abusive. Gross. Restraining order worthy.

You're allowed to smile at men who aren't him. To drink with them in fancy restaurants wearing a dress that he picked out. It's fine. He doesn't care. You do it often, honestly. There's something about you that draws people in. Like looking up at the warm sun after a long, dark winter. It's unavoidable. Expected, even.

But—

Fucking David seems to be the exception to his patience. To his goodwill.

Maybe it's the way he pushes your glass toward you, muttering drink up under his breath. Or the way he leans in when you move back. Following you despite the obvious signs not to. Pursuing you—

Even though he knows, very well, that you have a boyfriend.

It's the arrogance, he thinks.

(Or one predator sniffing out the stench of another; lions prowling around the same lioness—)

He doesn't realise he's sneering until you catch his gaze from between David's arm. Feels it then, when he has to let his muscles lax into a smile. Easy, effortless. Just like the one you give him in turn.

Soft, tender around the edges. Melting into happiness within seconds. A rare treat you give no one but him—

A fact that makes David jerk in his seat slightly. Maybe elated by this new look, the simmering heat in your eyes is warm enough to make someone sweat.

Whatever happiness he feels is dashed, though, when he realises your eyes are focused over his shoulder, away from him. Quietly, David turns in his seat, craning his neck over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of what caught your attention so much, and—

It's real sweet, he finds, the way the haughty look on David's face falls, breaking on impact, the moment he locks eyes with Kyle. Shifting into shock, into unease. Flinching almost instinctively, driven to run out of fear.

Like he knows.

And Kyle grins. Gives that boyish smile you tell him, repeatedly, that you fell in love with—soft edges, dimples; lips stretched wide over his fangled canines—and watches the satisfaction drip down David's brow as you extricate yourself from his shadow, and are pulled, magnetic, to Kyle’s side.

Where you belong.

But more than that, where you choose to be.

The weather outside is notably warmer this time of year than it should be, and it sticks, syrupy and warm, to his skin as he sips from his third bottle of San Miguel and picks at the leftovers of your shrimp scampi.

Across from him, David nurses on a ginger and rye, and murmurs to you about something—a show, he thinks—that he isn't privy to.

It's been like this for the last two hours they've sat out on the patio. Not quite an exclusion, not really. You do your best to keep him within this little cosm David is trying so hard to build, interrupting him quietly when he goes on long-winded tangents about something that Kyle isn't aware of, and filling in the blanks.

(it's a reality TV show. we watched something similar, you remember? just like First Dates—)

But he's an outlier here. Gone too much to invest in a show with you like David is, a new addition to your usual friend group. It's never been something he's cared about before. Why stop you from enjoying a show when he's carted away to Mexico or Chicago on another mission, the end date undetermined. Until it's fuckin’ finished, Price used to gripe when he asked. Until we end it.

It can't be helped. But his hands tighten around the bottle, warmed under his palm. Condescension bleeding in rivulets down the neck, drenching his skin. He's angry. Suddenly, viciously. Filled with a sense of irritation that drums up from deep within his chest as David plucks little inside jokes out of nothing, making you laugh, and laugh, and then turn to whisper in his ear about what they mean.

It isn't your fault. It's a catalyst to dating a man halfway out the door on most days, but it itches. Prickles under his skin. Selfishly wanting you all to himself, to fawn over him, and laugh at these little jokes he makes, leaving David on the fringes instead.

Childish. Or—

He'd think so if David didn't shift his gaze toward him each time it happened, lips quirking in a small, satisfied grin. Cats, he thinks. Little yellow canaries. Tries to pull some sense of normalcy from the frothing geysers that roil in his belly, anger sloshing over the basin, drenching everything in a molten ire. Anger. Blisteringly hot.

It scalds him. Scorches his insides as David laughs, again, at a movie Kyle was too busy in Macedonia to see.

When you explain that to David, he cuts a sudden grin at him. “Gone a lot, aren't you?”

And a tension thickens in the air. Drapes around his shoulders, his brow.

“Work, yeah,” it comes out as two, rough grunts. A warning. Stay back.

But David curls his fingers over the rusting wrought iron, peering inside. “Work, hmm? Heard you were military—” his eyes flicker to you briefly, like this is something that might get you in trouble for divulging to a stranger, but they're back on Kyle before he can say anything about it. Something like, don't fucking look at her—

“David,” is what you say, low and soft, and tinged with exasperation like this is an old conversation that keeps popping up, an uninvited guest you can't seem to shake.

The warning is ignored again. Coming from him, he almost understands. Could respect his contumaciousness, even, but you? It makes his hackles raise. A flare of anger pooling in the grizzle, the filament, that holds his knuckles together.

He keeps himself composed. Somehow. Tempers down that urge to bite, to break things, even as David leans back, shrugging.

“Military,” he says again, but this time his lip curls. “Can't imagine you're very well-liked anymore. Considering the state of the world and all.”

His fingers tighten against the bottle. “Yeah,” he bites, grins. Knows it's feral. Ugly. Lip curling over a single canine. “Can't really say I'm in it too much for how well-liked I am.”

“Oh no? Not in it for the glory. The prestige. What do Americans like to say? Thank you for your service—”

“—David!” Your voice comes out sharp. A reprimand. Brows knotting tight together. “That's not—”

“What I do won't end up on the news,” he interjects, and brings his other hand down over your thigh. The sight makes David sniff, glancing away. Anger writ on his brow. Jealousy mouldering in his eyes. Kyle tries not to laugh. “And if it does, it's usually after the bad guy is in the ground, and you find out about it sitting at a desk, twiddling your thumbs all day.”

The table falls silent.

He brings the beer to his lips, taking a generous gulp. Something dark curls in his guts even as David's satisfied smile dwindles.

He sends you home first, watching David move towards the washroom from the corner of his eye.

“You'll be back tonight?”

“Mmhm. Just gonna go for a quick run. Gotta stop and pick up some razors, too.” His hand comes up, fingers scratching at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Gettin’ a shadow.”

“A run, huh?” You don't believe him, but he knows you. Knows you won't fight him too much on it—especially when you think David already left. “And I dunno. A beard might look good on you.”

“Might,” he scoffs before leaning down, pressing a quick kiss to your cupid's bow. “Might not, too.”

“Think you'd look good in anything. Moustache. Beard. Bald. I'm not picky.”

“No, ‘course no,” he teases and holds the door open as you climb inside. “My unpicky girl.”

“That's not a word.”

“Sure it is. Word of the week for Oxford, wasn't it?”

Your words are swallowed up when the taxi driver asks if you're ready to go. You give him a nod, and Kyle a smile. He watches, lingering by the curb until you're out of sight.

And then his smile drops. His hands curl into fists. He cranes his head over his shoulder, eyes riveted to the washroom door.

There's a choice here, he thinks. Get the shaving cream, the razor. Be the man you think he is. The one who runs after a heaping serving of tiramisu and the leftovers of your shrimp you couldn't finish. Maybe watch that show on Netflix that David was so keen on one-upping him on. Your head in his lap. Soft smiles, taunts. Continue this playful banter you started through until his face is buried in your cunt—victor’s choice, naturally; and you always win—and you end the night whimpering his name, not David's.

That, in itself, is a victory. A win.

But—

He grabs the ball cap from the rack near the door. It's cream-coloured. Team merchandise for ManU. A little red devil stands in the middle holding a pitchfork. Black, western lettering says WE'RE NEVER GONNA STOP. He snorts at it. Macabre. Fitting. And slips it over his head, letting it hang low on his brow.

And then he follows after David.

David stands with his back to the door, hands curled around the porcelain sink as he stares in the mirror, chin titled under the harsh flood of the dull, fluorescent light.

His eyes flicker up when the door opens, widening slightly when Kyle emerges, liquid, in the reflection. But through the surprise, there's a touch of smug recognition that sets Kyle's teeth on edge when it drills into him. A sense of arrogance that makes his fingers itch. Trigger ready.

“Oh, don't worry, mate,” he's saying, a smile curling up the corner of his mouth like smoke. “We've just gotten—” he pretends to think, gaze darting up to the bulbs hanging over his head, smarmy and oil-slick. He must think himself leonine. Victorious.

Kyle wants to wear his bloodied teeth around his neck.

“Close,” he offers, and anger coils inside his guts like tar. “You know, since you've been away, and all. Nothin’ to worry about, though. We're just friends, mate. Promise.”

At that word, his smile turns sharp. Mocking.

“Oh, yeah,” he hears himself saying, words fine powder on his tongue. “Close, huh?”

“Well, she's been a bit lonely, you know. Big change, moving to a new city, an’ all alone. Needed, ah, some company.”

It burns. Blisters. The way this man speaks about you rips through him, bubbling away at his self-control like acid. Alone. As if he doesn't know. Lonely. Like he wasn't minutely aware of how much your dynamic has shifted since college, since he was some beat cop patrolling the streets with too much rage in his veins and no outlet for it, to now—when he's calling you from a medical ward (confidential, no you can't come see him) to let you know he was in (yet another) helicopter crash. Had another brush with death that pitches his mortality in the forefront of his mind like an omen. An obstacle. One that cracked open this sense of want, of urgency, hunger from the abyssal depths of his soul.

But this—

It reminds him of when he'd get into fights in high school. Needling the kids he knew would take him up on his offer, who would meet him in sketchy alleys near council housing where the police were less likely to patrol and the neighbours more willing to ignore it. When he'd mock them, twisting his words, his anger, into a brutal knife until they took a swing at him.

His hand curls into a fist. Muscle memory. It quivers through his joints—this insatiable urge to tear into something he knows will bleed. Will make him bleed. He needs it like a confessional. Therapeutic.

Because the thing is:

Kyle likes the fights. Like the way his knuckles burn, and his muscles ache. The bruises. The scraps. The contusions. The pain feels good. Cathartic. Rapturous.

And really—

He needs to get this awful, terrible demon out of him before the saliva that floods its maw at the sight of you, held back only by sheer willpower and reruns of golden girls on the couch you found by the side of the road, spills over between jagged teeth. Before the leash snaps.

David looks terrified. Scared. He turns around quickly, unwilling to let Kyle have at his vulnerable spine a moment longer. His skin catches on the porcelain rim of the sink as he swings around, the rubbery squeal loud in the sudden hush that falls between them. David winces. Pulls his hand off.

“Look, man—”

Kyle takes a step forward. Another. It's not fun when they shrink, when they shake, trembling as he nears. He likes the idiots who linger outside of crowded pubs on Friday night harassing patrons. They are drunken slobs calling out to the women they see. They fight back when Kyle corners them. Fists swinging, legs jerking out in a poorly timed kick. Slurred words full of vitriol.

At first, anyway.

And then the whine of their polyester tracksuits rubbing across ashlar cut through the alley, and the haze of alcohol saturated their senses. It's around then when they realise just how badly they fucked up.

But David is different.

Posh—even though the notion of the word itself rankles down his back, trickling like slick, hot oil. Pooling in the brackets of his spine.

“You did this,” he says, watching the paper shell of the man crumble. “Shouldn't have fucked with my girl.”

“I didn't mean anything—”

“You did.” He pushes his knuckles into his palm, listening to the satisfying crack of his joints. “But that's what you do, isn't it? Messin’ with things that don't belong to you.”

“She—”

“C’mon,” he grunts, keyed up. Aching for something to hit. “Gonna throw a proper punch at me or am I just gonna have to kick your head in?”

“Maybe she wanted it.” It prickles over his name. “Wants me. Begged me for it. Gonna hit me even though your girl is the one messing with me?”

The sour vindication on his face sets Kyle's teeth on edge. No way in hell. He knows this is what David's type does—losing in brawn, but trying to skew the game by getting in his head, making him lose his composure. Getting under his skin. Because that, in itself, is a victory, isn't it?

Bruises will heal, but this, these accusations, the idea that you want David in some way, went after him to slake something Kyle couldn't is gutting.

And he gets it. Understands why David is saying this, but it doesn't make it any easier to stomach. To listen to.

David sees his fist shake. Pales slightly. “What?” He asks, all false bravado. Broken confidence. Kyle can sniff the blood in the water. The fear in the air. “You gonna hit me, or somethin’, mate?”

And Kyle—

Kyle jerks his head to the side, letting the knot in his neck pop. The sound, ominous and poignant, fills the bathroom, eclipsing the static buzz of the dying bulbs over their heads.

“Nah, mate,” his tone flatlines. “I’m gonna let you swing first. And then I’m gonna bash your face in. S’only proper, yeah?”

He staggers backwards from the crumpled heap of the man—still breathing, he notes with a huff, files it away for later; one less mess Price will have to clean up—and works his jaw. It aches. He tastes blood. Spits a glob of foamy pink onto the floor by his feet. No missing teeth, but his lip is split.

Ah, well.

Kyle feels fine. Drunk, though. Sluggish. Keyed up. Dazed off that post-adrenaline high of sinking his mangled fists into someone; into flesh, sinew, and bones. But—

Intact. Whole.

He likes the sting in his knuckles. The tackiness of blood congealing around his fingers, staining his skin.

Outside of the tangible, physical sensation—

Kyle isn't sure what he feels.

A part of him was hopeful that this would abate the anger in his veins, and stave off some of the agony of an unrelenting, insatiable hunger. But all he feels is numb. Indifferent.

Hitting David doesn't bring him the catharsis he desperately seeks even though it should. If anything, it's made him more anxious. Restless.

He leaves. Needs to—to walk, to run, to escape the crime scene before they find an unconscious civilian in the washroom stall. Flexes his fists, his jaw, as he goes, pacing through the bar, the crowd of people he cares so little for. The cloying scent of alcohol, perfume, stale sweat, cigarettes is a thick, putrid miasma in his nose. He heaves through it, and cuts one of Ananke’s young to ground himself until he hits the door with the brunt of his weight, nearly tripping over himself to get out.

The air outside is humid this time of year. Damp with the rain that's been drizzling down since mid-morning. He breathes in the balminess of it. Wishes, for a moment, that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just not here. Not with that man's blood on his hands. Not with his words hissing ugliness and vitriol in Kyle's head—

He trusts you, is the thing. Knows, without any uncertainty or doubt, that you'd never cheat on him. But—

The thought is there. Not of your infidelity, your betrayal, but of you. You with another man. Someone who is not him. A stranger.

Lonely. Kyle wants to scoff. Wants to scream. He wishes he killed him. Sunk his teeth into his jugular, gorged himself on his blood. Lonely.

As if he didn't fucking know that already.

There's smoke in his lungs. Ash in his throat.

He digs into his pocket, wraps his aching, stiff fingers around his phone, and tugs it out. The blood on his hands leaves sticky smears across his screen. The touchpad barely registers the tremulous prompts he keys in.

Still. Still.

Kyle manages. Finds the contact he's looking for and hits CALL.

He's not even sure if the number is in service, and doesn't put too much hope on it. It really doesn't matter if it connects or not. He's just—

He needs something. Someone.

A clear path. A straight head.

“—this is Johnny. Leave a message aft’r th’ tone, ‘nd ‘ah’ll—”

“Johnny. Fuck, man. I—shit—” Johnny's supposed to be dead. Laswell made them all swear on it. Wear a spiffy suit to his funeral, and dance the choreographed routine in front of everyone of a team in grief. “I don't know why I'm callin’. Just—my girl, my—” doves. apollo. “I don't know. Kinda feels like lately my heads all a mess. I'm hangin’ thread here, and I just—”

need to be told what he's doing is wrong. terrible.

“—could use a friend, I suppose. Ah, shit. I don't know why I bothered—”

He hangs up. Drops his head.

He feels fragile. Like something is going to break.

Feet balancing on a spindle, the vertiginous drop below an instantaneous death, and Kyle—

He catches the moonrise on his way home. Thinks he can see Jupiter lingering in a flickering white light behind it.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes once. Thrice.

can' call right now. shite reception. in some park in canada. nahanni, ye ever heard of it? found a little doe injured in the wood. am takin’ good care’a it. plannin on bringin her home soon. once price sends a plane to pick me up. will introduce her to ya. pretty thing.

anyway. got yer message. see, if it were me. if that were mah doe. id never leave em alone. ahd make em stay.

think ye know what ta do, Gaz.

see ye soon.

—Kyle steps off the spindle.

You usher him in with a wounded noise in the back of your throat when you catch sight of the bruise under his chin, equal parts worried and questioning. He makes a show of shrugging, indifferent, when you take off his jacket, hanging it on the rack for him, and follows you inside when you move back.

“It doesn't look like nothing,” you whisper, so sweet he feels the sugary grain of your words rubbing against his teeth.

“It's just—” he's not sure where it comes from. In for a penny, he supposes, and lets the words flood between you, twisting and sour. “Your…friend, he, uh, caught me when I was about to leave, and—”

The worry splashed across your brow is wiped clean, replaced with disbelief, with shock, and then—

“Oh, that prick!” Anger. The tang of it is electric against his skin.

“Who the hell does he think he is?” Your indignation is blistering. He basks in it.

“It's fine,” he murmurs, soft and low. Quietly reassuring. “I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Well, I do, anyway.” You volley back, words tight in your throat.

You're so pretty like this. Illuminated softly in the cool, hazy glow of the television. It's a picture he wants to fold up, put it in his breast pocket for safekeeping, where it will stay warmed by the steady thud of his still-beating heart.

Want pulses thickly in his sternum. The urge, the need, is there, simmering quietly in his periphery. Slowly taking up more and more space as it grows, too big for him to hold back.

And so, he says, “I thought about this, you know. When I—” he stops, adds a small huff. A shallow shake of his head. “Nevermind.”

If this were a movie, it would be a tender, heartbreaking beat. A moment filled with tension and a palpable, heady fear.

You might say to him, please don't ever do that again, or even, please don't go; but he knows you just as much as he knows himself, and so it doesn't surprise him much at all when instead you swallow all of it down, letting it slowly metastasise inside of you, offering a small smile in response instead.

A quiet, “yeah,” following along behind the brunt of your shielded misery. Buried for his benefit, because as much as these near misses might keep you up at night, you'll never tell him not to go.

He adds, “been thinking a lot about what I'd miss out on, too, but—”

Kyle doesn't finish. Doesn't think he needs to. Not when he sees the gears turning in the back of your pretty, tear-filled eyes.

Against the armrest of the couch you'd bought at an old antique store, his hand closes into a fist.

Close, he thinks. But not close enough.

It'd be easier to just flush your pills down the toilet. Poke holes in the condoms you keep in the drawer—just in case. Sabotage you through sugar pills; perfect replicas of the ones you clumsily take each morning, only ever half aware of what you were doing as you lean sleepily against the sink and listen to some podcast you've recently gotten into.

So easy that he buys them without a second thought from some sketchy guy in the back alley of a Tesco Express. Pockets the package, and brings it home to you. Slips them inside the half-empty bottle where they fall to the bottom with a sharp clank. Clank, clank, clank—

The orange-tinted bottle sits on the countertop. Innocuous. Mocking. Everything he wants—you, you, you: forever, permanently—right there in front of him. Within reach. The smooth plastic surface is still warm to the touch from his aching hand—Ananke’s mangled brode on his palm has been itching furiously lately; he thinks he has an infection running jagged down his lifeline, the sink pickled and oozing pale yellow—and he holds it tight. Tighter still. Until the tumid scab on his hand cracks, pops open. Leaks blood and foul rot onto the container. Smears it soft pink with infection.

Kyle knows right from wrong.

His mum is a pillar of the community. A stalwart wall of firm, unyielding faith: the kind that brokers no arguments—do unto others as you would like done unto yourself, Kyle—and offers no retribution. Forgiveness stacks as high as karma. As goodness. As fairness. She wakes up every Sunday morning and goes to church. Spends all afternoon cooking meals for the homeless, the sick, and drags his father along with her as she drops them off at shelters, each with a handwritten passage about love and humility.

He's not particularly religious, but she's never held it against him. Never forces belief when there is none. Content to let him grow into the man he wants to be.

Though—while he shirked her belief, he stole away with her vicious sense of morality. Of justice. Right and wrong.

Simply put: he knows better. Was raised better.

And yet—

Somewhere down the line, his idea of good and bad evolved. Shifted. Cracked. He feels the remnants of it thrum in his veins; this foreign thing—this abrasive entity. It surges. Spumes; seeps in his bones. His marrow. Rewrites his foundation, his sense of self, until it's marbled with streaks of murk. Gangrenous.

Good and bad.

(the and an entire island of its own.)

He wonders if it started with Price—draw the line wherever you see fit—or if it was waiting, a hibernating beast, for someone like him to come along. A pantomime of a paradigm. Mockery of justice. Absolution in shades of self-interest.

Either way, it doesn't matter much. Not anymore. Not when the cage, the iron shackles, housing that monstrous thing split open on the pavement outside of Giza, freeing this starving, angry animal.

And really—

—he’d rather it quenched itself on you than anyone else.

Kyle places the bottle neatly back in the drawer. Slides it shut. It looks the same way it did when he arrived—pristine, innocuous, untouched. No one would know that he tampered with the seal, spilt the pills into the porcelain basin of the sink, ran hot water over them until they dissolved into sugary-white clumps, and washed them down the drain. Gone. Dissipated into a barely noticeable residue he scoops up with the tip of his index finger, bringing the specks closer to his face. It gleams in hazy sunlight dancing through the open curtain.

Kyle brings it to his mouth. Licks it off.

It tastes sweet.

Ananke screams in agony when he grips a fistful of your hair, pushing your head down the length of his hardened cock, all the way down, down—

You sputter around the thick of him, eyes watering. Dripping rivers down to your hollowed cheeks. It pools there. A deep basin. A lagoon. He wants to drink it up—salt water cures everything, after all.

The noises you make—quiet gags, wet chokes—have liquid pleasure trickling down his spine. An endless cacophony fills the bedroom. A soundscape he could get lost in forever—

“Yeah,” he rasps when your fingers dig moons into his thighs. “Such a good girl for me, aren't you?”

The whimper that tumbles out vibrates through his cock, and he grunts with it, a deep groan that you answer by squeezing your thighs together, lashes fluttering. You like the noises he makes. The moans, the guttural grunts. The choked snarls.

His good girl.

“Takin’ me so well,” he's slurring his words, hips pushing with more insistence now. Desperate to spill down your throat. To watch you swallow him. “You always do, though. Don't you? Take whatever I give you, yeah? Gonna take it all now? All of it, yeah, pretty girl?”

He rambling. Words spilling out, breaking against his teeth. Ananke howls when he twists your hair, tugging you closer, closer, until the tip of your nose touches the thick bed of wry curls at the base, swallowed whole. You're crying now—choking. He grunts. It's liquid. Whitehot.

Your mouth is molten around him. He chases it, cock head nudging the back of your throat, bruising it. Ruining it. He wants to paint you in his cum; drench you in it. Mark, mar, your skin until all of the nobodies, the David’s, can smell him on you. Know, without any uncertainty, that you belong to Kyle—

His hips stutter—

“oh, fuck, oh fuck, fuck—”

—and he knows he's being too rough with you. Too demanding. Forceful. Taking his pleasure from your pliant flesh, cleaving pounds of you into his palm for him to keep. Scar tissue in the shape of his name—

His other hand drops, wraps around your throat, and—

Fuck.

He can feel his cock through your skin. The bulge unmistakable through your neck, fattened with the thickness of him.

This—and the hazy sight of you, angelic with your drenched face covered in spittle, pre-cum, and briny tears; eyes blown wide and preyish, full of desperate submission; and clumsy, needy way you hump against your fingers stuffed between your slick thighs, quivering under the unrepentant way he breaks you apart, takes you—pushes him over the edge.

Equilibrium comes on a snarling grunt, wrenched out from the depths of his throat. So rasping, so gritty, guttural, that it hurts. Scrapes against his flesh until it's raw. Bruised.

He feels the flex of your muscles as you swallow. The rasp of your tongue soothing the heavy pulse of the thick vein on the underside of his cock, greedy for every drop he has to give.

It's perfect, he thinks. You're perfect.

(and his. his, his his—)

He leaves later that evening. “Mission,” he offers, a wan grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Be back soon. Don't wait up.”

Worry chisels a ravine through your brow. “Is that—” you swallow. He hears the click in your throat. Tastes the anxiety rolling off of you; a sweet deluge. “I mean, you just got back. Are you—are you even cleared yet?”

“Ah, well. About that,” he scratches the back of his neck. Ananke shivers. “I have to do some recon. Nothing serious, but with—with, you know—”

Contrition tights his jaw. He sometimes forgets that officially Johnny MacTavish is dead.

“Oh,” you try to murmur, but it comes out like a whimper. “Okay, well—”

You won't tell him not to go. It's not in you to weaponise your worry against his ambitions, his dreams.

(It doesn't stop him from using this kindness against you.)

He times it well.

Gone for thirty days in a wet, balmy jungle, snacking on nothing but bamboo shoots and moss. Ghost comes with him, shoulders set in a terse line—as usual—but there's a strange ease to his gait, a sudden liquidity to his hardened obsidian that catches Kyle's attention immediately.

“Alright?” He asks, picking his teeth with a needle from a bush. “Seem in a good mood, Lieutenant. Not very typical for you, is it.”

He lifts one massive shoulder in a lazy shrug. “S’nice weather.”

It's humid. Hot. Steam billows up from the boiling first floor and congeals into a thick, dense cloud of heat. Kyle would hardly consider that to be nice weather.

“Oh, yeah. The, uh, one hundred percent humidity is really good for the skin.”

Ghost, for his part, just shrugs again. Rumbles something about misbehaving pets, and obedience training, and seems content to let the conversation lapse into a comfortable silence. Kyle follows suit.

It stays like that for most of the mission—save for the odd quips from Ghost, his humour a peculiar ester that sours, perchlorates, in the back of his throat. Team building, Price would probably say if he was here instead of back in Liverpool, looking at empty lots with his missus.

(wants to build a fuckin' house so we have somethin’ to pass down to the kids—

He sounded angry about it, but Kyle found floor plans laid out across his desk, markings scratched into the margins as he argued with himself—and his wife—about sizing and layouts; the quips between thick, bolded letters (all uppercase) and boxy cursive filling him with a sense of envy so visceral, it made his stomach churn—)

It's almost boring compared to some of the things they'd done. Incident-free—something he knows Laswell and Price will enjoy; less paperwork. Or—

Almost, anyway.

Kyle gets shot in the shoulder the last week of the mission—a surface wound, of course; but it leaves a mangled mess of scabs and torn, jagged tissue on his flesh.

Ghost sees it. Eyes liquid black through the thick foliage, cutting a searing line to where Kyle sits, arm wrapped in gauze, casual despite the burning agony in his shoulder.

“Coulda dodged,” he muses, head tilting to the side in what Kyle can describe as dogish.

Kyle swallows. “Could’ve,” he agrees, and offers nothing else.

