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mrsmangi · 1 month ago

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Yellow Carnation 💐

just friends - luigi mangione

♡ flower prompt: yellow carnation - a rejected love confession - meaning: in victorian times, to receive a bouquet of yellow carnations was read as a rejection to a romantic