“Looks like I’m not the only one training a new dog.” Ghost hums to himself, quietly amused by the puckered skin on Kyle's shoulder. “‘bout time you got a scar to match the big boys, Garrick.”

“Big boys.” He snorts. “And where's Price’s?”

The man's eyes are liquid in the nightfall. Vantablack. He wonders what sort of dog a man like him has at home. What kind would stick around.

Or if it's even a choice.

“‘ave you seen his back? Old dog wrangled himself a little tiger.”

An unknown number texts him later that evening. When he opens it, it's just a blurry picture of a figure bundled up in a tweed quilt, nothing but their shoulders and head visible, as they stare out the window. The room is lit in burnt umber. He catches the corner of what must be a wood stove—the only light source, perhaps. It baths them in a heavy swath of tenebrous on the opposite side of the stove. The other is highlighted in an ethereal, aged orange.

When his eyes slowly adjust to the hazy sfumato, he makes out the distinct shape of a woman. Fingers tangled in the throw. Spilled oil, midnight gloam, against dark blue. What a picture they make.

But why was it sent to him—?

His answer comes a moment later.

think it's time ta come home. know anything about gettin’ a little doe thru customs?

might know a thing or two about that, yeah. probs best to talk with Price.

shite. he'll ‘ave mah ‘ead fer this one.

In the quiet cabin of his airplane, Kyle places his phone on the empty seat, and grins.

Your fingers thread through his, palm kissing Ananke with a gentleness that belies the fire in your eyes. The burning fever as you draw him in, drag him closer.

There's an urgency in the way you reach for him. Touch him. Starved, almost. And he supposes it's only natural when the last time you've been intimate was a month ago—when he spread you out over the sheets and kept his face buried between your thighs for hours; uttering soft hymns, orisons, at the very apex of your altar—and so sparingly between. Too afraid to hurt him. Your worry is now a weapon used against you.

(“you crashed in an airplane, Kyle! there's no way nothing is wrong with you after that. something had to have broken, right?”

right. right. just the fragile walls holding himself together—)

His wince presses the blade taut to your neck. “Sorry, dovie. Hurts a bit—”

Digs it in. Draws blood.

Your eyes drop to his shoulder, wide and wild. Feverish with your worry, your desperation. The wound is bandaged up in gauze—thick enough that it leaves a distinct shape under his shirt. Pokes out from beneath his collar.

There's worry, of course. A bone-weary sort of sorrow that thickens around your eyes, pinches tight on the curve of your jaw.

He wonders if you'll pull away again. Cushion the wound between you like a wall, and keep your distance until the unfounded belief that he's somehow too delicate to touch.

“Sorry,” you murmur, and it's blistering. “I just—Kyle, I—”

You don't pull away.

“I know, yeah? It's fine. I'm okay. Back in one piece this time.”

This time sours in the air. Putrid. Rotten. Your lip wobbles. Lashes puddle with pearling tears.

He thinks you might cry.

(hopes that you do.)

“I know,” is whispered, gritty and raw. “And how long until—until you have to leave again?”

Kyle huffs. “In the morning. ‘m’sorry, dovie,” he leans down, rests his forehead in the crook of your neck. “I tried to wiggle out of it, but we're short a man.”

“Is this even ethical? I mean—” your shoulders shake. He bites back a grin. Your worry so thick, so sweet, in his ear. “You just got shot, and they're sending you back out?”

“Technically, it's just recon—”

“This was just recon, too, and look what happened—”

“Love.” He silences your protests with a soft bark. The way you immediately quieten at his tone liquifies in the base of his spine. “I gotta. I have to go. This is what I signed up for, you know?”

“I know. I just—” your hand lifts to his head, gentle. Fingers stroking over the shaved hair on the nape of his neck. “I can't lose you. And lately, it's like everytime you leave, you get hurt. I can't help thinking, is this the last time I'll ever see him again? whenever you walk out the door. I hate it. I know that's your job, I know that. But, fuck, Kyle—”

“I know, love. I know.” He kisses the warm skin at the base of your neck. You shiver against him, nails biting slightly into his nape. “There's so much I still want to do. So much in life I want, especially with you, but—”

You don't let him finish. Your arms wrap around him, holding him gingerly to your quivering body.

The way you cling to him feels like a victory in itself.

Check—

There's an animalistic desperation in the way you drag him into the bedroom, eyes sparking in the dark. Smouldering embers. Clothes strewn somewhere in the hallway, forgotten.

He worries his jaw to fight back a grin when you knock the condoms from his hand when he fishes them out of the drawer.

“‘s’fine,” you slur, mouthing along his neck. Suckling intently at his skin. “‘m’on the pill. I'm—”

God. You're so sweet, aren't you?

He buries his grin in your neck, biting down on soft skin until his canines catch. Split flesh. Blood wells, trapped under enamel. He tastes the iron as it pools up, thin and watery, and so distinctly you it makes him dizzy. Rust. Ore. A moan is dredged up from the back of his throat as he laves his tongue over the indents, the puncture wounds, he left behind.

You shiver at the sounds he makes, small whimpers tumble past your lips—breathless; shallow and quick, matching tempo with your heartbeat. Tinged with the sting of his bite, the way he sucks around them, irritated flesh; sinks the tip of his tongue into each little split until he can't taste blood anymore. Just salt. Skin. You.

This thing that lives inside of him is hungry. Starved. It growls low in his belly, a tightening heat that blooms with the blood he swallows down. Feeding it. Just a taste. A tease. Barely enough to sate the burn he feels flickering just behind his larynx, soldering through tissue, and tendon. Blackening bone.

You say his name, low and sweet. Peppered out between soft lips.

It's—

A lot. Not enough.

Kyle pulls back, rocking on the balls of his feet just to reorient himself, and then leans down, catching your mouth in a frantic kiss that makes you shiver against him, gasping into it. His tongue delves in, and chases the sweetness of his name still lingering between your teeth.

His hands glue to your skin, featherlight, as he slides his palm over your body. Feeling you. The heat. The goosebumps that break out at his touch. His other hand slips up your spine, curling over your nape.

He doesn't say much else. With the taste of you tucked between his teeth, he finds he doesn't need much else. Just this. Just you.

But you're tugging on him, pulling. Whining into the kiss. Peeling away with a gasp when he pushes you down onto the bed by your hips.

You go down quietly in the dark, eyes wide in the pale blue moonlight; fixed on him as he follows after you—hunt, chase, consume—until he's balanced above you with his palms pressed into the mattress. Beneath him like this, you're a vision. A dream. His heart breaks free, soars. He feels the flutter of wings battering into the cradle of his ribs as he looks down at you.

He almost calls you Apollo. Sinks his teeth into his bottom lip instead. Can't trust himself like this. Not right now.

So, he tries to grin, but it feels worn. Threadbare. “Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” you whisper, gaze dropping down to his hips where his cock juts out, hard. Weeping. Feebly tries to curve up to his stomach but the weight forces it down.

Your legs spread, parting for him instantly. Hands reach, grabbing at his skin, pulling him closer. He goes with a groan, biting his lip when his cock brushes the soft skin of your slick, sticky inner thigh. Soaked, he finds.

“All this for me?” He rumbles, fingers slipping on your skin when he drags his hand down, pushing your legs open further. Wide enough for him to fit. “Gonna give a guy a complex.”

“As if you need another one,” you volley, but it's breathless. Caught on the tail end of a whimper when his hips slot into yours, cock heavy and hard on your soft skin.

“Sayin’ it's too big for you, then?” he teases on the jagged edge of a wide, sharp grin.

The need that blooms in your eyes, the slight part of your kiss-bitten lips, pupils melting over the edges, a total eclipse, makes him want to sink inside of you. Carve a spot just for him over and over again. Make you take him, break apart on the thick split of his cock inside of you. And he only just manages to reign the urge to pry your folds apart, nudge his head into you. Barely holding himself together, fighting for every ounce of restraint he has because as he knows you'll let him—let him slide inside, fuck you into the mattress until you're sobbing—he can't.

Too big, he thinks. Reaffirms. And it comes out as almost a pout.

“Don't worry,” he huffs, bending down to nip along your jaw, fingers sliding over the slick, sticky skin of your inner thighs. “I’ll take care of you, yeah? Get you good and ready for my cock.”

(and more, of course; a lifetime—

but the bite of Ananke’s young keeps him spilling these secrets onto the sheets.)

Kyle likes to think he has a keen sense of smell, and as he buries his face between your thighs, nose pressed tight against your clit, he imagines he can scent the chemical changes in your body. The natural musk of you, more potent now than ever, without the artificial blocks in the way.

Taste, too—

He presses a kiss against your slit before letting his mouth part on a deep inhale, tongue rolling out, pressing between your folds. Parting them. The first touch makes your hips jerk, breath catching in your throat.

You taste good. Earthy.

It's been too long since he tasted your cunt. Feasted. He slips the flat arch of his tongue over you again in broad, heavy strokes from rim to the soft crease between your clit and mound. Drinking you in as the soft moans, the hiccupping gasps, cudgel his resolve.

You babble his name as he presses your thighs flat to the mattress, head buried between them with a single-minded goal of making you fall to pieces with his tongue on you, lapping at your pussy. Tasting for himself the natural tang of you, his machinations seen through to the end.

And you—obvious to it all—whine, eager for more of his touch, as he presses his nose into the soft skin of your navel, and breathes in again.

He pulls you down on top of him after making you clench around him—tight, tied like a vice—three times with his mouth, tongue, his fingers kneading that soft spot just inside your cunt until your legs quivered around him. Until you gushed with your release, cumming on a choked scream.

It made you all pliant and soft, putty in his hands that he can tug as much as he wants, however he wants. Shaping you over the tapered spread of his waist, cock nesting between your hot, sticky folds. Your hands on his chest, breath shallow. Please is whispered out of your bruised lips, sweet and lachrymal. He shivers and licks his lips.

You have no idea what you're begging for. No idea what he plans on doing to you. And he thinks, maybe, he ought to feel some sense of shame for making you take what he gives you like this, making you ride him as he fucks you full. Traps you.

There's a fire burning inside of him. Molten. He reaches down, grabbing his cock. You blink at him, tears clinging to your lashes, before you slowly, clumsily, lift yourself up for him with a soft, heated breath. Like you want it. These awful thoughts sutured between you like a fine, silk thread. He nearly unravels at the seams just thinking about it.

Even playing pretend in his mind threatens to shatter his resolve,

—a golden fantasy filming over his gaze, dusted in starlight; the ethereal glow of ananke coruscating off of Jupiter's elves: you begging for him, pleading with him to sink as deep inside of you as he can get until no dog will be able to differentiate between your scent and his

break it into pieces.

“Want it, don't you?” It comes out sun-scorched. Blistered. Raw.

You whimper when the fat head of his cock catches on your sopping rim, stretching you open for him. He can't decide what he wants to look at more—the sight of himself disappearing into you, or the look on his face when he does—and his gaze swings wildly, a pendulum oscillating between both, greedy for all of it. Sears it into memory. Burns it behind his eyelids.

Kyle reaches up, hands sliding across your body. Feeling the quiver in your flesh, your lungs pressing against your ribs, pushing it out. He wants to touch everything. All of you. Settles, instead, for sliding his palm up to your shaking breast, letting it fall into the cup of his hand. Pinching your hardened nipple between his middle and ring finger. Just. A tease. Barely any pressure. Rolling it between his second knuckles until you're arching into him, desperate for more. More friction, more pressure.

He teases around your flesh until goosebumps prickle over the sensitive skin, bearing his teeth in a crooked grin when you whine, clumsily pawing at his chest and pushing your breasts into his hand.

“Want somethin'?”

Your response is a sharp huff. A half bitten whisper of his name.

“No?” He taunts, shifting his hips under you. Feeling the way your cunt pulses, fluttering over his thick length. “Fine. Guess I'll—”

He goes to pull his hand away from your breast, lips curling into a taunting smirk, but a whine tumbles out. Your hips rock, pressing flat along his cock. The pressure, the pleasure, knocks the air from his lungs, and for a moment, he thinks they popped. Burst. He struggles to fill them when you shift above him, drenching his lower belly, groin, and inner thighs with the wetness that drips, molten, over him. It's good. Too good—

“Kyle,” you whisper, clit pressing taut to the weeping head of his cock. Trapped between your cunt and his stomach, the blunt pressure rockets through him, bringing him close to the edge. Dangerously close. “C’mon—”

He snorts derisively—the impromptu amalgamation of a choked laugh drenched in disbelief and sutured together with the delirium of pleasure rippling through his stomach scrapes over the soft tissue of his throat. Abrasive. Rough.

The air that comes out of his nose, hacked up from the tatter of his lungs, hurts when he spits it out.

“Fuck,” he rasps, rolling his hips into you. Desperate. Eager. It's airy. Loose. He clenches his jaw, grunts a rasping, ugly fuck from between the tight seam of his teeth. “Gonna make me cum, dove.”

It spurns you on. You babble above him—no, Kyle, no, don't cum, don't—but do nothing to stop the quick cants of your hips, fingers knotted into the matted hair on his chest. It's paper thin, barely a whisper when you breathe heavily through your nose and whimper, I want you to cum inside me—

And it's—

It's a thought. A dream. Nothing new to your voracious sex life, really; but the sweet-sour taste still lingers in the back of his teeth. The heady scent of you in his nose.

A single pill placed in each slot—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—

His eyes roll. Hips stutter.

There's a fever in his veins. An urgency. He groans his assent, hands falling to the expanse of your hips, holding tight as he stops the slow rolls you keep trying to make. He needs to be inside of you. Says as much when you pout at the loss of friction, watching understanding dawn over you. An eagerness that seems to keep pace with his own following quickly behind.

“Yeah,” you say, and the word is obscene. Breathed out on a moan that makes his cock twitch. Then, yeah, yeah, Kyle, please—

He pulls you up, up, groaning when you slide your hand down his chest, pawing at his cock until it's gripped in your palm. The touch burning through him. Skin on skin. Fingers barely meeting around the thick of it.

“Come on,” he rasps, swallowing down the words he can't say yet. Things like take me, all of me, every last drop—

He helps you lift higher. Keeps you steady as you line him up, the head pushing against your slick rim, catching when you sink down, thighs flexing.

It's a slow drop as you adjust to the burn of taking him. Down, down—gasps, mewls, whines leaving your lips with each inch, devastating little ah, ah’s that spin around his head until he's dizzy.

His name is a plea when you can't take anymore, when the thickness of him becomes too much. Eyes misting with unshed tears, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. The look you give him is so pitiful, he nearly whines—

“You can do it, baby.”

It's a shuddered gasp, thin and reedy. He wants you to cry, to weep. To rain your fists down across his chest when the burn of him splitting you open becomes too much, nearly choking on how viciously you spit out his name.

“C’mon,” he slurs, lifting his hips in shallow, lazy cants. Feeding you another half an inch. Another—

“Kyle, Kyle—” you gasp, and he knows. Should take pity on you for the sting, the burden of taking him so deeply, pretty pussy stretched tight around him.

Should—

“Barely much left, dove—” he means to grunt, but it comes out on a growl. His knuckles ache. “You can do it for me, can't you? Take all of me. Been so long, dovie. Been so fuckin’ long—”

It's between missed this pretty pussy on my cock and need you, baby, need you so bad that you break. Trembling above him as another inch is forced into you. Keening when his hands tighten around your waist, fingers biting into your flesh, and he pulls, pulls, at the same time he thrusts up, cunt giving way, opening up for him so perfectly—

“That's it, dovie—”

The folds of your pussy swell around the fat base of his cock, pressed tight to the skin of his groin, and Kyle can't stop the rough moan that spills out, hips jerking at the raw sensation of having you wrapped around him. Silken walls. A slick, feverish heat. You pulse, flesh fluttering over the length of him, and it's somehow both euphoric and uttering damning—the pleasure so intense, it churns his stomach. Makes him nauseous with how badly he wants to stay inside of you like this forever until it's sacrosanct.

You feel liquid around him. All heat and pulsing, flexing muscle. He ruts into it. Cants his hips up, up, little nudges that push the air from your lungs in short, choking gasps.

He lets you take what you need from him first, hands steady on your hip. Palm moulding over your breast, pinching your nipple between his fingers. Leaning up to lave his tongue over the hardened peak you squirm on his lap, bouncing shallowly on his cock. Giving you everything, all of him, as you slowly bring yourself closer to the edge. Face pinched in bliss, eyes squeezing shut, rolling slightly as you work yourself over his cock, hips twitching. Flexing. Your pretty mouth drops open when you lean forward, hands bracing over the swell of his chest, finding the perfect angle for his cock to hit.

His name is a whimper, a plea. A litany of sounds that blister through his chest. A white-hot knife buried in his groin because fucking you is always a sweet sort of agony, he finds; pleasure and pain effortlessly balancing on a razor blade. He breathes around the ache, feeling the threads of his control pull taut over the blade, snapping one by one—

It's a mindless drive for more of that electric pleasure, that blissful pain, when he plants the soles of his feet on the soft sheets, and bucks. His cock bludgeons through wet, hot heat, feeling the silken flutter of you clenching tight around him, and he can't stop the groan from jittering out between clenched teeth.

He knows he won't last. Can feel it well up in his groin, hovering on the edge of a precipice. It's headier, more potent, than anything he'd ever felt. The elation, the urgency—it fills him up from the inside out, twisting in his veins, blotting along his hindbrain. Needing to cum, to fill you up—

Your nails dig into the smattering of hair on his chest, clinging to him as he squares his feet on the mattress, pistoning into you. Making you howl for him—deep, breathless moans rolling off your tongue, bitten out between his name, said like grace as it drips down your chin.

There's nothing better than this, he thinks, arching his neck on the pillow, head thrown back as he thrusts up, meeting you in the middle. Working in tandem. Pleasure is hewn together, tethered until you can't hold yourself up anymore. Until the stretch him filling you up, sitting thick, fat, inside your abused, aching cunt is too much for you to take.

The way you look above him—chin bowed, mouth open as a litany of moans spill out; brow furrowed, eyes listing shut in bliss—knocks the air from his lungs in a painful, agonising punch. You look ethereal, superlunary, as you babble above him, spine bowed in a pretty bow. Taking everything he has to give you—

His palms ache. Itch. Ananke grows restless as his thrusts become sloppy. Desperate.

“Come for me,” he barks. Demands. Pleas.

His hand squeezes tight before letting go, dropping down to your belly, over your mound. You’re slick, wet. His thumb softens over your clit, gentle strokes to bring you to the same summit he stands on, ready to jump. Hips jerking, thrusting into you from below. Fucking into you with steady, deep cants of his hips. Making you take him, all of him.

Your cunt flutters around him, clenching tight. Pulsing little throbs that mirror the heavy brag of his heart slamming into his chest. Made for him, he thinks, eyes widening in feverish delirium as he tries to commit the way you look arched above him to memory. Burning it behind his eyelids.

The pleasure on your face, the desperation, make him break.

He lets go of your hips, slides his hand up your spine, feeling your warm, damp skin under his rough palm as he drags it to your nape. His fingers curl over the back of your neck, a gentle squeeze; a comforting weight—just enough to make melt in his arms, relax, before he pulls you down until you're chest to chest. He snakes his arm out from between your bellies, throwing it over your waist to anchor you down as he bucks up into you. Taking. Taking.

The sounds made when he fucks into your like this, the squelch of your pussy, the slap of his balls on your ass, have his eyes rolling back into his head. Unbridled pleasure bloomed over his spine, spooling in his groin.

He's right there. Right there—

“Oh, fuck, baby—” he gasps out, choking. “I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—”

He feels his name purr from within your chest before you push back, squirming on his chest as you fuck yourself back onto his cock. Taking him deeper inside of you until he nudges your cervix and makes you whine—

He grasps to find that same thread of control he keeps wound tight around his wrist, an anchor line for him to cling to, but when he paws at the dark, he finds nothing there. Nothing but thick, syrupy pleasure. Bliss. He feels your slick run down the length of his cock, pooling in the tangled hair dusting over his sack. Drenching the sheets.

His hand slides down your back, fingers stretching, reaching, grabbing a fistful of your asscheek in his hand. Squeezing it tight as he pulls you down over him again and again. It forces him deeper, until he's certain that there's no place inside of you that he hasn't touched.

And it's this thought that unravels the knot. Becomes his undoing. His violent end. But it's you bending down, sweat-slick cheek pressing to his chest, murmuring:

Please. Please—

And then:

“Come on,” you moan, the words shuttered out of your chest with the force of his thrusts, head shaking. Rattling. “Cum inside me, Kyle—”

It’s catching sunlight in the palm of his hands, feeling the skin burn, and blister. Apollo in his hands.

“Fuck, gonna cum, love—” he grinds out on a moan, grinding his hips into you in choppy, desperate thrusts until the force it punches through his stomach, leaves him winded.

You drop down on his lap, taking the full, thick length of his cock inside of you as he cums, vision blurring around the edges as he struggles to keep his eyes open, glued to the sight of you taking it all. Every drop—

Through the haze, he commits every blurred movement to memory: your quivering belly; your heaving breast, nipples pebbled and swollen from his mouth. The spread of your thighs over his hips, the way the coarse, thick hair on his groin flattens against your mound. Slick, wet from you. Milky, now, with the steady trickle of his cum leaking out even though he keeps you nice and plugged up. It makes him jerk beneath you, breath coming out in a heavy gust.

his apollo—

His hands flatten along your collar bones, curling upward to shape around your neck. He feels each desperate breath, each swallow, against his searing palms.

He wraps his hands around your neck, and it would be so easy to imagine a collar.

And you lean into it. Your head drops back, eyes slipping closed as you bare more of your throat to him. He folds the tips of his fingers over each other, linking them on the nape of your neck, shivering when the sweet, peach-soft peal of his name slips past your lips—

Yeah, he thinks, fingers tightening on your skin once before he lets go. Drops them down to your belly. Curves over your waist. Holding tight. Tighter.

But not a collar wouldn't look nearly as pretty, wouldn't it?

It's five in the morning when the text comes in.

Sitting between an update from Price (this doctor's a fuckin' muppet—), one from Ghost (how's the shoulder), and something from his mother—a TikTok video he thumbs loosely at, sending a chain of laughing face emojis in response—is a foreign number. According to a quick Google search, the area code—867—is from Canada. The Northwest Territories, Yukon, and Nunavut, specifically.

He opens it, glancing at the string of numbers on his phone, brows furrowing as he tries to make sense of it—

And then it clicks.

Coordinates. Google says they're in Scotland. Remote. Knoydart.

The grin splits across his lips, pulls tight at his cheeks.

Welcome home, he writes. Any trouble with that doe of yours? Customs must've had a fit.

A second later, a message appears. Adjustin nicely to the highlands. Nik did all the heavy liftin. Y’should come visit. See fer yerself.

The bed shifts when you move, pulling yourself closer to him in the quiet dark of mid-dawn. Drawn to him even in the deep of sleep. He thinks of moths, flames, and curls his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer. Presses a kiss to your crown, breathes you in.

With the phone held in one hand, he swipes his thumb across the screen, typing out a quick reply. Taps SEND. Watches the notification flick from delivered to read before he drops it onto his lap, and lets his head fall back, the grin still tugging on his lips.

Icarus couldn't get to Apollo with flimsy wings of borrowed feathers, and beeswax. The distance between Earth and the sun is too great to fly to. An uncrossable chasm.

So, he brought Apollo to Earth instead.

Just might.

In the quiet bloom of a mid-morning dawn, you find him on the patio, gazing out at the streets below. Brows furrowed in a soft contemplation. It's not something you're used to seeing on his face—this sombre, solemn grey shading his features in a way that makes you feel almost as far away from him as Jupiter.

“What's wrong?”

Kyle tilts his chin up toward you, mouth flattening as he shakes his head. Shrugs.

“Nothin’.”

“Mmhm,” you tease, fingers threading over the hair behind his ears. His skin is warm. Sunkissed. You press your nails to his scalp, dragging them through the thick coils of his hair until you meet the soft dip at his temple. He leans into your touch, forehead resting on the soft bump of your belly.

When he doesn't speak after a moment, you huff. Soft, coy. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

His nose rubs over the soft cashmere of your sweater. “Been thinkin’ is all.”

“About what?”

He hums, breath warm on your skin. “Want to come to Scotland with me? Get away for the weekend?”

“You think your mum and sisters are letting me go anywhere right now? Pretty sure I heard them plotting about wrapping me up in a mattress so I can't hurt myself or the baby—”

A snort bubbles up. “Mum likes you. Loves you. She's just overprotective. M’sure I can convince her.”

“You think so?”

Kyle is quiet for a moment. A beat. Just long enough to mull over the probability of stealing you away from under his family's nose. Unlikely, of course. When the twins have your weekend booked up already—a movie marathon with nothing but pizza, snacks, and John Hughes.

And NO Gazzy allowed!!!

“Nah, suppose not,” he huffs, placing his hands on your thighs. “If they're being too much, you can tell them to piss off—”

“They're fine,” you shrug. Overprotective, but—

It seems to run in the family.

“I really don't mind.”

He gives in with a shallow nod. “You gonna be okay if I go?”

“I think I'll manage on my own. It's—”

“Yeah.”

Need to know, you remember the big, scary one saying when you met Kyle at the tarmac. His voice low over the whir of the engines in the distance, but robust. Brassy. The inflection is standoffish. Cold. But you saw how he turned back around when Kyle led you away, eerie gaze drilling into his injured shoulder for a moment before calling out to him that Bravo Seven-One was inbound.

The difference between Kyle and the company he keeps always seems to jar you slightly. He's so normal in comparison. So human. Grounded in reality in a way that makes everyone else around him feel preternatural.

“I’ll be fine,” you say at length, hand falling to the soft, barely noticeable bump he rests his head on. A happy accident. You wonder if it overwhelms him a little. Babies. Kids. None of it ever felt feasible before all of this. “Go have fun in the mountains.”

It pulls another snort of him, and he turns his head, peppers a soft kiss to your navel, eyes flicking upward to stare at you. Dancing with mirth. A mordant sort of humour you can't begin to understand.

Need to know, maybe.

“Fun, huh?” It's muffled by your skin. “Think I'm bein’ led to my untimely death, actually.”

“That so?” You hum, a smile curving over your lips. “At least make it look like an accident, yeah? We won't get the insurance payout otherwise.”

“No shit? Murder in the highlands isn't covered? What the hell am I paying nearly three hundred pounds for, then?”

“Peace of mind.”

It makes him snort before he buries his face in your belly, scratching his nose on your cashmere in a small nuzzle.

“Ain't much of a peace of mind, is it?”

“Better now,” you offer, fanning your fingers over the arch of his ear, soothing the tiny pout you can feel forming against your skin.

“Yeah, well—”

His words taper off, lost to a kiss placed just above your belly button. It might be an apology. Sorry for almost dying—

Again.

And as much as you hate that he has to, that he peppers kisses in place of it'll never happen again, or don't worry, I'm here now, you know what this is. You've known it from the beginning. Accepted it as is because with you or without you, Kyle was going to do what he does regardless. Begging him not to, to reconsider, is not a line of selfishness you're willing to cross—

Or, weren't, rather.

Until this. Until now.

This soft, barely noticeable curve seemed to overwrite the desire to let him fly as high as he wanted. To rearrange the stars until he fit amongst them; more dust than man. Selfish, maybe. Definitely.

But the condition was less of an ultimatum and more of a plea. I don't want to be a single mum, Kyle. Perspective, you suppose, does that to people. Changes them. Shapes them into something different.

You think maybe he felt the same way when he bowed his head over the table, staring down at the pregnancy test you laid down for him, and nodded.

(“Yeah, yes. Uh, I'll—yeah. I'll—” he swallowed around the brine in his throat. Salt congealed over his airways until his voice was a rough scrape between his teeth, desiccated. “I'll talk to Price. No more helicopters—”)

There was more, of course. A hashing of everything. All of it spilt out over the table. He gave up as much as he could without sacrificing that insatiable desire to soar as high as he can, untethered to the earth. And you promised to anchor him down when need be. When he tries to fly too close to the sun.

A compromise.

And—

“Bring some flowers for me,” you murmur at length, fingers grazing the shell of his ear.

—an apology.

He keeps his head bowed. “Supposed to be need to know.”

“Call it a hunch, then.”

A snort. His shoulders shake. “Sure. Price’ll love that one. Intuition will sound good on the report.”

“Oh, no. Big, scary military men afraid of a little paperwork.”

“Oi—” His fingers dig into your sides. A playful pinch. You choke out a shallow laugh, raking your nails over his scalp in retaliation, but it just makes him shiver. Groan.

Keep doin’ that and I'll give our neighbours a show—

“How long will you be gone for?”

His lips tug downward. “Just the weekend.”

“Don't have too much fun without me.”

He slides his face over your belly until he's balanced on the tip of his chin. That sombre look is back again. Pensive. Quiet. He'll tell you the truth when he's ready, you're sure, and you brush your fingers over the divot in his brow, smoothing the wrinkle out.

“We'll be fine.” You say, and he nods because he knows. You're safe here. But still—

He presses a kiss to your belly, staring up at you through the golden curve of his ashes. Sombre expression melting into something languid. Lax. Catlike, you think, huffing when his hands curl around the backs of your thighs, pads of fingers dipping into soft skin.

Kyle catches it. Grins. Heat soaks into your flesh where his palms rest, nestled just below the curve of your ass. His intentions are clear, obvious, and you go willingly when he pulls you into his lap, thighs thrown over his.

Your throne, he’d once joked in the early days of dating, when you were still discovering pieces of yourselves in each other’s naked flesh. A truism now because whenever he can manage it, Kyle seems to prefer you sitting on his lap, head tucked under his chin. Within reach.

Always.

His personal stress ball, perhaps. A weighted blanket. As you nuzzle close, his shoulders dip. The tension in his muscles bleeding out by the weight of you on him, the brush of your skin. You press in, leaching comfort from his sun-warmed flesh. Fingers trailing down the angled slope of his face until his jaw is held in the plinth of your palms.

The ghost of a pout still lingers in the jut of his lower lip. You sweep your thumb over it, nail curving along the valley of his cupid’s bow to map the path you know better than your own sloping plains. A kiss to the ridge of his jaw chases away the saturnine shadows still falling across lush beds of gold; sun dusted colluvium.

You taste salt on your tongue when you pepper a kiss just above the arched curve of his cheekbone, his lashes fluttering down, tickling your mouth when he blinks.

It doesn’t get rid of all the Ttenebrae tucked tight inside the canyons of burnt umber, coruscating amber, but flecks of aurate gleam through the shade of eventide. A glimmering gem in a sea of moon white.

The flickering embers of his unease melts with his huff. His thumb strokes along the curve of your ass, settling over your waist. Holding you close. You catch the way his eyes drop briefly down to your belly. The bloom of heat in his eyes. Liquid gold. Darkening as he stares, marbled with possessiveness. With the unfettered threads of satisfaction streaking through.

The eyes of a big cat as he licks the blood from his jowls, his kill still cooling on his paws.

“Better be.”

“Overprotective already and they’re not even here yet,” you tease when he lifts his gaze. Honeyed with want; syrupy with desire.

“Not just for them,” Kyle rasps, his hand sliding up your spine, cupping your nape in his palm. Dragging you closer to breathe his need over your lips. “You're both mine.”

“Kyle—”

“Say it.”

“We’re yours,” you whisper, catching the stutter in his pulse when your hands slide down his jaw, cupping his neck. “Just yours—”

The rest of your words are devoured by his scorching mouth, eaten right from between your teeth. Kyle’s kisses have always edged into consumption, you think. Like he trying to eat you whole—nothing saved for later. No scrap spared. Wasted.

It’s dizzying. Edges into too much, too intense. You can’t keep up with him no matter how hard you try. He’s always several paces ahead, drawing your tongue into his mouth. Letting the sharp edge of his canines graze your flesh, scraping the soft tissue. All you can do is cling to him. Hold on as he glues his mouth to yours and eats—

When he pulls away, giving you a moment to catch your breath, you think you hear him growl, never lettin’ either of you go—

But he drags you back into him a second later, mouth slipping over yours with an untempered hunger. The purr he lets out trembling over your tongue, shaking the thought right out of your head.

Never, you’d say if he let you. If he gave you a moment to think. Peeled his tongue from between the seam of your teeth long enough to let you gasp the words out.

He doesn’t. He won’t.

He drags wet, sticky lips across your cheek, over your jaw, down your throat, before sinking his canines into the throb of your pulse beating under your skin instead. Steals the thoughts from your head as you gasp his name out, followed quickly by please and Kyle, more—

Kyle lifts his hand from your spine, fingers stretching out. Reaching. The sun glows between the spread of his fingers; scintillating like fine, golden mist over his fingers. Beautiful, he thinks when your breath hitches in a shallow gasp; held tight his arm, and—

(with it cradled in middle of his hand, he closes his fingers around the sun until it's swallowed up in his palm.)

—all his.

#in many ways this is the Icarus x Apollo fanfic i wanted to write when i was 13 #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader

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suguru-getos · 1 year ago

Note

What about yan Satosugu who take it too far? Imagine them breaking their darling to a damage they can’t repair?

ksjdfshgkkjsh this is my favorite troupe.

warnings: v v v dark! (reader die-th? reader can contemplate :3), belt-spanking, reader ran away from satosugu, mentions of throwing-up, abuse, self-harm.

"please daddy, please no no no…" little human that satoru and suguru loved oh so much, why did you have to escape? it breaks their heart. you know it just from their facial expressions. "suguru- please" you whine out, shuddering and crying with wailing screams. you are hung from the ceiling, throttling on your tippytoes, ass bruised from the way the belt welts on you. you are bleeding from the skin breaking. "daddy- please." your voice stops coming out from your throat, too traumatized and destroyed by screaming and wailing for mercy. "please- please" you are wheezing out in air, your own voice has given up. "ssh, it's okay. just 4 more." suguru chides, "didn't want to hurt you." he muses, landing the smack of the belt across your ass once more. satoru smirked, oh you look so cute, unable to scream anymore and just dancing on your feet with the impact. you feel nausea hurling your movements, throwing up because you couldn't take it anymore. though nothing comes out except water… you haven't eaten well, since after your running spree.

that stops suguru, and satoru hugs you gently. "just three more." they have decided they would finish the punishment no matter what. "sshh~ don't worry, doing so good for us. I will clean you up." if you really can't be theirs, they would make you fear them into submission. make you fear them and forcefully take their love which they're owed.

the next three hits come, and when it stops. you're too dazed with pain to even register the comfort. the flesh of your ass raw and agitated. bruised, welted, veins popped and skin breaking in blood. "ssh ssh, that's it. it's over now. you did so good. it's all over." suguru coos, demeanor changed instantly as he gathers you in his arms. immediately taking you towards the bathroom. they need to clean up their poor baby. "why do you even run away angel… do you not know we are the strongest?"

satoru sighs, he is still wrangled by the feeling of betrayal intertwined with the feeling of guilt for giving you so much pain, panic and trauma.

"that's okay princess… you wouldn't do it again right? tell suguru you wouldn't do it again." he asks you gently, ignoring the way your half-lidded eyes do not respond after the torture. oh you're passing out, satoru gnaws at his lip, watching you look lifeless.

it was expected, you passed out in front of suguru and satoru. and they had a long discussion whether or not it was right or wrong to subject you into something like this. "satoru, punishments are supposed to hurt." suguru reminds, while satoru nods, "not until she passes out, she even threw up…" he sighs, "but she didn't need to run, that's also true." suguru nodded. "I know, I can understand that… hurts me more than it hurts her." suguru chimes, and satoru nods. "I wouldn't be able to do it, I would've stopped when she started crying." he admits, only suguru could get firm enough to carry it throughout.

they are mixed with guilt and promise each other to be kinder, there is no way you would actually love them after this. that fleeting hope that fueled satoru's delusion was now making him restless.

the next day when you wake up, you were a completely different person, screaming from panic the moment the two men entered with breakfast, it was so evident how your fear made you cry out for help. it makes suguru tear up, because you do not look at satoru the way you look at suguru. you look like you want to die, like you would do anything to be granted death.

"angel… it's okay, it's all over. please-" suguru almost begs, and you feel like throwing up again. this time satoru takes the lead, walking towards you and hugging you. he was clearly not welcome. yet… your body couldn't help but relax a little under his warm embrace. it was only until a few hours later, that they found you in the bathroom, head bleeding… passed out. you had just excused yourself to shower. limping all the way… to inflict a pain like that, was terrifying. who said they could only instil pain and fear into you. you couldn't find blades, couldn't find anything… so you banged your head against the fucking wall instead… "is this how much you fucking hate me!" satoru screams out, checking your pulse.

"SUGURU!" he screams, and the latter comes out rushing. watching you life-less in satoru's hold. "is- is she?" suguru blinks, tears brimming in his eyes.

it was clear, satosugu could never hope to win. not when you clearly fear them more than your own death.

#stsg #satosugu #yandere satosugu #yandere satosugu x reader #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk x reader #yandere gojo x reader #yandere geto x reader #yandere gojo x geto x reader #gojo x geto x reader #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst

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inkprilled · 26 days ago

Text

We connect with people without words everyday, some hold a door open, you share a smile with someone at the bus stop or when passing by each other on a walk, we say I don't know you but I see you, here we both are living together on this little rock, living this little life that is all to fleeting but so worth it.

It reminds me of a friend I had in school. Diane moved from Russia when we where 13, she didnt speak much English, and the few Russian speakers at our school where so much younger than her that she barely saw them. I remember seeing her in the corridor outside our first science lesson, she was leant against the dark green tiles lining the walls, her school uniform brand new and her hair dyed auburn. Everyone had already grouped up with their friends, talking and laughing so loudly it created this mass of sound that only kids can make just before a lesson. My science class was rather chaotic and hyper. Diane stood silent away from everyone.

I wasn't known as the most outgoing in our class, if anything most would have described me as shy, but really I just never had much to say. Seeing her there though, I knew I had to say something, I knew none of the other girls would try and bring her into their social fold, so I went up to her.

"Hi, are you new" she looked at me hesitantly as she tried to piece together bits of language in her head "Yes, I'm Diane"

"I'm April" there was a beat of silence, neither of us knew what to say and I wasn't the best at small talk, so instead I just looked towards the rest of our class and said "they're a little" and I made a large frazzled gesture with my hands, trying to encapsulate the chaos. She looked from me to them and laughed nodding.

After that we'd sit with each other in all our shared lessons, at the beginning I would write her work for her and I know I probably shouldnt have. but when your 13 and your friend is freaking out over homework being due or not having her notes written down you just end up doing it. Eventually we realised she could write her English assignments in Russian then put them into Google translate, and then I'd re-write them grammatically correct. This wasn't perfect but it's not like she had a language aid or anything so we made do. Our jokes usually consisted of calling each other suka or using our made up gesture - a sideways palm from the centre of our forehead down to the table. It meant get a load of this nonsense, ffs or I'm an idiot, usually used when someone was making a fuss in lesson or when we'd make a silly mistake.

We didn't need words, not when we had laughter and silly little gestures, sometimes I felt closer to her than with friends I'd had for years. I guess what we have now is a language made up of vine and tiktok references, that you could giggle with someone over even when your language didn't translate. And in some ways we're more connected over those trends and references than anything else despite the language barriers. We connect over joy, humour and humanity.

Diane moved back to Russia before we turned 16. I don't know where she is now or how much she remembers of me, but I do treasure our friendship. Wherever you are suka I hope your okay. I miss you.

#inkprilled #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #writeblr #spilled writing #writing #spilled poetry #writers on tumblr #poetry #writers #spilled words #writer #writers of tumblr #poetry corner #poems and poetry

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the-monkeies-girl · 9 months ago

Note

Noa x human reader maybe reader is telling him about human customs

The slow burn queen reTURNS!!!!!

Title: Customary. Rating: K. ( Super fluffy, we love. ) Words: 4.2K+ Pairing: Implied ! Noa x Human!Reader. Summary: Noa finds the concept of kissing interesting, he knew about it, has received his fair share from primarily his mother, forehead kisses here and there, scattered like leaves in his memory, but it was never the preferred way to show affection. ** Does contain mild spoilers for Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes ** READ THE SERIES HERE.

-- -- --

Noa, in his time knowing you, figured that pressing for explanations left him without them. Or at least, the imposing questions startled enough that you didn't quite know how to answer. Explaining to him that kissing was indeed a way to show affection, but it also had a deeper meaning, at least to you, proved a difficult task. He’s curious about it, you could tell as he was rocking back and forth in some anticipation of your words, but in his nature, he stayed quiet and looked at you, observing your expression and your demeanor.

Drawing your bottom lip in, you chewed it in thought before releasing it, completely oblivious to Noa’s eyes watching the movement with some sort of amusement. Why Echo does that, he did not understand. He chose not to, but would remain curious and accepting if you chose to ever explain it to him. He reached up and pressed the back of his right pointer finger to his lip, savoring the sensation for a few fleeting moments before dropping the hand again as you finally found your voice, “It’s… It’s a way to uh… I don’t really know how to…”

The change in your face as you trail off trying to explain, Noa looked at the crease between your eyebrows and mimicked the expression momentarily to remind himself that it was your inquiring face. He’d seen it so frequently lately, almost taking a sickening solace in it because it meant you would talk to him, it meant you would pay attention to him. Something in the pit of his stomach, as unsettling as it was, yearned to have you by him, scent, physically, mentally. Physical… Noa muttered inside of his head and let his green gaze fall to your lap, more or less to study your hands that collapsed there.

The fidgeting of your fingers was evident, twisting and picking at your fingernails. For a split second the Ape wanted nothing more than to grab them in some feeble attempt to keep you calm and focused but he refrained. Inappropriate behavior with an Echo, he was screaming at himself and raised his hand to touch the band on his arm; a habit he found himself doing now when he needed to be grounded. The blue feathers tickled him and he closed his eyes for a split second. A reminder of who he was and who you were in comparison. Next on the list of ailments were the hard swallows and your inability to look straight at him. That he did not understand. Why not look at him? Perhaps, looking at him would help you answer! Noa would encourage answers occasionally when you were in the mood, but never forced them.

He, for a moment in time, could almost feel your heart beating, or at least, he could hear it and the pace sped up. It was a strange sensation. Whilst he knew that time didn't speed or slow down, it felt like both were happening simultaneously. Like, he had climbed to the highest point possible and intentionally let go. That feeling where you’re caught in the air. Did your heart speed up? Noa tilted his head as you came to glance over his shoulder at the tall trees that happily boarded the village, any attempt at words now ceasing as you didn't know how to explain to him what a kiss meant to you. Maybe, he mis-heard.

“It’s romantic.” Finally setting on a word, you shifted on the log you had grown to enjoy from hours of talking to Noa. It was a term sometimes forgotten, especially in the state of the world. Humans who had the ability to breed successfully often did so out of necessity, never love or romantic intentions. You thought about that. Your parents did just that, you were a product of need, not love. In fact, thinking kisses were a romantic notion has always been brushed aside, many telling you it was merely a fever dream, an unrealistic goal and you needed to get your head of the clouds to focus on the bigger picture. Humans are denoted down to mating for need, not for want, pleasure and surely not for romantic gain.

“An expression of… love.” You went on to say, preoccupying your hands by picking at the log you were sitting on. A piece of wood splintered off and a deep part of you wanted to shove it between your skin just to get yourself out of the situation. Out of having to explain. Words escaped you again when he looked at you. Swimming in green eyes for a second, you swallowed hard and forced your eyes to look elsewhere, knowing that Noa was able to inadvertently get you this… Worked up with just a look was uneasy at times, especially when the two of you were alone. Oftentimes, at least since Noa found you, he left you feeling something inexplicable. Something almost, dare you say, primal. The want to touch him, the want for his attention. No, you whispered inside of your head, it was beyond that, but it was not possible for it to ever become a reality. It… was…You were shameful to admit what it was. The thoughts racked in your mind like a vicious attack. Not even wanting anymore, it felt like a need that was drawing the two of you together like magnets. Need to be near, need to hear him, need to smell him, to… Indulge in him.

Love itself was an understanding between the two of you, it was often brought up here and there when discussing bonds, usually between families. You had gotten quite a bit out of him regarding, especially when you were introduced to both Soona and Anaya. The three shared an intensely deep bond, reminiscent of love between siblings, including pestering, annoyance, admiration and teasing. When you explained that to Noa, he concluded that your comparison was very much on the nose.

He very seldom touched based on his parents; a very obvious fresh wound he never wanted to delve into and you never had it in yourself to ever ask flat out. He explained before many times what had happened, but only because you would get a part of the story before he trailed off to say something that would throw the conversation to the side. You’d ask again a few days later getting another slice of the story and through that you put your pieces together. His father was gone… Their village burned… Many lost, but many found. They returned, rebuilding now. His mother, still here and you had the privilege of meeting once, and through their time restructuring their clan, they mourned. A custom deeply ingrained in the Apes which you had no idea about until he explained in simple terms.

-- -- --

‘Missing him’, he signed to you the day you asked about his father, about the relationship. Perhaps, a form of escapism. You never knew your father as well as you wanted. ‘Many days I spend thinking how it would be different if I were stronger, more able to save…’

“You did the best you could have, Noa.” You whispered to him out of empathy. It was evident in your voice, and Noa found it impeccably interesting just how easy it was to read humans. Their faces and their voices gave away so much of their inner thoughts, and it was truly no different with you. Though, there was something about you, off putting at times, that Noa couldn’t quite pinpoint. He shook it aside often as he figured maybe you were reserved and didn't want to talk, only letting it bother him in the late nights when he found it difficult to sleep, when he was fidgeting with something to fix. You were not telling him something, there was an obvious secret.

Obvious secret that came to fruition when he recognized you cared for him beyond that of any other social relationship he had. That was this moment when it got quiet between the two of you. No words, not even a sound coming from either of you as Noa peered into your eyes, his next string of signs coming off pseudo aggressive, but his intention was to impress. He would do this with a female ape he had piqued interest in. Boast of your accomplishments. Show you are the best or the best and are able to provide comfort and security. He indirectly did this towards you, ‘I am strong now,’ His signing was slow, languid as you were still learning. You found it endearing he was able to accommodate.

‘I understand…. Things I did not. Understand more now… About…’ He gestured at you instead of signing the word for ‘Echo’. He meant it as a personal statement, but your name was left out of it to keep some sort of distance. ‘I learn more because I have you.’

He saw a small smile creep on your lips, just enough to tease him with the image of a full grin. A full expression of glee. But, it was short lived as you wrapped your arms around yourself protectively and let your eyes fall to the side, “Thanks for giving me a second chance.”

Duel meaning with that, Noa huffed to himself. He had saved you once, shortly after returning home to rebuild. You were battered, bloodied and begged. Apes from the other Valley must have gotten their hands on you, having often used Echo’s to hunt for sport and leisure. At least, that is what he figured and he never pushed you to detail the events that lead you to the Eagle Clan. It took you a long time to warm up to him, to any of the Apes, but once you did, your value skyrocketed when Noa realized the potential he had to learn about Echo’s, about their habits and culture and how it may have differed from his own. He saved you both physically and then mentally by keeping these conversations going. You knew their purpose, he explained it in quite some detail. He was taking it upon himself to learn the ways of Echo’s as that is what Caesar intended. Raka intended. Maybe even what Noa now truly intended, no longer subsiding and explaining to himself that it would benefit the clan as a whole. As long as you selfishly benefited him, Noa was satisfied.

‘Ape and Echo…” He told you with a sharp intake of breath, moving just an inch towards you to captivate your gaze once again. ‘Human.’ He didn't correct himself and you knew what he meant by the word ‘Echo’, it was a courtesy now for him to call you what you would call yourself. A human… (Name). Noa didn't dare delve into that sort of familiarity yet and instead he loosely let his eyes fall into yours, defenseless in appearance and he could see your chest rising and falling out of the bottom of his vision. Echo’s were prone to nerves, often manifesting in heavy breathing, sweating and occasionally aggressiveness though Noa had yet to see that with you.

It was a quick analysis you did with him so near to your face. The creases between the bridge of his brows, the tiredness that leaked from under his eyes, his lips partially opened to display his canines. Not actively doing anything to be intimidating, he just naturally was. There was a gruff nature to his appearance, one that was slightly mysterious but oddly inviting, you wanted to run your fingertips up the broad plain between his eyes into what appeared to be coarse fur. Just to know what it felt like, just to say he allowed you to do that. Breathing in, Noa could see your rib cage expanding and then sinking back in. You were thinking. At least, so he thought. This was the closest he’s been to you, and while your scent was evident whenever you were around, it was almost overbearing now. Intoxicating and smothering. Noa would let you drown him if you pleased.

He clarified what he meant, ‘Side by side? Possible?’ Letting your breath go, Noa turned around and paced to his right. There was no reason to be so close, he figured. No reason at all.

‘Maybe.’ Was the garnered response he got from you when he peered over his shoulder, now longing to hear your voice as you had signed your answer.

-- -- --

Now, the word… Romantic… This was the first time Noa heard of this word. He understood now that it was a branch of love, but how far down did it go? Paternal? Maternal? Mates? Friends and acquaintances? No, no he thought to himself and shuffled to his feet. He took pace to the right and lightly placed his hand on his horse. Love between himself and his horse? They snorted in response, Noa dropping down to all fours and crawling to you.

You had watched his movements. He was contemplating and processing; something the two of you found yourselves doing the more frequent these conversations were. His deal was to pace, usually to the right of him. It shocked you that he had moved so fast towards you, it would only take you spreading your legs ever so slightly to allow him between them. To allow him to be as close to you as possible. But, you kept your knees together, keeping him at a distance. He sat back in front of you on his legs, eyes flicking between yours, reading the minute details on your face.

“Love between?” He signed that ever so slightly, grunting with the movement. It was fast, but you understood it enough to contemplate an answer. And there was only one, and you had hoped with it would come the end of the conversation.

“Mates.”

It was now Noa’s turn to crease his eyebrows, this time out of bitter confusion. Romance and romantic endeavors were not completely lost, now that he understood what it fully meant. As opposed to Apes before the Rise, they now had the social ability for monogamous and romantic relationships. Noa knew of nothing else in his clan. You may love and like whomever you choose, a mate for life, though of course there was the occasional talk of who would be best suited for another. Marriage was an enlightened way of living, or so Noa heard from many around him. He felt destined at times, but never found anything beyond that.

Were… you implying based on your inability to say’ romantic’ off the bat, that Apes were not capable? Apes did not understand? That is where the question and tone that left Noa came from, purely from offense and defense at the same time, “Eagle Clan…” He paused to collect his thoughts to make sure you understood what he was saying and to change your conception. Your human ignorance. You couldn’t be blamed but it was still a frustration. “Do you not think we have?”

“I---” Feeling like a child being scorned for doing something wrong, you dipped your head and looked at your fingers again. Noa was stiff next to you, shoulder blades turned in ever so gently. It wasn’t apparent from a distance, but surely this close to him, you could see the change of his stance. It left you almost breathless but you shook it aside and muttered shamefully, “You do.”

“Many generations,” Noa stood up and you found your eyes following him. His hips hit your eye line first, they were right in front of you. Narrow, but muscular. Good for climbing. His chest, broad and strong, but you suspected that as he had gotten older, it became increasingly so, to the point where you just wanted to brush your fingers against him to see how the muscles would react under your touch. Your eyes lingered for a few seconds longer on his scar, encasing his right pectoral. Then his face. He didn't appear mad, angry, which is often why he would stand up. To avoid, distract, not answer. This was different though, the way he held himself up. You couldn’t pinpoint the sensation but it left you nearly dizzy looking into his eyes, foreloned like you ate a forged mushroom that wasn’t what it appeared to be.

“My clan has been through many generations, and I have known nothing other than… Than…”

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to offend---”

“Not offended,” Noa grumbled, touching his hand to the side of his head. His grasp was open, hand resting in a ‘C’ position as he did so, repeating the movement a few times to emphasize to you what he was thinking, “Confused why you think Apes do not understand.”

“I-I…” You struggled for some answer. You only made the assumption up based on what you were told by other humans. But, Noa questioned everything you knew. Noa himself made you question everything you knew. “I’m sorry.”

“Echo’s apologize for such useless things.,” He turned his back towards you and shuffled to the right, towards his horse but then passed it. Towards the embankment of a small stream he often visited as a child when he was in trouble. He smiled fondly at those memories. “You did not know, how would you? You are not Ape.”

Noa knew you would follow him down to the water. You were faster this time than you usually were, Noa’s ears picking up on the sound of you immediately standing up, some twigs falling under your feet and crunching from the pressure as you made haste. He was amused ever so slightly by that, the urgency he put you in. More intriguing though, was the question that spilled from your lips.

“Have you ever felt it?”

He feigned ignorance to that and questioned back, “Felt?”

“Romantic love.”

Contemplation. Noa dipped his left fingertips into the stream and let the water trail between his open digits. It felt good, relaxing and calming though inside, he felt anything but. How would he know what it felt like? Would it… Make him feel different? Put him in a stupor like he found himself with you more often than the last few meetings? Would it make him feel feral? The disgusting feeling he had deep in the pit of his stomach to smash in the face of anyone who got too near to you, especially a male. The lingering on his palms of his fingers digging tightly into his already hard skin when you got too close to him. Would it make him… Lose control? Bite your arm, bite the space between your shoulder blades, grab your hair and pull you to him, make you his in the only way that was fathomable to him during those late nights when he couldn't find sleep.

Or… Was it that sensation he got when you were looking at him, making the unsafe assumption that he would not notice? Not knowing that you were stretching out towards him silently? Ah yes, that was often his favorite thing to catch you doing. He’d preen himself at the thought when he was alone, but now he was thinking it right in front of you, your arm briefly rubbing against his own as you crouched to be next to the water with him, eyes following the movement of his hand as he dipped it further into the water.. He needed to answer before you asked again, a tendency you did when you knew he had an answer stashed away somewhere.

“I do not know.”

Fair, you thought to yourself and mimed his behavior. Your right hand dipped into the water, encasing the entire thing and cutting off right at your wrist. It was shallow, not quite a river, but with time, it surely would forge its way. You had no idea how it must have felt to them, the bonds you had with Humans were all beneficial by circumstance. Artificial at times, never natural. Apes, even now as they were before, were incredibly social. You envied that they stayed that way, you yearned to have something similar. Humans were hostile, especially towards other humans they saw as threats and you only had a place if you could help or advance in any way. Closing your eyes, you hand moved from side to side, feeling small pebbles right beneath your fingertips.

Brushing your thumb accidentally against Noa’s, you were afraid to even look at him through your peripheral. Mustering enough to do just that, your eyes slipped open and you were relieved to see that he hadn’t noticed. Or at least, he didn't react. Maybe you got lucky and he thought it was the rushing water. You stiffened regardless but didn't push your hand back or move away. Instead, you steadfastly stayed put and swirled your left hand back towards him.

“Have you,” He started, softer than he meant, knowing what just happened under the water. He reached his thumb out once more just to see. “Have you felt?”

Noa moved this time, shuffling on his feet to get into a more comfortable position. His hand paced towards yours. You knew and your heart skipped a beat. Noa was mildly passive at times, shy and reserved on the surface but passive to serve his curiosity. He’d rather sit and observe and only take action when it was needed. Was he taking action? You were unsure but may as well try… That was a lame excuse but you found yourself repeating it over and over. Following suit, you reached your thumb out. Brush. That was definitely a pebble. It was too sharp to be anything else. Brush again. Oh, a stick, you clenched your jaw. One more… One more…

One more…. “Yes.”

Thumb caressing Noa’s, you had a hard time figuring out how it felt as the motion was submerged. It was rough, sure. Calloused most likely from years upon years of climbing and holding onto rougher surfaces. Hot, especially against the cold water that flowed now around the embraced fingers. He wasn’t necessarily reciprocating, but he wasn’t pulling away either. A good sign, you soothed yourself and boldly let your pointer finger find his. Now, your hands were in the form of a triangle and Noa finally responded. You felt his pointer curl slightly, tracing the smoothness that was your skin, down, down to the palm. Nonsensically, he traced a shape there.

“How.. did it feel?”

“It feels… Confusing.”

Noa nodded at this and shut his eyes pensively, his finger still pressing into your open palm. You could so easily close it though and grasp him. How that would be perceived, you had no idea but it was at least a thought.

“Confused.” He repeated to you, only using the past tense of your adjective. Introspectively, you wondered if Noa caught the fact that you used it in the present tense but his reaction told you he didn't. “I have not seen any Echo confused. Usually, know-it-alls.”

That made you laugh audibly. Noa glanced at you in that moment, taking in the nature of your face. The lines of your smile, curl of your lips, the sun basking your skin, cheeks ever so slightly red. It was a mental picture he’d like to keep forever. He beamed at that, that he was able to garner that sort of reaction from you. He hooted out his own laughter, feeling your fingers leave his as you pulled your hand out of the water. Patting it against your thigh, water droplets seeped into your skin there and Noa felt… Envious of them for getting to peer into you deeper.

“We usually are.” You admitted without hesitation, grasping your thigh with vigor. “But… Not with this.” Noa could have sworn he saw you vaguely gesture between himself and you, but it must have been in his head as you were quick to stand next to him. You simply pushed on your thigh as leverage to get up, Echo’s has terrible balance when compared to Apes. He made up the other movements. Yes, yes, he chirped to himself. Made up.

‘Why?’ He signed silently, knowing you caught him asking that without fully looking at him. He pestered you at the beginning with a lot of ‘why’ because you were explaining human things that he didn't understand.

“I don’t… Fully understand it.” It took only a blink for Noa to stand, his hand now dripping water from the tips of his elongated fingers.

‘Thought you did,’ This time around, he used both hands to sign. ‘If you feel it, how do you not understand?’

That was a good question you found yourself longing for an answer to and you wished you could give him that answer. You tried to come to one rationally. Maybe, what you were feeling now, letting your eyes trail up Noa’s body only to rest back on his unwavering glance, was just passing and fleeting. A crush of sorts. But, often with you, those sorted themselves out. You didn't want the attachments, knowing what the world was like. You didn't want the burden of someone else to worry about when you exerted so much energy worrying about yourself and your safety.

But with Noa, especially these last few months of building a relationship outside of just Ape and Echo, his own words mind you, it was… Different. Your eyes scanned crowds to find him, your ears knew the sound of not only his voice, but his huffs and grunts, the snort that fell from his lips when he laughed, the gait of his walk. Steady and sure of himself. You enjoyed soothing afternoons in the sun with Soona and Anaya as Noa went off on a small tangent, explaining how he was going to fix something in the village to improve their lives. The excitement he had when he got on all fours to move quickly when he saw something he wanted, something he wanted to accomplish… You sunk into his eyes, almost the color of the tree leaves in the early spring.

“Love doesn’t need to be understood,” Whispering that to him, you looked over his shoulder that was eye level to you as you were both standing and tried to find the most elegant way to put your thoughts into words. Elegance though, to Noa, did not matter. You could be blunt and brash and he would still listen all the same, “Love just needs to be embraced.”

#noa x reader #noa x human reader #kingdom of the planet of the apes #planet of the apes #noa #fanfic #fanfiction #emmy writes #planet of the apes x reader #kotpota

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michaela-o · 3 months ago

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Hey guys !! Here's a little writing post for tonight since i once again suffer from art block and i couldn't really get my thoughts on canvas so at least i'll write them down for you🥹🫶🏻

I had a little poetic moment about Cybertronians and how each bot from the Lost Light might view humans in their own way. Here’s how i think a few of them might feel, translated into their own brand of poetic musing:

Rodimus

"They’re like embers scattered on a night’s breeze. Small, insistent, daring to claim a spark of the vast unknown. Fragile? Yes, but isn’t fragility the very flame that burns the brightest in the dark?"

I think Rodimus sees in humans a little bit of reflection of himself—bold and driven, yet so often skimming along the edges of destruction. I think he would admire their recklessness despite their short lives and finds in them a kinship, like stars burning out as they fall.

Drift

"With hands of flesh, they reach for the stars, tiny pilgrims, undeterred by dark. They are warriors bound in tender shells, yet their spirits are sharper than any blade."

I think Drift sees humanity’s journey as sacred, an unlikely pilgrimage. Despite their fragility, they pursue wonders that many would fear, displaying a purity of heart that resonates with his own search for purpose and redemption.

Brainstorm

"They are puzzles, equations, broken in ways no theorem can solve. I could build them stronger, make them last longer, stretch their days to years—yet it’s the ticking clock that drives them which we cannot touch, the glitch of life within the code. They’re impossible, improbable—beautifully, infuriatingly unsolvable."

For Brainstorm, i think humans are the ultimate enigma. So imperfect, so baffling, so limited by their biology—and yet, somehow, they thrive. Their existence nags at him, like a problem he can’t quite crack, but one that has woven its way into his circuits.

Ultra Magnus

"They obey no Prime, no order, no code, yet they find honor in dust and devotion in ruin. There is chaos within them, yet in their eyes—clarity. For all their flaws, perhaps they see the law of the universe far better than we."

Ultra Magnus finds himself both exasperated and quietly moved by humans’ defiance of logic. I think he might struggle with their disorder but recognizes the strange beauty in their conviction. They possess a kind of honor that is beyond his ability to define—a law unto themselves.

Chromedome

"Stories woven in short threads of skin and sinew, their lives stitched in seconds, minutes, hours—a blink of a shutter. Yet they carry tales, so rich and raw, that I cannot forget. They are memory incarnate, fragile as newborn spark, but so full of color."

I think Chromedome would treasure humans for their stories, for the vibrant, bittersweet memories they create within the boundaries of their lives. Every moment for them is fleeting, and so they seem to capture life with a vibrancy he longs to archive.

Swerve

"They bumble and fumble, awkward yet bold, finding joy in the smallest things. They laugh in the face of a world so vast—their clumsy courage, a song I want to know by my spark."

We all know Swerve loves humans and human things. I think he sees humans as charmingly imperfect, stumbling yet fearless in a universe that dwarfs them. Their humor and resilience bring a joy that he can’t resist, as if they were a song that lingers in his circuits, warming him in ways he would never expected.

Megatron

"They are the dreamers, the fools, the ones who hope, rebels in skin who believe in the impossible. I have seen it. They build kingdoms on bones and dreams, believing they can change the world."

Megatron is an amazing character in my opinion in the Lost Light universe. I think he looks upon humanity with a blend of scorn and admiration. They are so weak, yet so defiant—champions of hope despite their powerlessness. Their resilience reminds him of what he once fought for, and though he might deny it, he can’t help but see in them a reflection of his own self.

Ratchet

"Flawed and failing, breaking with each breath, they stitch themselves back with their tender hands. They fall, they fail, yet rise again reminding me why I mend the wounded steel."

I really like Ratchet. I like to think he regards humans with a mix of exasperation and reluctant respect even when he wouldn't directly word it. He sees them as frail and imperfect, breaking down as quickly as they heal. Yet, their resilience, their refusal to give up despite everything, is what keeps him caring deep in his spark. In their struggles, he finds purpose, and in their imperfection, he rediscovers his own reason to heal.

I hope you liked this silly little post for tonight. I hope the art block goes away soon so i can draw more silly robots and their silly lil human friends together :3🧡🧡🧡

#transformers #transformers headcanons #transformers x reader #digital art #small artist #art #procreate app #yandere transformers #transformers mtmte #mtmte rodimus #mtmte drift #mtmte megatron #mtmte chromedome #mtmte swerve #mtmte brainstorm #maccadams #idw mtmte

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nadvs · 7 months ago

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why do i see cheerleader reader having daddy issues, so when she tells rafe she’s pregnant, she’s so emotional and scared about how he’s gonna react and if he’s gonna break up with her or something

it tracks 🥺 she always expects to be disappointed by men and it’s not just because every guy she’s dated before rafe has treated her badly…

based on this fic

when she moves in with rafe after she finishes her post-grad internship, she’s still on the pill. one day, she’s complaining about the side effects of it as she’s making herself lunch and her boyfriend says, “then stop taking it.”

she looks at him from across the kitchen.

“we’d have to use protection,” she says. “every time.”

“sure. but is it so bad if…?”

she’s shocked. they’ve been together for about two years now and they’ve never talked about kids past a mention of it’d be nice to be parents some day.

“if i get pregnant?” she says.

“yeah.”

“isn’t that fast?”

“not for me. is it fast for you?”

she shrugs. maybe it’s not so crazy. they have their future set. a child would be a nice addition. they haven’t talked about marriage, but she’s in no rush. they don’t have to be married to have a baby.

“if we both want it… i guess if it happens, it happens,” she mumbles. “but our lives would change really, really drastically.”

“i know,” rafe says comfortingly.

she continues to make herself food and he stares at her, imagining her with a baby bump and that bump turning into a little human who’s a mix of him and the person he loves most.

he knows she’d be a great mom. and he’s always wanted to be a dad. he’s always wanted to undo how his own father had raised him, making his only son have to struggle for his fleeting approval.

three months later, she misses her period. she doesn’t tell rafe. she picks up a pregnancy test. she doesn’t tell him that, either. when she sees the double lines on the test, she’s standing in the middle of their bathroom, her body trembling.

and she hates that she doesn’t feel excited. she’s scared. she thought she wanted this. she hoped for a positive. but this isn’t the feeling she thought she’d have.

she goes through the motions of ordering a custom newborn basketball jersey with cameron stitched on the back, having dreamed of telling rafe that they’re expecting that way.

a couple of days later, it comes in the mail. she has actually sort of liked keeping the secret while she waited because it meant she could pretend it wasn’t real yet.

she does what she thinks she should do. she puts the tiny shirt in a bag, sets up her phone to record, and calls him over to tell him something came for him. this is what a woman who’s excited to tell him would do, she tells herself.

at first, when rafe opens the bag, he doesn’t say anything. his jaw goes slack, he blinks a bunch of times, and then he pulls her in for a tight hug.

she’s already shaking, tears in her eyes, when she hears him sniffle. he pulls back. his hands are firm on her cheeks, gazing at her through glossy blue eyes.

“you’re happy?” she whispers.

“yeah,” he responds, saying it like it’s obvious. “we wanted this, right?”

rafe stills for a moment when he sees just how anguished she looks. she doesn’t seem happy at all.

“right?” he repeats.

“yeah,” she says, nodding and looking down. “i don’t know. it’s weird. maybe it’s the hormones already.”

“how long have you known? do you feel okay?”

“just a couple days,” she says. “i’m tired. a little nauseous. but he hasn’t made me throw up yet.”

“he?”

she meets her boyfriend’s eyes.

“i know it’s too soon to tell,” she says, “but i really hope it’s a boy. you’ll feel more connected to a boy.”

he can tell by the way she’s stuttering and crying that something’s wrong.

“baby,” he mumbles. “i’ll feel connected no matter what. it’s my kid.”

she shudders, nodding through her sobs.

“what’s up?” rafe says softly. “do you… are you regretting it?”

“no,” she replies, “but are you sure you want this?”

“yes. we talked about it,” he reminds her. “it’s not like this was an accident.”

“yeah,” she mumbles, looking down at her lap again.

rafe stares at her, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. she’s acting like this was unexpected. like she’s wishing they never started trying.

“what is it?” he says. “if you don’t want this, then just tell me.”

she curls up, slouching as she dips her head into her hands, the tears coming harder now.

“if it gets hard…” she whimpers, her voice muffled. “you can’t leave me to do it on my own. you can’t.”

he’s floored. they haven’t mentioned anything about the possibility of things not working out with them in ages. and back when they did, it was almost always rafe needing reassurance that she wasn’t planning on leaving him.

“i would never do that,” he says. “look at me.” his fingers wrap around her wrists, pulling her hands down from her face.

“where’s this coming from?” rafe mumbles. “did i do something?”

he thinks back to the past few days, trying to remember if he said something even in passing that would make her worry about him abandoning his girl and their baby.

the look in his eyes almost looks like betrayal. like he can’t believe she’s saying this.

she swallows hard, coming to terms with what’s been swimming in her head for days now. her father was absent. the only example she had of a dad was one who never really acted like he wanted a kid at all.

“i don’t know what it looks like,” she begins, “when a man actually wants to be a dad. maybe you’re excited now, but what if when it gets hard? when he’s crying or sick or keeping us awake?”

“we’ll deal with it,” he says. he pushes past his own ache to try to understand her.

his cups her hands in his, searching her face with concerned eyes. he remembers her opening up to him long ago about how she always wondered if her dad would have loved her more if she was a son instead of a daughter.

“when he or she is giving us hell, we’ll deal with it,” he says. “i love them already. there’s nothing that’ll change that.”

he puts a hand on her stomach, rubbing gently. she finally cracks a smile, softly laughing. his chest loses its tightness when he sees her look happy for the first time since he got home.

“i was reading that it’s the size of a pomegranate seed right now,” she says.

he smiles in awe, kissing her wet cheek.

“what’s next?” he asks. “what appointments do we make? what should you be eating?”

she laughs again. rafe has always been so intense, so focused on the next step.

“let me catch my breath first,” she teases. she looks over, just now remembering she filmed all this.

“my bad, baby,” he laughs. “breathe. this’ll be good, alright?”

“alright,” she says. and she believes it.

#ask #swteblurb

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ficnation · 11 months ago

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Chapter 10: The Big Bad Wolf

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 5,0k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings, canon divergence, gore A/n: I hope you enjoy it just as much as I did. This is also a bday present for my friend. Happy birthday!!! Don't freak out <3 Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

“Every social worker enjoys certain aspects of the job more than others,” the man explains with a smile that seems almost too forced; it’s been glued to his face since the moment Alana greeted him. “There are cases that you reach and cases you don’t reach.”

You spin the pen between your fingers with a steady rhythm, your mind wandering and tuning in and out of the conversation between Clark Ingram and Alana Bloom. But something about his demeanor strikes you—the way his bright smile seems permanently plastered on his face. It’s off-putting, unnatural, as if he’s struggling to maintain the facade of a polite and helpful citizen.

“Peter’s had persistent cognitive problems. Confusion, paranoia, rage.”

“Peter’s a sheep,” you mutter to no one in particular. “He can’t hurt an animal, let alone a human being.”

“You really like sheep, don’t you?” Jack jokes, reminding you of your choice of words from not long ago.

You look at him with a raised brow before nudging him in the arm with your elbow. “And you don’t? At least sheep don’t bite.”

Jack chuckles at your retort, but his expression quickly turns serious as he turns his attention back to Clark Ingram. “So, what do you think, Agent Avant? Is Peter Bernardone capable of violence?”

You pause, considering the question carefully. “It’s hard to say,” you reply, your tone measured. “But based on what we know so far, it doesn’t seem likely. His cognitive issues suggest a lack of capacity for such brutal acts. If he was ever violent toward anyone, it’s likely he was pushed to his limits and lashed out.”

Will and Hannibal stand to your left, listening intently to the conversation between you and Jack, as well as the one taking place on the other side of the thick one-way mirror. Their expressions are unreadable, betraying little of what they might be thinking or feeling.

They’re silent until the moment when Alana reaches out to touch Ingram’s hand. The social worker does nothing to hide his discomfort as he quickly shifts his hands away and leans further into his chair.

“That’s smart,” Will explains, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants. “She keeps pushing him on his feelings, not on the facts.”

Hannibal nods in agreement, his gaze focused on the interaction between Alana and Ingram. He casts a fleeting glance in your direction every now and then, his eyes catching your presence in his peripheral vision before returning to the scene before him.

“She’s trying to gauge how comfortable he is with emotion, if he has any,” Will adds, glancing at you too, curious to know your thoughts. “He couldn’t bear being touched by her.”

“It’s a telling reaction,” you remark, your voice calm and measured. “It suggests a deep-seated discomfort with emotional intimacy. Perhaps indicative of a psychopath?”

“Yes, his responses are typical of psychopaths during interviews, but could also indicate resentment,” Hannibal agrees.

“No, I don’t believe it’s resentment or hatred towards women,” you assert, your tone firm. Your eyes narrow thoughtfully.

“No, his eyes are dead,” Will concludes. “He’s a predator.”

“It’s the absence of empathy, of any real connection to the people around him. That’s what makes him dangerous.” You glance over at your husband, seeking confirmation or perhaps an alternative perspective, he acknowledges your words with a nod of his head.

The conversation between Ingram and Alana continues for a while longer, but your mind is too preoccupied to fully focus. You’re aware of their words, but your thoughts are elsewhere. You can’t shake the feeling that Ingram is hiding something. It’s the way he recoils from her touch, the way he conceals himself behind smiles and warm words. There’s an eerie resemblance to your father that sends chills down your spine; something in his demeanor triggers warning bells, a deep and primal instinct for danger.

You attempt to refocus on the conversation, but Ingram’s subtle gestures and body language keep drawing your attention. There’s something sinister about him, a feeling that resonates deep within your bones.

Suddenly, Jack’s voice pierces through the room, pulling you away from your thoughts. “Let him go,” he commands.

The panic in Will’s eyes prompts you to react, and you turn towards your boss with an annoyed expression. “Jack, don’t do that. You know he’s the one.”

“I’ve got nothing to hold him on,” Jack responds calmly.

“We can still get something out of him,” you insist, your eyes pleading. You couldn’t care less about the killer on the other side of the glass, but it’s evident that Will is invested in this case.

“Peter Bernardone is psychologically disadvantaged. He’s been manipulated,” Will argues, his hands clenching into fists by his sides. “As his social worker, this man is in a position of trust, and he has betrayed that trust.”

The realization hits you like a brick—this is personal. In a twisted, complicated way, this is no longer about catching the man responsible for killing sixteen women in cold blood. It might not even be about Peter anymore. The next sentence coming out of Will’s mouth confirms it.

“I know what it’s like to point at a killer and have no one listen.”

“You pointed in the wrong direction.” It’s all Jack says before leaving the room.

Your gaze instantly finds your husband’s face—his expression a mix of disbelief and powerlessness. You reach for his hand, and he doesn’t resist at all as you squeeze it reassuringly, nails gripping into his skin to keep his mind in the room with you and Hannibal. God, Hannibal. You almost forgot about his presence beside you with how quiet he’s become.

“We won’t let Peter Bernardone suffer for all of this, Will,” you assure him. It’s all you can offer—a useless promise that you might not be able to fulfill.

You find yourself in the BAU’s headquarters not long after, walking through the almost-empty corridors leading toward Crawford’s office. You can’t shake your husband’s heartbroken expression from your mind. It lingers hauntingly in the back of your thoughts, refusing to be forgotten.

The atmosphere is uncomfortably quiet, with only the echo of your footsteps breaking the silence as you make your way through the corridor. Your focus is consumed by the folder in your hands, flipping through its pages absentmindedly for at least half an hour. The world around you becomes a misty haze as you try to concentrate on the contrasting words printed on the white paper.

Suddenly, you’re snapped back to reality as someone grabs you by the arm and forcefully pulls you into the nearest room. The sequence of events unfolds so rapidly that it’s all just a massive blur.

“Hey, what the hell!” You react instinctively, swinging blindly at your assailant. Your hands make contact with their face, nails poised dangerously close to their eyes. It’s not the most efficient form of self-defense, but your reflexes have dulled since you’ve been out of the field.

As your vision clears, you recognize those dark, menacing eyes, though you’ve never seen them so up-close before. Their gaze is hypnotizing, compelling you to loosen your grip on their jaw. Despite the danger, you can’t bring yourself to let go entirely.

“It’s just me,” Hannibal’s voice cuts through the tension, tranquil and unaffected by the threat of your fingers near his eyes. His hands grip your elbows firmly, though not painfully, as he meets your panicked stare head-on.

“Why did you grab me like that?” you question him, a hint of vexation in your tone, though you notice how soft his skin feels under your palms.

“Do you prefer a gentler approach?” Hannibal responds calmly, his demeanor unruffled.

You blink slowly, confusion replacing your initial anger. You glance around the empty conference room behind him. “Why are we here?”

Hannibal’s grip on you loosens slightly as he looks over his shoulder before acknowledging your question. It appears he only just became aware of your location himself. “Coincidence.”

Hannibal’s eyes find yours again, and you both stare at each other in silence, unmoving. The tension between you is palpable, each moment stretched taut like a drawn bowstring. You’re not even sure if either of you is breathing, but you can still detect the faint fragrance of his cologne—notes of leather, cedarwood, and a hint of something darker and more mysterious, perhaps oud. The stillness of the air crackles with anticipation, and your shared curiosity poses the question: “who moves first?”

“Would it be rude of me to ask you to release me?” he finally breaks the tension, his tone almost reluctant, as if he secretly wished you would hold onto him a little longer.

You release him, albeit with some apprehension. “You wanted to see how I handle sudden threats, huh?” Your words are more of a statement than a question, delivered with a certainty that seeks confirmation.

“Yes,” he replies simply, catching you off guard with his honesty. It’s almost unnerving how straightforward his answer is.

You watch as a tiny smile quirks one corner of his mouth, the faintest twitch of his lips. It’s as if he was born to be intimidating yet effortlessly charming at the same time. Everything he does seems so well thought-through to the point of being eerie.

“And what conclusion did you reach?” you ask, striving to keep your voice steady. There’s an undercurrent of tension flowing between the two of you, and you can feel his eyes scrutinizing you, taking in every detail.

“More of a confirmation, really,” he replies, his gaze traveling from your face to your hands and back.

You know he noticed your hesitation before you let go of him. You know he’s still analyzing you, taking in every detail, every little movement you make. You can feel his eyes weighing you, measuring every ounce of your reaction, your breath, and your pulse.

“You reacted almost instinctively,” he concludes, not asking a question or suggesting that he expected anything less from you. “It’s a sign of strength.”

You can’t tell if he’s being serious or just saying that to be polite, and you feel compelled to challenge him on that statement, so you do: “And what would’ve been a sign of weakness then?”

“Not fighting back,” he replies simply, his eyes never leaving yours. “Not putting up a fight.”

Your mind struggles to process his answer. “So, what you’re saying is that someone showing weakness by letting themselves be attacked and possibly killed is worse than someone who reacts and fights back?” you reply, not hiding your disbelief at his words.

His response is almost immediate. “Precisely.”

You almost laugh at the straightforwardness of his reply. His words are as chilling as his demeanor. You want to challenge him, to call him out for his bluntness. But you can’t summon the energy, and your gaze falls away.

“What if someone doesn’t have it in them to fight back?” you ask, curious to see how he’ll respond. “Maybe they’re not capable of it.”

He considers the question for a moment, seeming to weigh a myriad of variables in his mind before giving you an answer. “The instinct for self-preservation is primal, ingrained in every living being. It doesn’t matter if they don’t have the physical ability to fight back; the urge to live overrides everything. Even a child will fight when pushed against the wall. Only the weak would let themselves be slaughtered without at least attempting to survive.”

You feel almost appalled by his words, their harshness sinking in. There’s a hint of sadness in your voice as you ask, “So you believe someone who doesn’t fight back is weak?”

“I don’t believe it, I know it,” he replies with a coldness you’ve never seen in his eyes before, a spark of something dark igniting in his pupils.

He’s serious, there’s no underlying joke or hidden meaning behind his words. You feel a chill run through you, the tiny hairs on your arms standing on end.

Hannibal raises his hand toward your face, dragging his knuckles over the skin of your jaw. He seems almost impressed that you don’t flinch at his touch.

“You’re as strong as they come, my dear,” he murmurs, his voice so low it almost blends with the hum of the wind outside the windows. He leans in, his soft lips pressing against your forehead, and then he leaves the room without another word.

You’re left there alone and stunned, your eyes staring ahead but not really seeing. Your body trembles, but instead of pure fear, there’s a hint of excitement running through your veins. Adrenaline rushes through you, and the feeling of his presence lingers in the air, both comforting and unsettling.

You wait in the conference room for a few minutes, trying to collect yourself, half-hoping that Hannibal will return. You feel like you’ve just been through a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts, and sensations.

But all you’re left with is the memory of his scent lingering in the room and the soft touch of his lips on your skin.

“You look like a man who has suffered an irrevocable loss,” Hannibal’s voice breaks through the quiet melody of the aria playing in the car. The psychiatrist’s choice in music doesn’t surprise Will in the slightest; he’s gotten used to his refined tastes.

“I’m trying to prevent one,” Will counters, gazing over his shoulder at your sleeping form curled up in the backseat.

“You look so peaceful—far more relaxed than he imagined you would be. Hell, just ten minutes ago the thought of you sleeping in the presence of Hannibal Lecter didn’t even cross his mind. It was different from the last time; this time you didn’t have anything to drink or soothe you—nothing. You just let your guard down so easily as if you didn’t see a threat in Hannibal anymore. Will didn’t like that at all.

“Do you think if you save Peter Bernardone, you can save yourself?” Hannibal’s voice breaks the silence, his words carrying weight in the confined space of the car.

“Save myself from what, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, his eyes staring ahead yet again, but there’s a hint of annoyance in his voice—barely detectable.

“From who you perceive me to be,” the psychiatrist responds, his eyes briefly leaving the road to glance at you through the rearview mirror. Will swears he sees a subtle quirk of the man’s mouth at the sight of you.

“I’m afraid I need to be saved from who you perceive me to be.”

“Many troublesome behaviors strike when you are uncertain of yourself,” Hannibal observes, his focus returning to Will. Perhaps he senses he’s been caught. “Peter Bernardone lies in the same darkness that holds you.”

“No, I’m alone in that darkness,” Will replies without hesitation.

“You’re not alone, Will. You have me and her, standing right beside you through all of this.”

Will’s eyes find your figure again, and he bites the inside of his cheek, lost in thought. “I’m not sure if I want her to be. I don’t want to scare her off.”

“You won’t, Will. She’s not going anywhere, trust me.” Hannibal reaches for the other man and squeezes his arm gently—it’s strangely comforting, though it shouldn’t be.

When you reach Peter’s place, it’s eerily empty. All of the cages have been left open—no animal in sight. You can’t imagine the agony Clark Ingram must have put him through. The sight breaks your heart into a million pieces because you know Peter Bernardone has been pushed to his limit.

The three of you rush toward the stables, ready for the worst. Will is panicking inside and out, his hands trembling and breath coming out in shaky puffs of air, while you and Hannibal remain fairly composed. The contrast in your behaviors is visible from miles away.

As you find Peter, he’s kneeling on the ground beside the body of a dark-coated horse, his work nearly finished. The needle slides through the animal’s skin effortlessly, like gliding through soft butter.

Will is the first to break the silence as he steps toward the kneeling man slowly, with apprehension evident in his movements. “Peter…” he whispers hoarsely, his eyes glued to the sight of the blood-soaked animal before him.

The scene takes a while for your mind to process. The image of that defenseless horse lying lifeless on the stable floor, the smell of blood lingering in the air along with the subtle scent of death. All of you already know what has happened here—it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Hannibal catches your gloved hand in his and pulls you closer to himself. You feel his steady presence beside you, a calming force amid the turmoil. His touch is unexpected, yet it speaks volumes.

“Is your social worker in that horse?”

“Yes. I used to have a horrible fear of…” Peter speaks up, his voice trembling slightly but not out of fear. “Of hurting anything.”

You glance at Hannibal to gauge his reaction to the situation, but instead, you find him already looking at you—his eyes filled with a strange admiration. You were right after all; Peter couldn’t hurt a fly unless he was pushed to his limits.

Weirdly enough, this twisted reverence makes you feel just a little bit sick to your stomach. You shuffle forward, seeking proximity to Will and distancing yourself from Hannibal, forcing him to release his grip on your hand.

“But… He helped me get over that. Feels so abnormal.” Peter lets out a pitiful chuckle, tears rolling down his bony cheeks.

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior,” Hannibal concludes, his eyes now cold and distant. You’re unsure whether it’s due to the situation before you or your withdrawal from his affectionate touch.

“I think he deserves to die,” the kneeling man says, his voice filled with helplessness as he looks between the three of you.

“He does,” you mumble, more to yourself than anyone else. You’re relieved when there’s no immediate reaction to your words, but the way Hannibal’s eyes bore into your back tells you he heard.

“But you didn’t deserve to kill him, Peter,” Will says, shaking his head. He crouches beside the man, offering a reassuring hand that rests gently on his back as Peter stares at the dead horse. “I want you to come with me.”

You and Will help the man stand up as his legs shake, threatening to give up beneath him. Only now do you see how much damage this situation has done to the poor guy. He didn’t deserve any of this, but the world has always been a cruel place—evil humans’ second nature.

When Will and Peter head toward the barn door, you and Hannibal linger behind. Will’s uncertain, but not worried glance your way is a testament that something has shifted between the three of you. You just have to figure out what.

“Cruelly poetic,” you say, standing a safe distance away from the man and the corpse.

“He’ll be just fine,” Hannibal murmurs in response to your statement as he watches Peter and Will slowly make their way out of the stable. His gaze is calculatingly cold, the smallest twitch of a muscle in his cheek betraying the emotions underneath—the genuine emotions he rarely lets others see.

“It was necessary,” he adds softly. “He needed to rid himself of that darkness within.”

“Necessary?” you question, your eyes still glued to the two men walking away and not the psychiatrist standing before you.

Hannibal’s eyes move from Peter and Will to you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smirk. You feel like he’s expecting you to say something more, but you can’t think of anything to reply.

“Necessary,” he repeats, and now his eyes find yours with that same calculating stare.

“The way you view life and the world itself... It’s peculiar,” you notice, sticking your hands into the pockets of your coat.

Hannibal’s gaze never leaves yours, and he doesn’t reply at first. There’s a slight smirk playing on the corners of his mouth again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s judging you or if he agrees.

“I find my way of viewing life perfectly reasonable,” he finally says quietly, the words almost whispered. You notice a small twitch of the muscles beneath his eyes, and you wonder if you said the right thing or not.

“You do?” you ask, still searching for his gaze, but you can tell that he’s no longer looking at you. He’s staring at something in the distance instead then heading toward one of the stalls that holds white sheep.

“In life, we need some form of guidance to help us navigate the unknown,” he adds quietly as he pets the woolly animals. They’re not afraid of him. “I’ve found mine. What about you?”

Before you have a chance to respond, you notice Clark Ingram’s bloody fingers, ripping the stitches on the dead horse’s stomach. He tears through them from within, letting the guts spill out of the corpse as he crawls out of it.

Hannibal strolls toward him so casually, his hands dipped into the pockets of his perfectly pressed pants as he looks at the man’s struggle. You join him by his side as an involuntary smirk crawls up your face at the sight of the social worker coughing out blood and stumbling over his own legs. It’s amusing.

The psychiatrist admires your expression, slightly astonished by your reaction. He certainly didn’t expect you to show your true colors so fast. Not a care in the world of how your satisfaction might come across to others.

When Ingram reaches for the bloody hammer, you feel Hannibal’s hands tugging you closer yet again. You let him, leaning on him like an old friend—hip to hip. The warmth of his body is comforting, stirring something insatiable deep inside you.

“Mr. Ingram. Might want to crawl back in there if you know what’s good for you,” Hannibal says casually as he steps aside, taking you with him.

You didn’t even realize that Will had entered the stables. He holds a gun steadily in his hands, pointing it straight at Ingram’s head. Your smirk disappears just as quickly as it appeared, slight shock taking its place on your face.

“Will…” you mumble breathlessly.

You try to reach for him, but Hannibal doesn’t let you step away from him as he tugs you even closer into his side. He presses his lips to your temple and whispers, “He won’t do anything. Don’t worry.”

You’re not sure you believe him. You’ve seen how personal this was to Will, how panic and pure anger took turns in taking over his body since the moment he met Peter. The emotions were controlling him in a way nothing and no one else could.

Ingram drops the sledgehammer to the ground, falling to his knees with arms open and raised like wings—like a blood angel. “Officer… I’m the victim here,” he breathes heavily, but the smile that flashes over his features tells a different story.

“I’m not an officer. I’m Peter’s friend,” Will counters, ignorant to your begging eyes.

Don’t do it, Will. Please, don’t do it.

“Peter’s confused.”

Will feigns hesitation as he lowers the gun just slightly. But the way he grips the weapon tells you easily that he’s far from done with Ingram—his hold doesn’t loosen even for a mere second.

“I’m not.” He raises it back up with an air of palpable confidence. He knows what he wants. He wants to see Clark Ingram begging for life, drowning in the pool of his own blood, choking on it.

You squeeze Hannibal’s fingers so tightly, you’re surprised when he doesn’t even flinch. He just observes Will expressionless.

“Please, Hannibal,” you beg him under your breath, barely audible. You know he hears you, even if he pretends otherwise.

“Pick up the hammer,” Will throws the command, gesturing toward the bloody object that was just thrown to the ground moments ago.

Hannibal glances at your horrified expression, then at Will’s lips pressed tightly in anger. “Will,” he finally interjects with so much stoicism in his voice. His stare alone is insistent enough to make just about anyone listen to him.

But not Will. Will is deaf to Hannibal’s words—especially right now. He doesn’t want to hear him, he doesn’t want to be heard by him. He has a chance to make it right for Peter’s sake, maybe even for his own sake.

“Pick it up,” Will keeps insisting, now, even more agitated. He pops the safety off and puts the pistol almost directly in front of Ingram’s face.

“It won’t feel the same, Will,” Hannibal tries again, stepping toward Will. “It won’t feel like killing me.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“You did the best anyone could do for Peter, but don’t do this for him. If you’re going to do this, Will, you have to do it for yourself.”

You blink slowly in shock before you push Hannibal away from your husband. You take his place and move so close to Will, you can almost feel his shaky breath on your skin.

“Will, please,” you beg softly, “don’t ruin your life. This isn’t going to fix anything.”

“How do you know, huh?” he spats out, his voice mean—meaner than he ever was toward you.

The adrenaline and the rush of the situation are threatening to derail any semblance of calm you’ve managed to keep over the past hour. You grit your teeth and murmur so quietly, in hopes only he can hear you, “Trust me, I know.”

That seems to awaken him temporarily as he looks at you for a second, confusion written all over his face. His eyes are wide open, searching your face for answers—he finds nothing.

Hannibal’s gaze never leaves you two, watching you carefully. Will is so focused on this mystery, he doesn’t even notice when you take the gun out of his hands and point it at Ingram yourself.

“What?” Will asks, his eyes snapping back to you as you push the gun towards Ingram.

“P-please… Please don’t,” the social worker begs as you step closer and press the gun harshly to his left temple.

“Oh, would you like me to be gentler?” you ask, tilting your head. There’s something deeply attractive about the way you hold the gun with unwavering determination, a fierce protectiveness radiating from you. There’s not an ounce of doubt in your expression; you really do look like a cop now.

Will, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, finds himself strangely drawn to you in this moment. His gaze is fixed on your face, and he can’t help but admire the way you look with that gun in your hand. It’s such a contrast to the innocent woman he married—it’s a side of you he never knew existed. There’s a primal allure to your fierce stance, a primal instinct that resonates with him on a level he can’t quite comprehend.

Hannibal notices the expression on Will’s face, and a smirk plays across his lips. He understands the magnetic pull that emanates from you—the allure. He shares the sentiment with Will, recognizing the primal attraction you exude as you hold the gun with a steady hand.

Your complexity intrigues and captivates them, drawing them in despite the inherent danger. They find it both thrilling and unsettling. The darkness hiding in them stirs with your presence, awakening that primitive instinct that’s been lurking in the depths of their souls. You have them completely entranced, and they can’t tear their eyes away.

Will once thought you were quite simple. He learned to read you like a book, then you disappeared and came back after almost ten years with no contact and he still felt like he knew you well enough. But lately? You’ve been unpredictable, complicated and twisted in your own particular way.

All of them hold their breath, the tension thick. The only sound heard is Will’s breathing—heavy and slow.

Ingram’s eyes are glued to yours. Something in the look he gives you makes all the anger and resentment wash away from your mind, and it takes you a moment to remember why you’re standing there with the gun.

You lean over Ingram and whisper something in his ear that no one else other than him can hear. Judging by the puddle of his own piss that pools on the floor, no one else would want to hear it. His eyes bulge with fear and shock, and he can’t make a peep in response.

Then, you pop the safety back on and hit the social worker in the temple with the butt of the gun. He tumbles over to the floor with a thud.

“Temporal region,” you conclude, straightening up. “You hit it with enough force and you can either kill someone or make them pass out.”

“Good to know,” Will mutters, looking at you again with newfound appreciation and respect.

Hannibal is also staring at you, with a newfound sense of admiration. He’s suddenly aware of your own power over others. As a psychiatrist, he’s learned what kind of tactics are used to break people down, and he knows that you used them against Ingram with devastating precision.

“What did you say to him?” he asks quietly, the rage still lurking just beneath the surface.

Hannibal watches as the two of you stare at each other intensely. He can’t help but feel a strange excitement rising inside of him as he watches the two of you square off against each other.

Will’s intensity is almost palpable—there’s a primal instinct within him that craves power, and he’s fascinated by the way you wield yours.

“Nothing that you need to know,” you reply simply, not about to divulge the details of your threat.

When Hannibal sees the intensity in both of your gazes, he can’t help but feel a strange stirring within him. He’s never seen the two of you so intense about anything before.

Will’s eyes narrow as he stares at you. He wants to know what you said, he wants to know the darkest depths of your mind. But he respects that it’s something you don’t want to share and lets it go.Hannibal can’t take his eyes off the two of you. It’s almost like he’s staring at a trainwreck he can’t look away from. He might just be right.

Taglist (I tag ppl that leave a comment or ask me for it): @strrvnge @raininhell @crowsoundsonly @gabriella-aesthetic @gayschlatt69 @russian-soft-bitch @lokittyy @hellouseemc00l @justaproudslytherpuff @it-s-tickety-booh @r4diocabeca @sanriogarbage @zoleea-exultant @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @emily-roberts @unsolvedghoulboyz @00hellohello00 @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @jadenblueberry @slashercupcake @octobermania @magdalenmillicent-blog @unsolvedghoulboyz @gabbyonjupiter @lanklr @oliviathecat06 @fatkissers

#hannibal nbc #hannibal #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader x hannibal lecter #will graham x reader #will graham x hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x will graham #will graham #eat your heart out #murder husbands #hannigram #hannibal lecter

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prideofcelestia · 1 year ago

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❝ when you say that nobody got you a cake for your birthday ❞

« characters - lucifer, mammon, satan, leviathan »

« gender neutral reader »

« headcanons »

sol ver

LUCIFER

“What?” His eyes widen in disbelief.

“Yeah... so we would all put money together to buy a cake for my other friends but since my birthday fell during the summer vacation, I never really cut any cake with my friends.”

He declares an emergency family meeting where he orders Mammon and Asmodeus to choose a venue for a party, Leviathan to decide the food menu, and Satan, Beelzebub and Belphegor to look after the decorations. He personally hires one of the best pâtissiers in the Devildom to make a cake especially for your party. It will be a private affair with only the brothers attending.

Lucifer will get you another cake to cut in private later but first you must get a taste of celebrating with close friends who are also akin to your family.

When you see the cake, you are rendered speechless. It has a tier for every year of your age. Even if your time is fleeting, every second that has passed and is yet to grace you matters. You matter and they will do their best to remind you of it.

MAMMON

“What would ya say?!”

He is royally pissed at your friends. It's good that you have him in your life now. The Great Mammon will make everything right.

“O-Oi human! Come to my room after classes today.”

“Mammon? I thought you had to stay back for detention.”

“Well don't think about those stupid details, would ya?”

You sigh and accept the invitation. There's no saving one who doesn't want to be saved.

When you enter his room, you know something is off. It has nothing to do with the room itself. It's his nervousness that makes you suspicious.

“Mammon, are you okay?”

“I just- Close your eyes!”

“What? What's this all of a sudden?”

“Trust me and close your eyes!”

“Okay okay!”

You follow his instructions, only to be met with a shy plea immediately as he scurries across the room.

“Open your eyes now... Surprise!”

The cake he gets you is the colour of molten gold and looks like a Grimm from the top.

“Oh my Diavolo, Mammon! It's such a sweet gesture.”

“I couldn't just let my servant go without cutting a cake! What kinda master wo-would I be otherwise, huh?” He manages to say with blushing cheeks.

He can hardly look at you so you wrap your arms around him and kiss his cheeks in gratitude. He is ready to explode. Atleast he will explode as a happy demon.

LEVIATHAN

“Ehhh? EHHHH?! You?! Bu-But But you are so amazing and sweet! How can those normies ever forget about you?! It’s not as if you are a pathetic gross otaku li-like me?!”

He takes some time to process the information and feels sad about it. Even he cannot relate to you because his brothers had never let him celebrate a birthday without throwing a surprise party.

It has always been easy to plan for him because he hardly left his room and so the brothers held their secret meetings without a worry. Similarly, it was child’s play for him to plan a small party for you from the comfort of his room.

Your DDD vibrates because of a message from Leviathan.

“Can you come to my room rn? I have something to show you.”

The moment the door opens, the sound of party crackers catches you off guard and before you know it, you are covered in party streamer.

“SURPRISE!”

You blink to find a cake shaped like a gaming controller with "Player 2" written on it in a cute style.

Levi has arranged some of his figurines and Henry’s fish tank to surround the cake. They have a small party hat on top of their heads. Henry swims around happily as if to show off in front of you.

SATAN

He shuts his book in rage.

“The audacity! How could they?” He mumbles to himself when he is alone.

He is only too well acquainted with the feeling of being excluded. It hurts. It hurts when he doesn’t supress his feelings well and the wrath that comes with it is not sweet either.

He feels sad and extremely offended on your behalf but he also acknowledges that his feelings won’t amount to a lot if he doesn’t act on it.

He decides on a small, intimate celebration with the two of you and some of your feline companions.

He gets you a cake in your favourite flavour, carefully listing your allergies, likes and dislikes. He ditches his first idea of getting one that looks like the head of a cake. It would be sacrilege to eat it!

The cats seem to understand the mood because they mewl and Satan sings when you cut the cake. He is awkward while singing so don’t let it get out of his room! The smile on your face compensates his embarrassment.

#obey me #obey me x reader #gender neutral reader #gender neutral mc #obey me x mc #obey me!#shion script #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me satan #obey me leviathan #x mc #x reader #obey me imagines #obey me mammon #birthday #fluff

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jadehaven · 3 months ago

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Elrond and Galadriel S2 are not the same Elrondriel from S1.

I just started my rewatch of season 1 of ROP, and immediately my interpretation of their relationship has elaborated since the events of season 2. Warning you, this is a long post, but let’s jump in ↴

S1E01

There’s one specific line that made me realize how the distance between them over the last centuries has changed their relationship. Galadriel says to Elrond:

“Why Elrond, you really have become a politician.”

This demonstrates that before their time apart, their dynamic was different. He wasn’t always this pristine, polished and polite elf. It’s almost like he is leaning *too* much into his elven side, and he’s gotten used to using it as a front. To me, it’s almost as if Galadriel misses the human side of him, but it’s been well packed away now since she’s been gone.

My interpretation is that his human side is where his weakness for Galadriel really lies. By putting it away while she’s gone, he’s made it easier to accept that they will always be different— half elf vs full elf. She will be resilient in a way which he cannot. And, she will be leaving. It’s much easier to part with someone you deeply care for if you deny the part in you that would beg them to stay if you could.

When he says to her “What you have always been; *my friend*. It pulls us out of the moment to recognize that this is where they are now, established in their “careers” so to speak, but it is not where they’ve always been. They’ve accepted that this is as far as their relationship will go, this is the full extent of their need for each other.

“What you have always been: my friend.” is also “This is the most we will ever be in this life: friends.”

They’ve never considered anything more because they have accepted that this is where the story ends. She’s a soldier, he’s a politician. But like I said, they weren’t *always* this, and perhaps, during the time of “what you have always been* there was the fleeting, yet gleaming possibility of *more*.

The days when Elrond and Galadriel would sit under the trees, Elrond reading poetry and practicing languages. Galadriel making fun of him, and other times resting in the wake of his voice- some of the only times she truly *could* rest.

Chasing each other around the river, play fighting until one is over the other, because once there was no “pristine and polished”, there was only her half human friend. The only one who saw and understood her brashness, her grief, her misalignment.

There was Elrond, who’s hunger for knowledge allowed him to catch up with Galadriel, maturing further than she, in wisdom beyond his years. The elf who one day, instead of pining her down by the strength of his hands, put her in her place with his words.

But after everything? They’ve spent so much time apart that they forgot those versions of them even existed.

The version of them where Galadriel can recognize Elrond’s words in the High King’s speech, so much so that she turns to him only to catch him mouthing the words. A split second smile that says “I know you better than anyone else.”

By the time they reunite, only a fraction of who they were are who they are together remains. And oh, how he misses it. But wisdom would be to stay where he is, and for her to go where she needs to go. And without Galadriel, there is no reminder of his human side. There is no need of it. So he will continue on as a politician elf, and nothing more. He will finally make something of himself that is worthy to be proud of.

Except, that this is actually a *second chance* story, and it doesn’t end here.

“I’ve missed you.”

The weight in that sentence. The truth that comes forth— realize, that this is a form of grief, a grief that the human in him understands. His elven side should know that he will see her again one day in Valinor, and that all is well. But not all that is in him has been put to rest. That little bit of peredhel, the faces and words that come out only when he’s deep in the mines of a mountain, far from where the sky can see him, comes out around her.

“Galadriel! It’s Elrond!”

“Prove it.”

Prove to me that you are still you, and I am still me, and we are still who we are to each other, because being with you is the only place I truly feel safe. Prove to me that that place is not lost, that I can still come back to it.

If only it was that easy.

“You were my friend!.”

Why is her betrayal so personal? Some would say my perspective is far fetched, but there has to be an explanation as to why it hits to deep. Was it that trust was broken? That she didn’t listen— but wouldn’t that affect all the elves? Why does he say this one line?

Because he’s said it to himself for centuries, and he was ready to get to stop. And now she’s back, and his peredhel is back, and he has to decide what he’s going to do if he has to spend thousands more years either at or away from her side. ‘How could you stay? Why would you make it that much harder for me? For us?’

Oh, and in the mean time, she fell for the Dark Lord. He could see the affect he had on her.

She’d rather have *Sauron himself* over her *best friend*?

I’d be pissed too.

“It was entirely of your choosing.” ‘Why do I know that? Because of course you’d choose a fighter, unlike me. Of course you’d choose a human, because you like that about me. Of course you’d choose him, when you could’ve chosen me.’

“If this friendship ever meant anything to you… then you’d leave.” Sigh. He’s so tired of being just her friend.

And that is why the tension builds. That is why it’s so personal. But even in their quarrelling, there is hope, because finally, *finally* after years and years and years apart, they are the closest they’ve been to who they were before. The “I can see right through you” type of bickering. The “You’re a pain in my ass, but also the most important person to me.” kind of love. It hurts, but I’d reckon it’s better than the Polished Politician Elf and Vengeful Warrior Princess roles they were playing whilest apart.

And so it goes, as usual in a second chance story, they have the chance to either pretend for another few thousand years that the love they have for each other can still fit squished tightly inside the little box of “friendship”, or, let the walls come down and accept that you simply cannot live without loving this person to full capacity. In this case, well… let’s just say another word for *tension* is *denial*.

Maybe, a part of Elrond realizes the truth too late. Maybe only the human side of him realizes it, but it’s just enough to put a crack in the glass. Just enough to let a little bit of love bubble out and into his hands, to reach for her face, and then into his lips, to reach for hers, before retreating again. In that moment, they’re finally where they always were meant to be. If he sees her again, he will put it right. No more tension, only truth. The glass is broken and eventually all the walls will come down, one by one— starting with saving her life, even if it means denying that “oh so sure, prestigious elven wisdom” that courses through his veins.

With everything stripped away, they’re not who they were at the beginning of season 1. But I would argue, that who they were together in season 1 was not who they really are at all. Now we finally see Galadriel, as the Lady of Light, and Elrond Peredhel. Both coming around to accept their full selves, which will in turn, perhaps, allow them to accept the love they have for each other.

Maybe after nearly losing each other 3 times, they’ll come around to the fact that their story has much more weight then they’d imagine, and thus, finally finish what Tolkien put away in a box decades ago. I guess only time will alone tell, but in that time, I’ll hold onto my hope.

Thanks for reading :)

#elrondriel #elrond rings of power #galadriel rings of power #lotrrop #elrond x galadriel #galadriel x elrond #lotr on prime #rings of power

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shunin-gumis · 7 months ago

Text

L4mps Main Story Translation

Designs of Happiness A01

Title: ep.1 Well-being by myself

Characters: Nagi

Summary: One night, an interesting radio show could be heard at the Flower Laundry...

JP Proofreading: aca @463ce6 on twt EN Proofreading: jes @arcanecrayonn on twt

No matter how hard I try, a worthless person like me could never trace after the path to "happiness" that everyone else gets to experience.

As the gentle loneliness of the night envelops me, I drift between fleeting moments of happiness, barely holding on to see the next day.

-It was one of those days.

Location - Flower Laundry

Voice from the Radio: Coming to you live from HAMA Studio no.3-

Arisa: It's Arisa and~

Teresa: Teresa's~

Arisa and Teresa: Intelli-radio: Aristotle~*

Nagi: Sonia, could you turn up the volume?

Sonia: Okay~

Teresa: The rain sure isn't letting up huh?

Arisa: True~ It's quiet but it's perfect for getting some me-time in, whether it's to study or get some reading done.

Arisa: As we were talking about before the commercial break, forgive us if we go on too long on the mechanisms of achieving Happiness, just blame it on this lovely night we're having~

Sonia: ...

Sonia: Nagi-shan, you've been working on your bike all this time, but you made sure to eat dinner, yesh?

Nagi: Eh? ... Ah.

Nagi: Now that you mention it, I might be really hungry right now.

Sonia: Geez~

Sonia: You're still in the middle of work, so I'll get you shumthing you can eat with one hand.

Nagi: Thank you, Sonia. If you weren't around, I'm sure I would've ended up a mummy by now.

Nagi: "A mummy was discovered in the middle of the city!" Could Flower Laundry possibly be the next new hot spot...

Sonia: Don't say shumthing so ominous. It's exactly to prevent unfortunate people like you from ending up in such sad situations that helper robots like me were created.

Sonia: Pleash wash your hands and wait there.

Nagi: When did it get so late...

Nagi: I should get the bike back in the garage for now...

Arisa: While countries and corporations were competing between themselves for economic growth, the end result was that most of our environment was destroyed, and resources dried up in the blink of an eye.

Arisa: Did humanity manage to achieve true prosperity after this? Was it worth the cost? The answer is a resounding "No". Although the country's GDP* has increased four, or even five-fold, the happiness-index has flatlined for the past 100 years or so.

Teresa: Wait, really? A 100 years ago, people couldn't even have their clothes dry automatically, right? They also had to wash the dishes by hand... No way, that reminds me, they even had to vacuum the dust off the floor themselves or something right..?

Arisa: I think they'd still be using brooms about a 100 years ago?

Teresa: No way~ That's way too retro for me! I can't imagine life without all the smart appliances we have now. I mean, a world with no food-printers? Yikes.

Sonia: Here you go, "fresh" off the food-printer...

Nagi: Right on time.

Sonia: On time?

Nagi: I was just talking to myself. Thanks for the meal.

Arisa: Okay, I get how much you love your smart appliances, but do all these materialistic things truly fill your heart? Does it really let you sleep better at night?

Teresa: Hmm, you do have a point. The more convenient things get, the more it feels like the world is telling me to be time and cost-efficient, but before I even realize it, I'm already doom-scrolling on dazzle*...

Arisa: "More convenience! More income!" Such concepts are shoved in our faces constantly... How about trying to remove ourselves from this endless equation? There's quite a few factions amongst the younger generation who never expected much from society nor themselves...

Teresa: Sorry, that's just not for me. Chasing after your dreams, working towards your goals: those are the things that make life worth living. Growing as you compete with others is part of it too. And then when you finally get your hands on the things you've always wanted with your own effort... It doesn't get better than that.

Arisa: That's right. That's why people have come up with a strategy guide-

Arisa: The era of learning the Psychology of Happiness is upon us!

Teresa: The Psychology of Happiness?

Nagi: What's that?

Sonia: Oh! There's a response on the shop's PeChat*, hm...

Sonia: Nagi-shan, we just got an order. The customer will be coming by in ten minutes to pick it up.

Sonia: They're requesting a bouquet that can cheer up their girlfriend who's feeling down about making a mistake at work.

Nagi: ―

Sonia: Nagi-shaaan.

Nagi: Ah, sorry. Can you ask them what her favorite color is?

Sonia: I already did. Apparently, she likes the color blue!

Nagi: Blue... Blue, huh.

Nagi: I think we can use the nemophila we just got in earlier today. Add in some large calla lilies and sky-blue baby's breath...

Nagi: Maybe some delphiniums and blue stars could work as accents...

Sonia: And what about the ribbon?

Arisa: To explain, the Psychology of Happiness is the study that aims to help anyone, of all ages and gender, understand how to engineer and replicate the mechanism of happiness in their own lives.

Nagi: Replicate... happiness?

Sonia: Nagi-shaan, are you listening?

Nagi: I'm listening. Could you bring out the thin, light blue ribbon from the back?

Sonia: Got it. I'll leave the card here too.

Nagi: Okay, thank-

Teresa: Wait, some people find it easier to be happy because it's hereditary!?

Nagi: What!?

Sonia: Huh!?

Sonia: Geez, don't scare me like that. What's got you sho worked up?

Arisa: That's right. 48% is already determined by our DNA.

Nagi: .....

Sonia: Nagi-shan?

Arisa: Just like how some people might find a dish spicier than others, some can experience happiness easier than their peers as well. This is a hereditary factor, determined by our genes from the moment we're born.

Teresa: No way! So what you're telling me is that half of the happiness we can experience in life was already decided while we were in our mothers' womb!?

Nagi: ......

Sonia: Are you okay now? The customer will be dropping by soon.

Nagi: ...! Right, I need to get this done quickly...

Sonia: I'll go ahead and cut the flower stems under water.*

Nagi: Thank you. Could you also get the blue gift-wrapping paper-

Sonia: I've already spread it out for you!

Customer: Um... I'd put in an order just earlier.

Nagi: ...Ah.

Nagi: Sorry, could you please wait for just a moment? There's just the finishing touches left.

Teresa: So, what about the remaining 52%? Don't tell me it's influenced by the environment we were born and raised in.

Arisa: Not at all, the influence from your environment makes up only about 10% of it. As for the remaining 42%...

Teresa: ... Is it based on our actions?

Arisa: Correct! This means that, out of 100% achievable happiness level, about 42% of it is within our control.

Nagi: Wow. I've never thought about it that way.

Customer: Huh?

Nagi: No, if I think about it, is that really possible?

Arisa: Just as how the right diet is different for each person, once you figure out the method, anyone can achieve happiness. How it comes to bear fruit for you, is up to you yourself.

Nagi: If half of it is determined by fate, and the other half is uncertain... Could it really be that simple? Then maybe it's also possible for me to.... No, it's probably just a waste of time in my case. I shouldn't get my hopes up. Just thinking about it is making me depressed.

Customer: Erm... Are you alright? You've been muttering to yourself for some time now...

Nagi: Ah... Sorry about that. Don't mind me.

Customer: Right...

Nagi: Thank you for waiting. This is the completed bouquet. Is it to your liking?

Customer: Wow...! It's beautiful... It's just how I'd imagined it, I'm sure my girlfriend will be happy with it.

Nagi: I'm glad to hear that- Ah.

Nagi: That's right, I almost forgot... Excuse me, would you mind handing the bouquet back to me? There's one last thing I need to do.

Nagi: Mu....

Customer: Mu?

Nagi: Mu.....nn!

Customer: Um, what exactly are you doing...?

Nagi: I've instilled some energy* into it. In other words...

Nagi: It's something like a good luck charm. When your girlfriend receives this bouquet, she'll be so happy that she'd be skipping along the pavement.

Customer: To the point of skipping...

Nagi: Oh but, even without my little charm, I'm sure she would be plenty happy just knowing she has someone who would get her a bouquet when she's feeling down.

Nagi: In any case, I hope the two of you can skip along merrily.

Customer: I-I see... Thank you...

Nagi: Thank you for your patronage.

Sonia: Thank you very mush!

Teresa: Whaat, is it time for us to go already? Too bad, I really wanted to talk some more~

Sonia: Phew... I'm glad we finished it in time.

Nagi: Yeah, it's all thanks to your help Sonia.

Sonia: It's a piece of cake!

Arisa: Arisa and Teresa, your guides for psychology, signing out!

Nagi: Anyways, good job. Let's do our usual thing.

Arisa: Let's meet again when the fountain of knowledge wells up again!

Sonia: A high-five right? 3, 2, 1..!

Arisa and Teresa: See you again!

Play Ivory MV

Notes:

Sonia has a bit of a lisp so I changed a few words to match her speech

Intelli in Intelli-radio is short for Intelligentsia

dazzle is a social media site in the 18trip universe

PeChat is a messaging app in 18trip universe

GDP stands for Gross Domestic Product.

Cutting flower stems under water prevents air bubbles from going up the stem and helps in keeping the cut flowers fresh for longer.

'Muuun’ is the sound he makes when he’s instilling his happiness energy/thoughts(念) into the flowers, literally.

Flower Language:

Flower Language is important to Nagi's character and a way for him to communicate his thoughts, so I'll always note it down whenever any are mentioned.

Nemophila Lovely, Wish for success, I forgive you, Clear heart

Calla Lily Gorgeous beauty, Purity, Gracefulness of a young maiden

Blue Baby's breath Gratitude, Luck, Innocence, Kindness

Delphinium You spread happiness, Clear and bright, Generous, Precious

Bluestars (Amsonia) Trust in one another, Abundant love

Fun fact: The flower passed around in Ivory is a Delphinium! Meaning Nagi spreads happiness, which is what he does by sharing his happiness 'energy' but also that he brings joy to those around him by simply being himself.

Next -> | Masterlist

#Can you tell I love Nagi #a bit too much maybe #18tlip #18trip #18trip translation #hachinoya nagi #Nagi Hachinoya #Sonia robo #L4mps #18trip Main story translation

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slaaverin · 3 months ago

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Your edits are so beautiful. They are so beautiful, and their wonderfully beautiful love.

Thank you for sharing your talent with us, and showing us them in such a profound way.

I wish other bloggers on here were respectful like you.

Thank you so much for your kind message 💜🥺

Editing is really what brings me the most joy in life. Since I became ARMY and jikooker I never stopped wanting to share jikook's beautiful love.

This isn't even our relationship, but I feel their love is very important. To me but also to the world. So by sharing it, and seeing all the messages of people saying it brings them comfort, I feel like I'm doing something useful.

Sometimes I can't help but think I make silly little edits and it's pointless but I still have this nagging feeling in my mind that there is some importance to this, even if I can't find the proper words to explain why. But I may be overthinking. It brings me joy, it brings other people joy and that's what matters.

I am so happy that people enjoy them, it's my only way so far to express myself, and even if this is jikook's love I can't help but put a little bit of myself in it so when people give me those huge and incredible compliments (they often do) I feel seen and heard and appreciated. It is very special to me because in real life I am isolated for several reasons, I don't have many friends to share things with. So I feel like in our lovely jikook community I can be myself and loved for who I am and what's inside me. It feels nice and it compensates some other lackings in my life.

So thank you so much 💜 Everything people say about my edits means so much more to me than any of you can imagine 😭

The truth is, I love Jimin & Jungkook so much, like many of you. I feel and know and understand how incredible humans they are. How pure and beautiful their soul is. They are people who truly deserve our unconditional love. And what they share, their relationship, it is simply so wonderful.

We are in a world where everything is mingled, the good the bad and the ugly. But Jimin & Jungkook and the love they share, what they represent and how they are in this world, that's something that I resonate with, that draws me in, because I wish more people were like this. I wish the world would be a little more beautiful and loving and pure.

It is not like this. But the fact Jimin & Jungkook and their love exist, it's like a reminder, a lighthouse that shows the way, that says to us "Look, it's possible, it's not all bleak, there is something more, remember it."

It all comes down to love, in the end. Like all the drama and all the trauma and all the pain and all the fear, it's just stories, it's all fleeting. But what matters is love. That's the fundamental thing that everything is based on. So that's what matters to me.

And that's why I will continue to make silly edits, and that I can't help talking about jikook to everyone I know, that's why even if the groups splits up I will always support them no matter what. Because what else is there? What else truly is worth supporting?

I hope people can take inspiration from them and be a little more like them. Not everyone one will, but even if a single person does I think they would have succeeded.

I can't wait to see how the future enfolds, and be there with all of you to follow their life journey.

That was quite a lenghty oversharing post but who cares it's my blog lol

I will always try to remain respectful, I think it's a basic human thing to do, so once again thank you so much 😭💜

I hope I can make many more edits in the future that will make you smile,

Take care anon 💜

#jikook #kookmin #jimin #jungkook #edit talk #ask

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narrans · 29 days ago

Text

A Small and Tall Collection | Chapter Twelve | Recovery and Discovery

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Chapter Twelve | Recovery and Discovery

There were few times a Borrower could sleep deeply without a care in the world. It wasn’t when they were children, because the fear of being caught by a human while asleep was a true waking nightmare. Like a crouching cat in the bushes waiting to ambush any and all unsuspecting prey, children rarely slept deeply once told about the world beyond the walls. It also wasn’t as an adult or after a big borrowing mission. It wasn’t in their older years and memory was fleeting as an infant.

There was too much in the world to be aware of. There were too many things to be apprehensive of.

Deep sleep was almost never an option, but it was a welcome one if the opportunity arose.

Now, thankfully, was one of those times. It could’ve been days and Ashlynn wouldn’t have known the difference. The Borrower woman opened her eyes and, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she didn’t feel the sting of tiredness tugging at her lids. She stretched, careful with her injured arm, and stared up at the ceiling that towered high above her. It was still alarming, heart fluttering with what felt like air, but the interaction earlier with Soren and his two sons made her feel mildly at ease.

It was a weird sensation.

She still didn’t trust the boys implicitly, but at least there was some silent reassurance that she fell under the protection of Soren. Ashlynn closed her eyes, an image of Soren forming in her mind. A smile. His voice. Those eyes.

She swallowed and shook her head, and the image along with it.

Weird…

What else was weird was she didn’t wince when she swallowed. She reached up and felt along her jaw, noticing how it didn’t feel as swollen anymore. Palm to her head, it was cool to the touch, and the tingling of her bones and skin had also stopped.

Wow… that medicine really did the trick. I feel… great.

Ashlynn sat up and almost instantly regretted it when her vision swirled, and the sudden pang as her arm twinged reminded the Borrower she wasn’t completely up to snuff. Leagues better, but not recovered. There were still things she could do to help her heal, and a light rumble from her insides told her where to start.

Thankfully, Soren didn’t move the tray from earlier and the food was still where she left it. It took a moment to stand shakily on her feet on the uneven surface of the comforter. Each step gave in different ways, keeping the Borrower on her toes which, thankfully, she was feeling steadier on.

She sat near some of the bowls she was by earlier and decided to continue eating the soup and bread, seeing as that and the medicine were helping her kick the sickness in record time. She’d just managed to fill the bowl and mop up the sides with a spare piece of bread when she heard the signature *tap* *tap* *tap* on the frame of the door. Instinct took over as the Borrower’s eyes shot up toward the door.

“Sorry.” It was Soren, an apologetic look filling those golden, hazel eyes of his. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just came to see if you needed anything. Well, that and my pillows. I stopped by a few hours ago, but you were knocked out and it felt rude to come in when you were asleep.” Ashlynn’s mouth felt like it was suddenly filled with cotton.

He was by earlier? And I didn’t wake up?! I must’ve been sleeping super deep then. At least he didn’t come in. That was really… sweet.

“Are you hungry? I could heat something up for you, or heat what you currently have. The boys and I already ate and were actually getting ready for bed. So, if you needed anything, I could go ahead and get it for you.” Soren’s thoughtfulness made Ashlynn’s cheeks warm, and she looked away bashfully as she thought about his question.

Then, she nodded.

“Okay, good. Um… do you want me to heat up what we had? Or just heat up some more soup? Wait… nodding. So, yes or no to the first?” asked Soren. Ashlynn shook her head. Her mind was made up on the so-called “magic broth” Soren had already made. His smile tugged at the corner of his lips playfully as he nodded. “So shall it be.”

In no time, Soren had returned with a fresh cup of soup and warm bread which he set on the tray after Ashlynn gave a cautious nod for him to approach. The steam rolled off of the top, and with it the pleasant scents of everything Ashlynn thought a home should be. She smiled and breathed deeply, realizing only now that she had her sense of smell back.

“You like that?” Soren asked. The Borrower nodded, flashing a smile up at him as she inhaled deeply again. “I can tell, and I can tell you’re feeling better too. You haven’t had a coughing fit once.” He was right. The sickness had finally met its match, and all thanks to a human.

Ironic. Expecting a human to be the source of my problems and here he is solving them.

“Well, I won’t keep you. Is there anything else bugging you? Need anything else before I go?” asked Soren. There was something, but how to communicate it was the trick. Ashlynn’s shoulder was still stiff and tender. If she wanted to leave, she needed it to be on the mend. She looked up sheepishly as she reached up and touched her slung arm. Soren’s keen eyes picked up the motion and understood instantly.

“Still hurting? Like a twinge or an ache plus stiffness? Or all of the above?” asked Soren. The Borrower woman nodded. The hope that she didn’t need to be grabbed or held to solve the problem was in the forefront of her mind, but if it would get her home sooner then it didn’t matter.

Soren will be gentle. If he needs to grab my arm, he’ll be careful.

“Alrighty then. Easy enough. You’re probably just feeling the tenderness of it being relocated. Is it numb or tingly still?” Ashlynn shook her head. “Good. That would be less than ideal. Um… okay. So, you’ll need to do some exercises and stretches to get it fixed completely. I’ll demonstrate on myself and then you imitate the motion.”

Soren began explaining a few of the baseline exercises that she could do to help stretch her twinging muscles. Rolling her shoulder gently. Slow arm extensions. Arm rotations. Shoulder shrugs. Anything for her to start getting rid of the tenseness in her muscles. He showed each motion clearly and made sure Ashlynn could do it and adjusted as necessary before moving on.

At some point, Ashlynn caught herself smiling as Soren continued to speak to her. There was just something soothing about his voice, like warm tea and honey which Ashlynn had only had a few times in her life.

“Also, don’t try and do too much all at once. I’ll venture a guess that you’re eager to get out of here, but rushing your recovery can do more damage to your shoulder. So, several smaller sessions would be better for you. Sound good?” suggested Soren. It felt reluctant, but Ashlynn forced a nod. He was right. She did want to get out of here as fast as possible. Being out in this massive room and unable to take care of herself entirely was a belittling experience. At least she wasn’t being treated like a child. Soren was good about that.

“Good. Then, if it’s okay, I’m going to snag my pillows and head out to the couch.” Couch? Isn’t this his bed? Wait… is he… Her confusion must have been evident on her face because Soren chuckled, hands placed on his hips while his head bobbed up and down. “Yes, technically that’s my bed, but it’s being used for something better than just sleeping. Kind of its own rehab center. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Worry about getting better and resting up. Do… you want to take more medicine? Feeling feverish or icky still?”

It was a lot to process. Which question to ever start with. As the Borrower went down the list of questions, she ended up with the same answer for all of them, and so she nodded. In no time, Soren was back with another small cup of that dark, minty teal liquid from before and some fresh water. He snagged his pillows before stepping up to the door and glancing over his shoulder.

“Need anything else?” he asked. How could I possibly need anything else? You’ve already thought of everything, and you’ve been so kind. I… I can’t begin to thank you. A strong part of Ashlynn wanted to tell him that, but that Borrower instinct choked out her voice. She wanted to thank him, but she only could muster a smile as she shook her head.

“Alrighty then. Goodnight little miss.” With that, Ashlynn was left once again alone in Soren’s room.

Is this a dream? Some weird fever dream from a nightmare? This shouldn’t be happening. I should be in a cage. I should be taped to a wall or locked in a box. I’m in a room – a human’s room – all to myself. I have food and a bed. This shouldn’t be happening. What makes Soren and his boys so different? Have they come across Borrowers before? Or… rather… has Soren?

Ashlynn sipped on the broth and chewed on the pieces of bread thoughtfully as she reflected on the past day. She was still uneasy. Nothing was likely to ever change that fact. This place was too big. Humans had no right to be as big as they were.

At the same time, were they so different?

Head. Hands. Heart. Dreams.

Humans had less to worry about, sure, but everything else was so similar.

Ashlynn finished her meal, eating until content, and once again curled up onto the bed with her back to the drawer. The medicine was already kicking in, making her head feel fuzzy and her eyes tired, even after sleeping for hours not long ago. Perhaps it was the medicine or the flurry of recent events, but Ashlynn found herself thinking about Soren. How nice his voice was. How kind he’d been. Those golden hazel eyes.

She felt her cheeks blush as her last thought entered her mind.

Too bad he isn’t a Borrower.

~~~^*^*^~~~

Time when sick is a funny thing. It drags on for an eternity, each passing second taunting the next, especially when there’s nothing to do.

This was not the case for Ashlynn.

The past two weeks had practically vaporized right before her eyes. She’d spent a fair amount of time sleeping, and she even spent time making a new set of clothes for herself seeing that the others had been mildly soiled by sweat and sickness.

She’d also taken time to make sure her arm was on the mend. The exercises were working wonders. Each day felt like an immense step forward. Ashlynn had even dared to do some test climbs from the top of the bed into the drawer, which Soren hadn’t removed in case she wanted a place to hide behind.

The tests had gone better than expected. Her arm was still tender, but she could place weight on it now without doubling over in agony. If she didn’t move too fast and wasn’t active for too long, she was fine. It felt thrilling, like her first borrowing mission. The thrill of her progress was overshadowed only by one thing – the prospect of leaving.

Ashlynn had to admit that, in some weird way, she was a bit sad that she was recovering as quickly as she was. Sure, the food helped, and never before had she slept so well, but it was leaving the boys that felt disheartening.

Their interactions were limited. Ashlynn made sure of that much. Still, Soren coming in and making sure she was okay felt good. She’d even permitted the boys to come in and say hello on multiple occasions. The youngest was probably her favorite of the two, and it wasn’t because of the gift he’d made for her, which was a kind of multi-tool rod that was lightweight like a walking stick with a fishhook super glued on one side for grabbing and a wedge on the other to hold a line. It was because of his questioning style.

He asked the most random, non-specific questions to Borrowers that she’d ever heard before. It was amusing to say the least. Weird things like whether or not she would want to be a dinosaur, which he explained to her in great detail, or if she liked different food because it was easier to chew since she was so small.

Dorian asked more direct questions, like if she liked climbing and how fast she thought she could climb different pieces of furniture. Other questions were concerned with where she liked to go and if she liked music. The questions were innocent enough, so that wasn’t it. It might have been because Dorian unintentionally caused her injury in the first place, but Ashlynn found herself a little more on-guard with the older of the two children.

What usually ended up happening was she spent time listening to the two boys. During the day, they went to a place called school and, when they returned, they wanted to tell Ashlynn all about the different things they learned and if she knew this or that. They held up maps and papers with scribbles all over them as they went on and on about the things they were being taught. It was adorable, especially when they tried to explain something that Ashlynn had no concept of.

At the end of the day, the Borrower woman decided these two kids were alright. Sometimes careless when they were excited, but alright all the same.

She also decided something else too, and that it was time to leave. She’d already spent too much time out in the open already.

Her arm felt almost completely healed, and her sickness had finally subsided a few days ago with not even a sneeze or a sniffle in sight. She’d have to take it easy with her climbing and borrowing activities, but deep-down Ashlynn felt like she could once again manage her life.

It was time.

She was hoping to be in and out of the drawer quickly to retrieve her belongings, but through a series of bad throws and needing a few resting periods it took longer than expected. She’d just managed to hoist her leg up on top of the drawer when she heard the all too familiar sound of the *tap* *tap* *tap* on the door.

Her heart skipped a beat, anxious worry nearly causing her to fumble and fall back onto the bed, before looking over and seeing Soren’s familiar face peeking through the crack. She wasn’t sure why, but guilt welled up in her throat. Her plan was to simply wait until night and the climb down the covers and onto the floor.

Seeing Soren, however, made her question her actions.

Was she really going to leave? Especially without saying goodbye? After all he and his sons had done for her?

Shoot. I… I can’t do that… not to him. Ashlynn sighed and jumped down from the edge of the drawer, glancing between Soren and her belongings at her feet.

The moment Soren spotted the small woman’s minute glance between him and the bag, he knew she was preparing to leave. She’d been on the mend and recovered from her dislocated arm in record time. If he was being honest, he was surprised she stayed as long as she did, and suddenly he felt his chest tighten ever so slightly.

“Hey there, little miss. Okay if I come in?” asked Soren. He watched as she shifted on the bed ever so slightly before nodding. He stepped into the room and walked slowly toward his dresser, which sat opposite of the side of the bed. It was involuntary, but Soren folded his arms and stared at the ground for a moment before bringing his eyes to look up at the miniscule woman. Her blue gray eyes were filled with confliction as she continued to glance between Soren and the bag at her feet.

“Leaving?”

It was all he needed to say for her shoulders to slump and her head to hang low. The sensation was a mixed bag to say the least. Soren could only imagine what was going through the woman’s mind as his own emotions swirled from one to the next. He was pleased that she was on the mend and well enough to be out on her own again, but in a weird way he was going to miss her too. Despite not saying anything, he really felt like he was just starting to get to know her.

Evidently, she seemed to be feeling the same. Otherwise, she would just walk out and not hang her head so low. Soren was about to dismiss himself when he watched her small hand come up and wipe at her eyes.

What is wrong with me?! Ashlynn scolded herself as she felt her eyes burning with tears. Why am I crying? Why do I feel so reluctant to leave? Is it the food? The bed? The… boys? Soren? The prospect of needing to move? What is wrong with me?

Ashlynn heard Soren inhale slowly, but sharply, as he spoke again.

“Hey, little miss, don’t be sad. You’ve no reason to be. You stayed because you were sick and now you’re better. You should be happy that you get to leave,” grinned Soren. Ashlynn bit her lip and nodded but couldn’t meet his gaze. She wasn’t sure if she could say goodbye to those eyes just yet.

“And, if you feel up to it or if you’re ever interested, you can pop back down or up, whatever it is, and come see us. You’re more than welcome to,” proposed Soren. The thought was a tempting one, and it was something that Ashlynn found herself considering. “The boys will be disappointed they didn’t get to say goodbye, but they’ll understand.”

Oh, shoot! Is this some kind of ploy to get me to stay longer? Curses!

“Do… you need help getting down? Or do you just want me to leave?” asked Soren. Ashlynn thought about the question, longer than what she would have. On the one hand, she didn’t want to reveal any of the secret places she had to get in and out of rooms. The Borrower didn’t think that any of them would set traps, but the instinct was still there to protect her people, even if she was the only one in the entire building. On the other hand, Ashlynn didn’t have a lot of good footing places on the covers, and they didn’t reach all the way to the ground. She’d have to make a drop fall, and she didn’t want to risk another injury when she was so close to leaving. Then again, did she want to leave?

Yes! Yes! Of course I want to leave! What kind of stupid question is that?!

But… maybe… a little help wouldn’t be bad? But that also means… being on his hand… Ashlynn shuddered before she glanced over at Soren and bit her lip, unsure of how to indicate everything she wanted with a single look. He’s been so careful… so gentle… If he can just get me to the kitchen counter, then I can go in that way without having to pry anything off of the walls and possibly leave another trace. And… would being held by him… be so bad?

“So, is that a yes?” prompted Soren. Ashlynn nodded, mind made up. “To me leaving?”

Soren’s eyes widened as she watched the small woman shake her head.

“N-no? You… want help down?” asked Soren. He’d refrained as much as possible from touching the miniscule woman, mainly due to his own apprehension of accidentally harming her in any capacity. The times they had made contact were absolutely necessary; that is, seemingly, until now.

His heart skipped a beat, stomach full of butterflies, as he watched her glance up at him and nod. It was completely unexpected. His mind started to race. He swallowed dryly, arms drawing in a bit tighter across his chest as he kept them folded. Clearing his throat, Soren bit his lower lip and nodded stiffly.

“Um… okay. Sure. Do… you just need help down? Or… -erm… do you have a place in mind that I should… bring you to?” Soren felt his voice crack ever so slightly as tension and nerves threatened to play with his vocal cords like a backwoods country banjo. “Right… yes or no. To the ground?”

Is… he nervous? Ashlynn wondered as she shook her head.

“No? You have a place in mind?” Soren’s heart was starting to race as fast as his thoughts as he watched the small woman nod. “And… you’re ready now?” He stared into the hand sized person’s blue gray eyes, a shiver running down the length of his spine, as she nodded again, albeit a bit more hesitantly than her other responses.

Soren wasn’t sure how he was supposed to do this. Pick her up? Let her step onto his hand? Cupped like a captive butterfly? Hang onto a finger? His first instinct was to let her step on, but would that be secure enough?

Might as well try.

Soren pushed himself off of the dresser, feet feeling heavy like lead bricks, as he unfolded his arms and laid his hand, palm up, onto the bed several inches from her.

What on earth am I doing?! Neither knew their thoughts aligned. Either could have shied away, and yet they didn’t.

Ashlynn stared at the calloused, gentle hand that had helped put her shoulder back into place, swallowed hard, and snagged her bag off of the bed before walking toward the outstretched fingers. Her heart hammered violently behind her ribs. Every instinct screamed to run away.

The Borrower forced her body to step up onto the human’s finger. It was soft and malleable like the comforter, giving with every step, but firm at the same time. Every ounce of focus was on not losing her balance or her mind as she wabbled across the notches of Soren’s fingers to his palm.

She only now realized she had been holding her breath as she crouched and placed her hand onto Soren’s thumb. She could clearly see and feel some of the ridges of his fingers as her hand rested against the appendage. It was almost imperceptible, but there was a tremor to Soren’s hand.

He’s just as nervous as me. Funny… he holds all the power and yet me being here makes him nervous.

Soren marveled at the small figure’s movements and the ease that she walked across his hand. It was hypnotizing the way she moved and crouched. Just her weight in his hand kept him motionless for fear of startling her. Even her eyes as she looked up at him expectantly was enough to keep him frozen in place.

“Um… er… ready? Just… uh… point. I’ll follow where you say to go,” Soren muttered. It was a vain attempt to disguise the tremor tugging at his voice. Ashlynn nodded and, just like that, Soren’s hand lifted from off of the bed and into the air. The dizzying height was mind numbing, the equivalent of a ten-story building or more, but it was natural for Ashlynn. Greater heights than these were in her arsenal of experiences.

It was her nerves that added to the experience, so it took a minute for her to realize Soren was looking down at her expectantly, waiting for her to give some kind of signal to direct him. She pointed toward the door, shaking her head so she’d phase out of her stupor. His fingers curled upward ever so slightly and she heard him inhale deeply before he began to move.

One step, and then the next, Ashlynn continued to point the way through the hallway, past the living room, and into the kitchen. The Borrower thought that being carried would be jostling and uneven, and maybe it was; however, Soren was taking an additional precaution and taking slow, even steps to not knock the small woman off balance.

When they made it to the kitchen, Ashlynn pointed to the counter by the bread box, and so Soren obliged, stepping up to it and setting down his hand, asking, “Is this okay?” before spreading his fingers out so they were no longer cupped. Ashlynn quickly disembarked, barely shaking an involuntary shudder, before turning around and facing Soren again.

“Well then. I guess that’s that. Do you need anything else before you go?” asked Soren. Ashlynn smiled and shook her head. She’d already helped herself to more than her fair share of the breakfast buffet Soren had made for her earlier. It was safely tucked away in her bag now, and she hoped it wouldn’t be rude that she took as much as she did.

“Okay then…” Soren sighed. “Well, it was nice getting to know you, for whatever that’s worth, and I wish you the best of luck in your adventures. Wish we could’ve learned more about each other, but that’s life, right? I don’t even know your name. Well… anyway… please be careful and, please, if you need anything, know you’re always welcome here. Take care, little miss.”

Soren flashed another smile as he turned to leave, and she did the same. She nearly had the electrical cover off of the wall when her mind flooded with intrusive thoughts. She turned back to see Soren was walking past the table and was almost around the corner to the living room.

That’s it? No requests? No demands? An invitation to return and the best of luck? And now he’s just leaving? He… he’s probably the only human who would do something like this. I… I can’t just…

“Soren!”

Ashlynn hadn’t even registered that she’d done it until his name flew from her mouth. Her voice sounded horribly unused, craggly as if it were full of dust, but it was enough to make Soren stop in his tracks, entire body rigid like a taut bow string, as he turned around to face her. His golden hazel eyes were wide with surprise, lips parted slightly in awe. He mouthed the word ‘you’, but nothing came out.

Good thing too. Ashlynn was quickly losing her nerve and, after two weeks, broke the last of the big three rules. She coughed nervously and watched Soren pivot slowly and dare to take a step back toward her.

Oh! Just finish it!

“I… just… thank you.” She had to raise her voice to nearly a shout, fearing she’d lose her will to continue or that Soren wouldn’t hear her. “Thank you… for what you did…”

The expression on Soren’s face shifted from curious to fascination to delight as his eyes sparkled with the smile on his face.

“A-and… it’s Ashlynn. My name… it’s… Ashlynn.”

Their eyes lingered, one locking onto the others’ unblinkingly. There was something else there in Soren’s eyes that Ashlynn couldn’t identify. Was it interest? Allure? Her cheeks immediately began to burn with increasing intensity the longer she held the human’s gaze.

That’s enough! Get back into the walls! Ashlynn chided as she spun on her heel and darted into the darkness of the walls, embracing the life she loved once more. Though she was already halfway up the line to her own home, she could still hear Soren echoing her name as if to brand it into his memory.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! Why did I do that?! What Borrower in their right mind would speak?! I was home free! I went the whole time without talking, and because I feel bad for the giant man I blurt out my name?! Idiot!

It took a couple of breaks, but Ashlynn finally managed to get to the ceiling tiles she called home. The place was barely lit from the lights she’d left on from before. A thin layer of dust coated her bed, which the Borrower was sure was still disgusting from when she was ill, and she found evidence of mice.

“Brilliant,” she mumbled before rolling up her sleeves and getting to work. It took the better part of a few hours to rid her home of all things nasty, disgusting, and spoiled before she finally had a chance to put away the food she’d “borrowed” from Soren’s breakfast buffet and flop down onto her bed.

As she laid there on her own mismatched comforter, she stared at the perfectly proportioned ceiling above her. It was here, in the quiet that she was so familiar with, that her thoughts began to swirl and pick at everything that had happened over the past few weeks, particularly her interaction with Soren on the countertop.

What on earth were you thinking? You were almost out and decided to say something to that human. That human who fed me, clothed me, and healed me. Don’t be ridiculous! His sons were the ones who put you in that situation in the first place. But not Soren. I don’t have a real reason to be upset with him. He’s a human! That’s reason enough.

A human who seemed sad that I was leaving. A human who had nothing to gain by helping me. A human who sounded like he was going to miss me…

Ashlynn paused at this thought. For so long, it felt like she had been on her own, and now an emptiness in her chest that she had forgotten she had was opened again. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe that’s why she spoke up and talked to Soren. Maybe that’s what she would miss – someone missing her. Not the human, but the fact her absence meant something to someone else.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and rolled over, hoping that was enough to jostle the thoughts rattling her and her mind.

Are you really okay with this? Having a human missing you? If that’s what it is at all?

The thing was… Ashlynn’s answer… was yes.

One thing was certain, and that was she needed to shed these feelings as fast as possible. Come the spring, she would need to consider moving and she needed to stay as far away from Soren and the two boys as possible.

Or… would she….

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Continue

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A Tall and Small Collection | Original Story

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l-in-the-light · 17 days ago

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Chapter 1136 & 1137 commentary (and analysis)

New chapter, let's go :D time to analyze all the tiniest and obscure details probably most fans wouldn't even spend a second on lol. Lots of conversations this time, so there will be quite a lot of focus on context reading, something I should actually suck at by definition ;)

Last choice is basically "show me the results", just made it an actual option haha. Come on, betting is fun, so what if we end up being wrong :D

Wait, is that Who's who base? Even the guys inside wear the characteristic cat ears of his crew. Will we finally learn what's up with him?? But this is just a cover story, so any answers we will discover won't really be that clear, I guess (because no actual dialogues). But it's still interesting. It's like we're Momotaro again venturing into the den of Oni haha. And we have lion-dog, a centaur lady and little ninja girl for trusty companions instead of dog, monkey and a pheasant. Also Yamato's face when they peek inside the base is priceless :D

But wait, isn't Yamato the oni? So it's actually reversed Momotaro tale, we're cheering for oni and defeating the hero?? damn, now I got myself confused LOL.

I love how Luffy says his thanks not only to Hajrudin, but Stansen as well! He cares about everyone, not just the leaders of groups. And now that he got to know Stansen a bit better and got to interact with him, he's already treating him as a friend.

It's wholesome that it's Luffy thanking Stansen while not even taking credit himself for releasing him in Sabaody (last chapter Luffy just said it's awesome Stansen managed to get away, but never said anything even close in meaning to "you're welcome". If anything, he gives the credit back to Stansen in a way, underlying the fact that it was Stansen's own initiative that allowed him to get away in the end). It's like he only accepts half the credit and who does it remind me of? Trafalgar "give half of your thanks to Strawhat-ya" Law when he released Jean Bart, heh. It's of course all implied not said directly, but I even like it better this way.

Also hi Colon (doing a Nika pose as he runs and grins), aren't you too young for those drunken feasts? XD

No offense, Jarul, but that comment is sort of ignorant? Why is he glossing over this fact? I mean, it's clear to him *why* humans can't make their way up to "true Elbaf" (he points it out by himself!). It just shows that despite knowing the reason and about the obstacles, he doesn't ultimately care whether humans will make it up here or not, or die in the realm below. He claims humans will just flee, but we saw the underworld and many humans seemed to have stayed behind, despite being terrified and ending up relying on Loki for the lack of better options. Many humans must have also died there, eaten by the beasts or because of other circumenstances. We also saw what happens when pirates make it below, Giants have no problems attacking them. I don't think Giants in general like humans all that much, it's the level of "tolerance", at best.

I think what Jarul is not saying is that sure, they *might* don't mind humans, as long as they're somehow associated with some Giants (Shanks and his fleet, Luffy and the Strawhats). Which means if Kid never attacked anyone and instead bragged about defeating Big Mom, he could have been allowed to "actual Elbaf" as well. I will leave this food for thought here if anyone's hungry ;)

So, why is Jarul downplaying the reality like that? Is he trying to appeal to Luffy this way, perhaps because everyone in Elbaf seemed to have heard already that Luffy looks like a sun god?

Look who's bragging about defeating Oars and delivering the final blow, lol. Well, to be fair, all Strawhats delivered the final blow together, so technically he's not lying, he's just not mentioning this tiny fact.

So the Giants heard about "legendary warrior" Oars, interesting. We wanted to know if there's any sort of connection between Oars and the Giants for a while already and seems there is, indeed! We just don't know exactly what it is though XD if I were gonna guess, he was probably described in the infamous ancient text of Harley as well (he was born more than 500 years ago, so it's a possibility)! Or perhaps, once upon a time, Ancient Giants were considered to be the most "pure blooded" Giants and Elbaf used to be their home. Then they went extinct and the worship sort-of-ended, but not really, because ancient giant blood survived in some of the current giants, as we can see with the example of King Harold. Maybe he was even chosen to be king *thanks* to his horns/ancient giant blood. Him ripping off his horns would bring a new meaning then: to part with the old ways and to show his dedication to treat all Giants as equals. But isn't it Hajrudin's wish as well? It could point towards them sharing the same dream and King Harold influencing his son, hm. King Harold was at the very least not opposed to having a child with non-Elbaf Giants, and that's sort of a fact. But then Harold is also a father of Loki who proudly declares himself a god of destruction. Yeah, there's certainly some odd duality going on here with the king.

I'm still wondering whether Elbaf was once a different place, unrelated to any Giants, before they took over the New World.

I need to say Jimbei is taking those comments in good faith, I'm proud of him. Comments about skin color can be triggering, even if they're not meant in bad way. It's worth noting though that his first reaction is "!" which means it did alert him. If it was only neutral realization, the visual indication (on the far right, I marked it with a red frame) would be enough to communicate it to us. And I'm going to tackle this issue seriously and I don't care if most people would just brush it off as whatever. Giving this interaction some weight honestly makes reading this scene much more interesting than just seeing it as simple smalltalk, lol.

Jimbei laughs this comment off, as we can see the typical "laughter" visual cue next to Jimbei (also marked with red frame by me). But is it an honest reaction? I would say it's likely he's probably a bit divided inside about this. This is Jimbei, after all, the very same guy who declared in Marineford that he only follows those he personally acknowledges. He loved Whitebeard, he even wanted to die alongside him in the war, but he wouldn't even travel on his ship with him, instead swim beneath it, like he didn't want to be considered part of them. I think we can safely assume Jimbei wasn't very fond of humans or at least really wary of them, and that's likely something he kinda inherited from his beloved Fisher Tiger. His opinion about humans must be kinda bad as the result (but he would never admit it outloud, he's a very "keep everything to yourself" kind of guy), which can also explain his hesitation in joining Luffy's crew (yes, responsibilities were likely only part of the reason, but an important one!). But here he can see that not only humans but Giants can be untactful as well. This could be a small eye-opening moment for him, perhaps? I don't think he had many opportunities to interact with other races than humans and fishmen before, so this could be widening his horizons. You can't know things like that unless you travel the world yourself (or someone really open-minded who did that shares the stories with you). In his flashback, he also says fishmen and other races just need to understand each other, so here he is, experiencing it first hand.

This scene reminds me of some interesting details I read about before in anthropological books. Not only we as outsiders but native people themselves are almost always curious about body differences, any outstanding physical differences can bring out some curiosity. I saw similar remarks in books about Japanese culture. In one book a woman from overases joins a closed world of geishas and trains to become one herself. The others help her with applying the characteristic white make up, but realize their usual method doesn't work because of the longer nose of the woman, which of course results in a comment about it and a joke about their physical differences. Many Japanese caricatures of foreigners often emphasize their bigger or longer noses too, it's not always done tactfully, but it is a fact that differences tend to attract attention from both sides. We can see it reflected perfectly here with fascination about fishmen coming from the Giants from one side, and Sanji's fascination with the Giant women from the other.

Does it mean One Piece is untactful here? I actually wouldn't say so. Why? Because One Piece is full of characters with many different noses and body shapes, and yes, occassionaly even skin colors (despite all the controversies about whitewashing Usopp). My point is: when both sides are curious about each other and don't use their differences in judgemental way, it's just normal human curiosity. Here are some examples as to when it's not okay to point out a physical difference: when drawing harmful conclusions (like this: all asians have pretty and cute small noses while foreigners have ugly big ones), using them in completely unrelated contexts (why bring it up if it's not related to anything that's being talked atm?) or to underline the differences to point out their "otherness" (then it becomes an indirect message of "you don't belong, because you look different than us"). But I will allow everyone to draw their own conclusions, this is just my opinion on this particular scene, not on the topic in general (which is a much more complex and sensitive issue).

But back to the scene. Of course the topic quickly turns to fantasies about mermaids lol. I wonder if Sanji might have derailed the topic there slightly on purpose? Like yes, he would use probably any occassion to talk about his fantasies, but it's worth noting that he also stayed around Jimbei. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on what people talk about to him or around him, you know? And we know Sanji is a very considerate and caring guy for everyone in his crew (but not only limited to his crew), so I wouldn't put it past him that he sticked around Jimbei on purpose just so he can tactfully control the topic of conversation, so it doesn't become offensive. But also just because staying around Jimbei means he might inevitably be able to brag about mermaids lol. Still, he quickly changes the topic of mermaids to the topic of Giant women, which makes me believe even more in my idea of Sanji just being mindful and supportive friend here. It's maybe not really obvious, but that's even better that it's so subtle, Jimbei doesn't have to express openly his gratitude which could be awkward and make him simply feel bad, because he's trying so hard himself not to take things the bad way. I don't think Jimbei would be ready to admit his fears so openly, he's tbh a rather private type of guy who doesn't talk about his feelings or opinions much.

Lol, Brook's utter dismissal to the question. Unlike Jimbei though, he doesn't even care and can take it on, no problem. Still, I sometimes do feel for Brook in some situations. For example, in One Piece World Seeker game, where this issue is addressed in one of the side quests. I think it was one of the rare times when I realized Brook can feel really alienated just because he is a walking skeleton and doesn't expect common people to think it's not a big deal. He can be quite sensitive sometimes too, even if he often plays it off as a joke material.

But, Zoro is lowkey doing him the same favour Sanji was doing for Jimbei. He's implying with his comment "I'm surprised so many Giants have never gone out to sea" that Brook isn't so outstanding as Giants think he is (even though we know he actually is!). Of course it's also Zoro so maybe he didn't even realize he's kinda siding up with Brook. But I want to have a bit of faith here in Zoro. He might not be the best in it, but he tries to be there for his crew and has more empathy than we assume he has.

Also, same here, Nami. But considering the case of Dorry and Brogy it's becoming kinda clear that Giants have only one major Pirate Giants group at a time. They like never mention any multiple ones, you know? And now with the Hajrudin taking over the tradition it seems Giant pirates are only a chosen few. Not quite like in the viking times when it was said many men went to sea and women had to often take over the villages in their absence. Or at least that's what I remember reading about vikings.

Ahaha, Rodo and Gerd are finally in same place, so I can see more of their dynamics when they're actually together. And I kinda love them, they're so silly. Seems Rodo is apologizing because Gerd made him do that. But it's worth noticing how shocked Rodo is at her words and the strict scolding. This suggests it is NOT a common occurance between them. In fact, seems like this is the first time it ever happened! I did share my guess in previous commentaries that Gerd wasn't openly hostile to Rodo before the Strawhats incident, but now she feels the extra need to be this way to show a clear difference between herself and him (she doesn't want her lovely human friends to think of her as a freak! And yes, it's just about the fact that she doesn't want to be considered a geek or a freak. She's like this type of fan who secretly spends all her free time on her hobby, but at school or work declares she just likes it a little bit, you know, like a normal person. Pffff).

Rodo though likes Gerd so much that nothing she would say could possibly make him dislike her lol. Which is why he's ready to embrace submissiveness as his new kink, which is the extreme 180 degrees turn in his character from the "I'm a god, listen to me peasants" roleplay. He loves Gerd that much, huh. It's kinda endearing really. Besides it being just, you know, a silly gag.

And that means Rodo is already on Strawhat's side lol. That was quick 😂 not only that, he even became Nami's slave number 3 pfff. He's also very good at it. Just look at how fast he adjusted there: "My vision is awful, I wouldn't even notice any treasure missing". Omg he's so funny. And he's enjoying every second of his newly found passion of s&m play haha. I'm afraid I have already forgiven him locking down the Strawhats at the beginning of the arc. And for no other reason than him being just himself LOL.

Now all that's left is for Hajrudin to forgive him too. Honestly, one good word from any Strawhat about Rodo would be enough at this rate, to make this happen :)

Funny how Rodo is trying to shorten the distance by pointing out something that is actually true, as we learn from the next chapter. Rodo and Nami do share some things in common, like, both of them wanted to draw maps since they were kids ❤ but Nami doesn't open her heart to people easily, making Rodo her personal slave is already big enough leap of faith from her. It's a bond she accepted but on her terms, heh. No matter what, Rodo respects her boundaries (maybe because he can indeed relate to her in more ways than one) and doesn't try to overstep them anymore. Actually, he finds pleasure in simply being useful to her (probably the same way he feels happy to be useful to Hajrudin too) and speaks with the Strawhats as earnestly as he can, which is probably also not something that comes easy to him! After he is scolded here he starts to refer to himself as "sessha" which is the humble, old way of speaking Okiku used in Wano (roughtly translated as "this unworthy one"). This means that Rodo actually takes extra step back to assure Nami he won't overstep. It feels a bit silly and again very roleplay-like, but also actually surprisingly genuine.

A moment of appreciation for Zoro acting like a true, intimidating pirate, hehe. Love moments like these in my pirate manga :D

Also bonus for scaring the heck out of Rodo. He indeed realized he didn't take the threat seriously lol. And yet he must have seen their bounties before, after all he knew all of their names when he found them.

More sun god lore dropped :D seems there are different depictions of sun god. He's a god of laughter, a god of destruction, a god of liberation, and... a ruler of the world? One of these is not quite the same as the others, hm. One sounds less godly and more, you know, mortal. Okay, so it's time to bring this question to the table: were they all four different Nikas? You know what I'm thinking about, right?

Except here there are even five, not four :) one is an unexpected double, despite all of them being quintuplets. Many people have said it before and I think this is the time to say it again: this is most likely a foreshadowing of some kind. Which kind exactly? I'm not sure. Will there be a point in current timeline of events where there will be as many as 5 nikas? (we're slowly getting here, let's count it together: Sun God Rodo, Sun God Loki, Sun God Nika aka Luffy, Sun God Nika aka Bonney... hey, we're at four already! Of course I don't think this is the end game situation so to speak lol. Just the same parallel used again!) But of course this can also simply mean there were 5 Nikas already in the past, including Luffy in the present.

Maybe each time a Nika appeared in history he brought about big changes with him, just like Jarul said it, but those changes were once seen as good (liberation) and other times as bad (destruction), depending on the perspective of a winner's interest, ofc. If the winner wanted to be seen as good he would label Nika as something bad, like destruction. If the winner was the same side as Nika, then he would portray the events as liberation then, something positive that helped him win. Honestly if that's the case then no wonder the rulers always fear Nika, it's always in their interest to preserve the order the way it is, which is in their favour ofc. You never know when Nika would pop up and on which side it will end up being.

But you know what? Knowing Oda, it's all three references I mentioned used at once (remember, the rule of three, Oda likes it a lot): the playful parallel at Elbaf, the Nikas through history and foreshadowing the end game Nika situation. LOL. Can't wait.

One last observation about the previous screenshot. Giants said "We all look up to Nika! We all share the same dream!" But if you pay attention to what they said, it's actually not true. Like yes, they all aspire to be Nika, but for each of them that means a different thing! Some of them want to be rulers because they believe in the interpretation of Nika being a ruler of the world. Others believe in Nika as the liberator instead so they want to liberate people. There are also those who wants destruction of the world, like Loki himself. And finally we have those that just associate Nika with laughter so all they ever aspire to be is to make other people laugh or apply a lifestyle in which they laugh and are joyous no matter what, despite the hardships and pain they might experience. I think it might end up being important that same people can share same dream, but that dream might mean something different to them. Like Luffy and Roger having "same dream" in this context, for example!

(btw I saw the memes already that original Nika warrior was black, because the shadowy figure appears to look like it, lol. Tbh I would find it absolutely fantastic if it turned out to be true! 💖)

Speaking of different interpretations of history and Nika lore, we know it all thanks to the ancient text Harley that Giants preserved, even though no one apparently can read it correctly anymore. Oh boy, I hope this is NOT a reference to poneglyphs, because that will throw everything into pure chaos. Imagine multiple interpretations of the poneglyphs... it's probably not the case, since unlike Nika's parallel, this is the first time we hear about this. But it's worth remembering that Enel couldn't read the poneglyphs despite them using Birka's writing. Let's also not forget that poneglyphs can be heard, like in Roger's case (is it possible to hear the message engraved on them without the need to read the signs? And is it the same message as the written one?).

As for the Harley text itself in Japanese it's ハーレイ (haarei) and is classified as shintei (holy scripture, like in religious context). This might be a reference to things like Edda (the original source of Norse mythology) or Codex Regius ("Royal Book" or "King's Book" that starts with a prophecy) which in Japanese is called: monogatari uta (narrative poems, except uta can be also taken more literally as songs. Slight hint towards Binks Sake song, perhaps :D sound was also very important theme in Skypiea, arguably one of the oldest civilisations we found in OP world). We also had a prophecy about Loki in this arc. If anything, those could have been Oda's inspirations here.

This is also the first time we heard that world has been destroyed twice already! This means the current world of One Piece is actually the third world! Rule of three, here, yet again!! Yes, we're totally going to destroy the world by the end, to make it go full circle. Okay, so we can safely assume the previous time it happened it caused a Void Century, right? No confirmation of that but it's the most likely option, even if not the only possibility.

In theory, Void Century could have been "end of the world" prevention or delay measure. Why? We actually have no evidence that the world ended. Imu is still around and many different places with a history spanning over thousands of years, like Alabasta. If the world ended shouldn't Alabasta get erased as well? And also it's been mentioned before that Void Century was the history of a war between two fractions that left "scars on the world". Again, if world ended back then, there wouldn't be anything left. Also, do you remember the clever trick Vegapunk did in Egghead arc? Erasure of memories. And what is Void Century if not a bigass erasure of memories of the whole planet? (even the title of the chapter in which Vegapunk's trick is explained, the Void Fortnight, is playing with this idea). As the result, Egghead wasn't really destroyed, but instead severed into two parts, one got sent to the sky, the other ended up in hands of the Government. I admit I always like to imagine Void Century as the history of the Biggest Foil Trick in History lol. Everyone thinks Joyboy lost, but he never actually failed in what he tried to achieve :)

But putting that theory aside, let's consider that Void Century was actually a successful destruction of the world instead, because many will consider this to be the most obvious answer. That means something like a Void Century happened before already as well. And we have evidence of that! Lunarians were once on the Red Line, right? But that doesn't seem to fit the timeline of Void Century we know of, at all. It was the conflict between Joyboy, the first pirate, fighting against an alliance of 20 kingdoms instead. There was no battle against certain rulers like Lunarians occupying the Red Line mentioned anywhere. Which means that must have happened way earlier than that and it just makes more sense this way. Perhaps the Ancient Kingdom was the one who brought down Lunarians and made them go extinct eventually, and ruled the world as the result. History likes to repeat itself so Ancient Kingdom got defeated by people who then took over which place? The top of the Red Line again. And now we know them as Celestial Dragons, a mere shadows of their past selves.

There's one problem though, I still can't decide where to put the sky people in this scenario. Shandorians, Skypieans, Birkans. Were they connected to the first end of the world instead? I guess we need Urouge plotline to gather more hints, because whatever I try to guess now feels like a shot in the dark, at best. My current best shot would be Egghead's top stratum shotting up to the sky and maybe that's how original Skypieans ended up there too. That though supports my idea that Void Century wasn't destruction of the world but a scam instead. Unless Skypieans were in the sky even longer than we can imagine. We actually have no clue when did the moon people go down to earth, at all. Maybe it was at the beginning of times, lol. Like a parallel to our world's belief that UFO build the pyramids in Egypt, you know. Maybe first place Moon People visited was Alabasta and they build the pyramids there as well XD

Also, it all kinda points out to the idea that devil fruits existed even before Void Century. Which makes more sense than their sudden creation only in the span of 100 years, at least to me.

Another thing worthy to mention is the whole idea of world destruction. It can mean anything, from literally destroying a planet (remember the missing "moons" on Clover's solar system setup?), to something more symbolic like shifting of poles (equator and north/south poles changing places) which could result in current islands getting submerged in water and the reveal of the previously sunken Ancient Kingdom, together with the All Blue. It could by all means also just be a figure of speech, meaning current power systems would get destroyed and new system will arise, for example: common folk will become the rulers, kinda like Drum Island situation. Ruler will now be one of the common people, living among them, sharing their happiness and sadness of daily lives. But I don't think all of the mentioned "end of the world" or "destruction of the world" can happen at the same time in the plot, even if we have sort-of foreshadowing for all of those outcomes (maybe shifting of poles gone wrong can result in destruction of the planet?). Maybe destruction of the world is also a choice between options, and not a foreordained outcome. If you have your own ideas about this please share :D

Jarul was there when this happened, right? He admitted as much this chapter. He saw Loki killing King Harold, and he's the only person in the room who doesn't actually judge him for it. This reminds me of that situation from Little Garden, Dorry and Brogy said if you don't die then it means that's the will of the Elbaf's god. And if you die, you were in the wrong, and the winner was in the right. Jarul thinking Loki isn't wrong is not because he didn't like King Harold. It's just the old belief of Elbaf that he still has faith in: Loki didn't die despite everything so he might be in the right and it can be a proof he has "divine protection", while King Harold died so he was wrong. That's all there is to it. God of Elbaf decides outcomes of all conflicts.

But new generation of Giants seemed to have forgotten this belief already and judge Loki very harshly, unlike Jarul. And why did they forgot their old ways? Because of King Harold changing whole politics in Elbaf; from being a warrior country to centering on education and avoidance of violence and fighting. This could make Giants easy targets to eliminate, keep that in mind, Government considered Giants to be dangerous enemies for a long time, it would be extremely handy for them if Giants became weak, were easy to control (like use them for the upcoming war so they're on the side of the Government) or to erase them easily (in case they refuse, duh, to prevent them from joining the enemy's side).

In other words, King Harold indeed might have been in the wrong and Loki was right. Consider it. In which arc of One Piece the situation as we're told turns out to be correct? Dressrosa? People just live happily with the toys and toys are not slaves for fake saviours who kicked out a good king? Wano in which Orochi painted Oden as the bad guy and himself as the good ruler? Why would Elbaf be any different? The surface story we're told is ought to turn to be a lie as well, the only question that remains is: in which way exactly? There are still many possible answers to that and all are still likely.

Seems Luffy has already decided that Loki is a good guy, lol. I never doubt Luffy :D

Loki's terrible reputation is even more terrible than we thought. Not only he has been born cursed (according to the prophecy, ha, what did I tell you all, I knew it had be a prophecy :D) and fated to kill his father. Seems his birth was accompanied by bad omens (the horse dying. ain't no way a toddler killed a horse, come on. and also same year Linlin caused a death of a giant. year later a queen died... you get the drill).

He was apparently also a mischief (many people pointed it out and I also agree: that part sounds like Oden's story) and an arsonist. But if we remember Oden's case, he was still beloved despite being a menace stomping over the social rules. He also at least once took the blame for someone else (Kinemon and the mountain god incident. Only Kin and Denjiro, and Oden himself, knew the truth). Perhaps Loki also took the blames for the fires on himself or, you know, people might have blamed all calamities on Loki. "Unknown fire? Someone said they saw Loki nearby!". Yeah, sounds plausible to me. It's easy to put the blame on the guy everyone supposedly hates. Let's not forget we learned that Loki spend the time in Underworld Elbaf ever since he was a child. What was a prince of Elbaf doing there instead of sitting in the castle? yeah, I still think he was an outcast.

"Caused mischief whenever the King wasn't looking" part is curious though. the same with the insinuation that Loki could do whatever the heck he wanted as soon as the King was away (why was the King away anyway? We learned already there's only one dedicated Giants Pirates crew at a time). This is something worth keeping in mind. Perhaps Giants ought to run havoc (like in that proverb with mice partying when cats aren't around) and again, blamed it on the cursed Prince. Or maybe there's something more to all of this... seems King Harold had to leave Elbaf quite often, he did end up meeting Hajrudin's mother somewhere away from Elbaf, I guess, and brought both of them with him. Despite Harold being so loved, Hajrudin's mom wasn't even allowed inside the castle, because people of Elbaf didn't acknowledge her and even bullied her :/ all things considered, did King Harold really love his people after all of this...?

Interesting, we learn that the "land of warriors" wanted to connect with the world outside. Seeing their change in education, maybe they even attempted to join the countries united under the World Governement. But why would they do such a thing? Perhaps it was to overthrow the prophecy or to unite with others? If Elbaf is no longer a land of warriors but instead a land of peace, then no prince will kill the king. In one of his theories Joyboy even suggested that King Harold decided to shower his son with love to make sure he won't hate him. That's a nice thought, unusual, but would fit the guy's image. After all he did have a child with Giants outside Elbaf and brought that kid to Elbaf as well (Hajrudin). I guess it shows he wasn't a barbarian but instead a kind monarch who was personally against prejudice. Sadly, seems he couldn't really make the folks change their minds and they still ostracized both Hajrudin (because of impure blood) AND Loki (because he's cursed) as the result. Though who knows, maybe Elbaf at first loved the prophecy. A true warrior kills others in battle, it's a honour, right? Perhaps the view on Loki changed only after the Elbaf's big change occured and at first he had god-like status instead and was indeed seen as a true god of destruction! Which would explain why he thinks everyone should still see him this way.

But then we also have Hajrudin, who wants to unite all the Giants races and become a king. I can't help but wonder why didn't Loki become a king after killing Harold? Perhaps he never wanted to be a king himself, unlike Hajrudin? After all he could think of himself as god of destruction but not as a ruler, as those are two opposing views on Nika, their ideal. Btw, worth noticing, on the arsonist panel Loki is presented in Nika's pose (which I would personally call god of laughter, heh).

So Shanks captured Loki on the seas 6 years ago. What was Loki doing rampaging on seas? It again supports the idea that he didn't want to become the next ruler. Especially since we also learn it was 14 years since King Harold was dead. 8 years is a long time, in which Loki didn't attempt to rule Elbaf at all. And finally he ditched it all and went to sea, huh.

Zoro's reaction is worth noting. Perhaps he realized he should keep Luffy in check. We see them talking shortly after outside and Zoro immediately catches on to Luffy's plan for freeing Loki and he is against it. Which is funny, considering he usually enables Luffy's chaotic energy, even in this arc, it's not like him to pause and question, instead of following Luffy's lead no matter what. This is like 180 degrees from his fuck up in Wano, when he let Luffy cause a rebellion (would freeing Loki cause a rebellion or turn Giants against Strawhats? Seems likely from their big reactions!). Back then Law trusted Zoro to keep Luffy in check, but Zoro didn't truly even try and that led to horrible consquences (Luffy landed in Udon, Zoro was a fugititve the whole arc and basically useless to their plans, wandering on his own instead). In the raid he tried to control Luffy a little, but instead caused as much havoc himself as well. I would say Zoro learned his lesson and tries to act smarter than this. Back in Wano his pal Law trusted Zoro to be able to keep Luffy in check when needed, but Zoro failed, despite being with Luffy since the very beginning, being his first trusted crewmate and friend. My guess is he thinks Law was right in general and Zoro himself should do better.

At first, Zoro is pushing the "reputation is just a reputation" and "I never met Loki" approach, but quickly shuts up. He probably got reminded of his own past. Zoro has really good intuition (even if he doesn't always know how to act on it) and I would say this is one of those moments. He wants to keep Luffy in check, but realizes Luffy never relies on reputation about someone. And he's usually right not to do that indeed. So even though he expects Loki might be lying to Luffy, he decides to give it a small leap of faith, while keeping an eye on the situation. Good old Zoro :)

Interestingly we learn that Government sent informants to Elbaf before, but they all mysteriously vanished thanks to a giant crow. We saw that crow before, it's definitely the same one that carried Strawhats to Rodo. Which means all those CP agents? Landed in Rodo's lego diorama! LOL. Now who's a chad without even knowing it? That's right, our pal Rodo :D Those skeletons probably belong to some of the more obnoxious agents too, so you don't have to feel too bad about them, lol.

While we don't really have it confirmed that it was Cipher Pol, they're called 諜報部員達 Chōhō Buin-tachi "Intelligence agents." Very similar to how CP is called. It's not the exact same kanjis, but we have a similiar situation in Egghead with the kidnapped agents. Chōhō kikan was how CP agents were referenced to in Egghead arc. Only first kanjis are the exact match, but the meaning in both cases is overall still almost the same: (ちょうほう) means "intelligence" or "espionage," and "部員" (ぶいん) means "member." The term refers to forces specializing in gathering secret information. At this point it would be weird if it was anyone else than CP, especially after we learned that CP0 is Celestial Dragon's shield (God Knights are said to also hold the same power or even be Celestial Dragons themselves).

Funny how Loki calls Knights "noble" in same sentence he calls Celestial Dragons scum. Does it mean that at one point in history those fractions weren't the same thing or even linked in any way? Let's remember Giants have a long standing history and preservere knowledge about the world that might be lost to other nations and races already.

This also confirms God Knights is actually some sort of knight order. Not every God Knight seems to hold the "saint" title like Celestial Dragons though (we need to keep an eye on it for confirmation).

Let's examine Shamrock's behaviour a bit closer. He seems to be rather levelheaded and would want to avoid uneccessary bloodshed. If an objective or goal can be achieved without killing anyone (even a wolf), he would definitely prioritize that option. He also stops Gunko from being too hasty/hot tempered, which shows 1. he's higher than her in hierarchy (duh, we know that already, but it's really neatly reflected in this dialogue) 2. despite the fact he is letting her execute the orders without doing much himself, I don't think the order actually came from Shamrock, but instead someone higher up (like Garling?).

Seems Shamrock isn't even allowed to make his own decisions without consulting it with anyone first. And that despite being the leader of the Knights! I gotta say, so far, Shamrock actually doesn't score any bastard points yet, lol. Despite fandom expecting him to be "the evil twin" ;) as for me? I'm just observing him. and observing. lol.

I know many people think Loki is really coldblooded here, but I disagree. Here, he's not actually talking to the God Knights. What he's saying is meant for his wolf friend. He tells him to die in peace and accept his fate, while Loki will avenge him (TCB translation directs Loki's speech to third person for the wolf, like Loki is talking to God Knights about him instead of to him, but he's not. He's talking directly to the wolf, which is emphasized by the "tomo yo" - my dear friend, end of his speech). He also tells him to die like a warrior, without opposing his own fate, scowling or complaining. And the wolf is listening, it literally stops howling in pain when he hears that. This is the multitude of their bond, it's genuine. Those beasts don't follow Loki because they have to, they follow him because of the warrior code. Loki is the true leader of their horde!

His words might seem harsh, but they're mostly assertive, he wants to assure his friend that nothing can break him and things will end up in their favour in the end. It's to appease his spirit. He's not apologetic for not choosing to spare him, but he assures he will never forget about this sacrifice. This is indeed probably the best thing he could have done in this situation. To the people who blame Loki for not choosing a better option: you know what, you should direct your rage instead on the God Knights that toy with the lifes of other creatures like it's nothing. Know who your actual enemy is. Loki is a victim who is faced with an unfair choice from the very beginning. Shamrock and Gunko know it, that's why they try to play with his emotions. They somehow know Loki is more compassionate than he seems.

This is probably how Loki himself also thinks about fate. Don't oppose it, just accept it like a true warrior should. Might explain why, despite being rather kindhearted, he embraced his role as the god of destruction and prophesized cursed prince. Perhaps.

In next line he declares: Kono Ikari o Kuratte Ore wa!!! (I will receive this rage for you, or literally "this rage, I will receive!"), which is the exact same wording style as the famous line Luffy always says: Kaizoku ou ni ore wa naru! (the reversed order of words, The Pirate King, I will become!) And I didn't see it pointed out before, but for me it's a clear sign we're talking about inherited will here. Loki will take the wolf's will on himself, he will inherit it, and that will is rage. Sometimes the will can be a dream, love or care (Saul's case?), protection and many other things too, apparently, Which means the moment Luffy declared his dream as becoming king of the pirates, which he shared with Roger, he at the same time inherited his will, even if he isn't exactly aware of it. Now that's a thought!

This is a tiny little scene, with Zoro being attentive. This detail brought back warm memories. Zoro was definitely not acting like this in Zou, which were similar circumenstances! In both scenarios the crew discovers a ransacked place. In Zou, Zoro thinks the gate is simply open, not paying attention. Law corrects him, pointing out stuff, and Zoro soon catches on, trying to do the same ("something wrong with the road too!"), a bit like he wants a praise, haha. Anyway, Zoro inspecting this door to the castle (it was broken from the inside, you can tell by the damage it left, and it's something that happened recently too!) is the Zoro who is smarter after spending some time with his pal Law :) that's Law's influence on him, right there. God I miss Law.

Cute moment with Rodo being a big chicken and Nami reassuring him. Her intention here isn't dictated by kindness. She commented just a moment ago that "this is too vast to be walkable". She was nice because she wanted Rodo to carry her, so she doesn't have to walk so much. But for that to happen, she needed to convince Rodo to be brave and walk inside together with them, lol. Zoro of course joins in for the ride, because he's a lazyass like that (he did the same thing in Punk Hazard, lol. always riding on Brownbeard's tail). It's worth noting he's resting his swords, is that a small bit of trust?

It's cute how Luffy remembers Rodo's name. I guess it's because Rodo is part of the Hajrudin's crew. Seems Luffy took it to heart to remember the members of his own fleet, which is admirable for someone who has such poor memory like Luffy, lol. So he remembers Hajrudin, Stansen and Rodo now. I think Rodo is actually really appreciating it. Not only did Rodo capture Strawhats, Luffy doesn't even hold it against him. In fact, he had quite a blast in his lego town, was a bit sad to leave it so soon and regretted they had to destroy some of the stuff. In other words, Luffy actually likes Rodo. Luffy usually likes good people and doesn't believe anyone is unworthy of living, keep that in mind.

The interior of the Aurust castle is quite interesting. Some speculate the name comes from english word for owl (who knows, who knows). What are those catacombs down there (they remind me of catacombs in Alabasta that we could explore in One Piece Odyssey, they were also destroyed, and it wasn't because of Crocodile)? Why did everything overgrow like this in mere 14 years? And why was this place out of access, to the point that no one even buried the Giants that got killed in the battle? Things are really suspicious.

We also learn about ancient giant blood which often shows as the presence of horns. Ain't that interesitng?

And we finally learn how King Harold looked like. I swear he reminds me of Kratos, lol. Minus the moustache. Some people pointed out he also looks a bit like Kaido, and since we know that Kaido also had horns (as well as Yamato) and was always kinda huge (though not Giant sized), it would make sense. But I'm not sure he's another illegitimate child of Harold, I think Kaido's blood is more dilluted, that's why he's not big like a Giant himself, unlike Hajrudin!

This brings up a question though. Hajrudin doesn't seem to have horns, and we have no idea if Loki's ones are real or just a helmet (though one of his horns on his helmet was glued back on, if you look closely). Does it mean there's no guarantee to have the horns as a child of someone who has them?

Apparently King Harold ripped his horns off as the declaration of changing his ways and seeking peace, which I think makes sense, since he was known as Great Warrior, he wasn't born a pacifist. Do you think Loki, his son, did a similar thing? is it possible Loki at some point blinded himself, as a sign of his conviction? Perhaps, like Fujitora, he couldn't stand the sight of the world and all the atrocities he saw in it. Yeah, I don't think all that rampage in the palace was caused by Loki. But I could believe Loki saw it all with his own eyes and blinded himself afterwards, having enough of seeing so much cruelty. That could be why the gentle and kindhearted Loki we heard about from Lola's flashback turned into bitter destroyer of the worlds he thinks he is today. Yeah, there's still so many possible explanations and none is truly dismissed yet.

But there's one more possibility here I wanna mention. Loki might have been framed, but instead of trying to tell people the truth, he decided to push that lie and took the blame on himself. Maybe he knew people would blame him anyway, because of that stupid prophecy, and Loki doesn't really believe in opposing his fate. But that would mean Jarul knows what actually happened and lied to us (he did avert his eyes when he talked about Loki). That sword he has in his helmet seems to belong to King Harold, btw. We don't have a proper close-up of it in the portait, but the handle has the exact same, unusual shape. I think it's more likely King Harold attacked Jarul with it rather than Loki stole his sword and tried to kill his father with it. It just makes more sense, you know. Maybe Harold was manipulated (Mingo's strings?) or maybe he was never the nice ruler everyone thought he is, or maybe he went insane. My bet personally is still on Government turning against Giants. That circle in the throne room must have been there before, I wouldn't be surprised if God Knights entered through it before and caused all that massacre we saw remnants of, and blamed it all on Loki. Government always lies and discards the pieces it doesn't need anymore. After all, everyone are just insects to them.

But why would God Knights want Loki? Okay, hear me out. Not only Loki didn't deny the blame they put on him (which put him ironically in their favour, heh), he also ate his father's devil fruit. It's likely to assume most if not all God Knights wield powerful devil fruits. Maybe that's why they killed Harold, to get his fruit (it is said to be one of the most powerful fruits after all!). But before they could do it, Loki ate it and ran off or chased them away. I'm still not sure what is Jarul's role in all of this though. Why is he not telling the truth, if that's the case? Did Loki asked him not to? Or was Jarul's life spared on the condition he never shares the truth of the event, and as the result he was the one who commanded the castle to be abandoned and sealed away, so that no one knows the truth. I hope we will get more leads, this honestly feels like an investigation of a crime scene, haha.

Jarul seems to know more than he seems to. 1. Gerd and Goldberg want to report to him after they check on Rodo, because they witnessed a giant crow carrying a ship. Goldberg also mentions "they're supposed to arrest intruders" back then (chapter 1130). Compare that to what Jarul said to Luffy: "not many humans make it here and mistake Underworld for actual Elbaf". Still think he didn't downplay that comment on purpose? Let me spell it out again so it sinks in: they arrest intruders who make it all the way up to Elbaf. They're not welcoming strangers in their land in general, period. Jarul sold Luffy the "nice version" instead of the truth. 2. Someone put those guards to keep an eye on the abandoned castle. That someone was most likely Jarul as well, because he's the only one besides Loki who knows what actually happened on that fateful day. Who are those guards protecting the castle from? Possible intruders from the summoning circle? Definitely not, the guards were clearly dumbfounded by their appearance. They guard this castle so that no unauthorized folk comes inside. Just like Rodo said it - no commoners, himself included, are allowed inside. Jarul doesn't want most people to know what's exactly in the castle.

Few thoughts here. First of all, Rodo is a great exposition device AND an excellent nerd guide. He shares all those trivias and bits of history, god bless him that he's accompanying the Strawhats. Too bad other Giants do not appreciate him much.

Second thought: when he says that Hajrudin holds the grudge against Loki, he adds "sadly" (in Japanese the way he says it emphasized the "sad" part even more, suggesting Hajrudin was "the most sad out of all people" about Loki's betrayal). That sentiment there suggests Hajrudin and Loki weren't on bad terms in the past, but King Harold's death sadly changed that. That could explain why Loki was never seemingly interested in becoming a ruler himself, he probably knew Hajrudin wanted to become one (it was his dream since he was a child, as we learn thanks to the tiny flashback of Rodo) and he was gentle and kind himself so he supported his own brother in his dream. Even after whatever shit happened in the castle, Loki never changed his mind about it... if that's the case, that's some true brotherly love right there. Hajrudin on the other hand probably wants to defeat Loki now, but thinks he can't (perhaps because of that devil fruit). We met Hajrudin in Dressrosa, he was trying to win the flame flame fruit back then, probably hoping it would make him stronger to take down Loki.

Luffy realizes he's butting into a conflict between brothers, oh boy.

Third thought: I absolutely adore how Rodo points out humans also kill each other and they're not any better from Giants having infights. Though just afterwards his pride takes over and he declares other races of Giants are inferior, but seeing his answer to Nami's comment he's not ignorant, he's really self-aware of his shortcomings here. Perhaps he wished he could change himself. Not surprising, considering he is serious when he declares he wants Hajrudin to become king of the giants and unite all the giant races. He's struggling, but he does strive to become better!

Rodo in the flashback is absolutely adorable and kinda a crybaby. Didn't I speculate in one of my chapter commentaries that Rodo seemed to me like a bullied nerd since he was a child? well, bingo. He indeed was. But it wasn't Gerd who saved him but Hajrudin instead. Which is why he considers him his friend and supports his dream, despite having tainted thoughts about pure bloodlines and other prejudice. I can't really blame him, seems he was always bullied and still is, to some extent. No one really cared when Rodo was carried all tied up to the tavern, for example. And I don't think Giants are so dedicated to humans in general, like Gerd or Dorry and Brogy.

There might be a reason why Rodo is roleplaying a sun god in his lego dioramas, he's fantasizing about a world in which he won't be bullied and has some agency instead. Power fantasies yep. But like we can see, he also has a submissive side to him. All in all, I think he would just want to live in a place where he isn't bullied and everyone are accepted, even if he has hard time believing it could be possible. No wonder, if you're bullied your whole life it's hard to imagine a better world. But Hajrudin could and Hajrudin wanted to be friends with him, and that was enough for Rodo to have restored just a tiny bit of faith back in "humanity", or rather, "giantity".

Rodo also has a good heart and is shy, he doesn't want to admit to the Strawhats that Hajrudin was his saviour. Instead he focuses on how awesome Hajrudin is: "straightforward, earnest, endured a lot but doesn't give up". He has a lot of gratitude and compassion for his friend, and would rather speak about him than his own struggles. We know how good of an intuition Zoro has, he probably sensed Rodo is hiding something (just like he did before with Robin or Okiku), he just doesn't know what or why, which is why he's prying Rodo with so many questions here. It's actually a huge step forward from his judging attitude with Robin, he would rather inquire now than show full distrust. But after hearing Rodo's answer about Hajrudin Zoro recognized they're similar to each other, him and Rodo, both were saved by their respective captains and want to repay them with loyalty and support, but are too shy to admit the real reason for it. This is the moment Zoro decided Rodo is alright, actually. He got Zoro's seal of approval and perhaps a bit of disappointment (seems Zoro won't be cutting him today lol).

I find the way Zoro phrased it very funny and dishonest though: "You're an understanding guy, how boring". Yeah, he for sure doesn't think it's boring, he's just too shy to admit he's not that much different himself, pfff. Always trying to act so cool. It's even more underlined by the "nanda wataseba" comment at the beginning, suggesting Rodo's dream is a hand-over (he's trying to make someone else's dream come true and it became his own dream). Nami saw right through him there though which is why she laughed btw.

Speaking of Rodo, I dunno why so many people still can't find him likable and instead would show sympathy towards Gunko of all people. Her personality sucks! And she is a God Knight, what happened to the idea of "you're a bad person if you're truly supporting the Government"? She's the embodiment of exactly that! Doesn't apply anymore because she is pretty and flashed her panties and has a cool devil fruit? Geez. I'm just saying, it's less embarrassing to like Rodo than Gunko, he's a better person than she is. Gunko is so high and mighty, fully embracing superiority complex of a celestial dragon. I somehow get a sentiment that she was one of those recruits who always wanted "a better life" and considered becoming a God Knight as a chance to change her fate. Or perhaps she is trying to rationalize her own choice, heh.

Seems to me like Loki's threats are a bit hollow though. But I like his unyielding spirit! Though if he gave in now he would have let down his beasts friends that sacrificed themselves for him, so it's not like he had a choice, he had to act tough. I wonder if he's really so strong or is he just benefitting from the lies told about him...

And here we have him, the face and name reveal. Figarland Shamrock, son of Garling and captain of God's Knights, as well as a Celestial Dragon. Now, who is Shanks? Is he his twin? They sure are hauntingly look alike. Or perhaps is Shanks the clone? I guess we still don't have a definitive answer, but we know one thing for sure now: Shanks and Shamrock are two seperate people. I guess he's kinda handsome. I prefer more Shanks bratty attitude though. I wonder if the two ever met before... I would assume they did. Elbaf is Shanks territory and he said "he stayed a bit too long" and met Loki who called him a coward (perhaps for not releasing him or standing up to Shamrock?). Suspiciously enough we never saw the beginning of the conversation between God Knights and Loki, perhaps because Loki was already expecting them. I know people are already burying the "Shanks is the rat" theory, but I think it's a bit too soon to do that, lol. There's always a possibility the brothers are somewhat working together. Would I like it personally though? Meh, depends if there's a good reason for it.

For now I don't have any particular sympathy or antipathy towards Shamrock. I'm not opposed to the "twins" or "clones" idea here either. It all depends how it will be exected and I will keep my eye on this development. Still, I'm kinda glad it wasn't Shanks who had that secret meeting with Gorosei, just because it never truly fit Shanks to be there.

New piece of lore at the end of the chapter! In the past, Elbaf Giants dominated the whole sea of the New World, which is an interesting trivia to remember. It kinda makes sense, now after we know how strong they used to be!

A note about God Knights. They're called kishidan in Japanese which means something akin to "knights' order," suggesting a warrior group that hold values of honor and valor in high regard. Reminds me of those statues of warriors at the entry to the Red Line above, you know which one:

I wonder if there's some connection. Maybe a new incarnation of the old tradition. After all, who is the God the God Knights are named after? Imu? If so, what title does he hold? Another Sun God perhaps?

Yes, I'm insane like that, heh. But honestly, why not. Luffy is a Sun God, Bonney is a Sun God, Loki is a Sun God, Imu can be one too, lol.

More links on analysis of the last chapters:

Luffy says again he's not the hero and Nika has got nothing to do with him (standalone post of mine)

A video from Japanese translator dedicated to the Shamrock reveal, talking a lot about linguistics. We learn from it that Shamrock is probably not holding the same title his father did (Supreme Commander) but instead a lower rank captain, which checks out in my analysis of his behaviour too. There's some interesting trivia included about the ranks Dragon and Drake hold, suggesting that Drake is just a captain and there are probably higher ranked people in Sword above him :) interesting. I'm pretty certain this will turn out to be true.

Analysis of Gunko's Arrow-Arrow Fruit done by Tekking. Pretty good one. Everything besides his point about it perhaps being a logia I agree with. I probably won't pay too much attention to Gunko, because so far I'm not fond of her at all, but other people got you covered. She has a lot of fans already 😅

Elbaf's lore and investigation on King Harold and Loki done by Joyboy. He has actually two videos about that. His interpretations are kinda different from mine, so if you want to collect opinions and speculations to form your own theories, this is definitely something you shouldn't miss :)

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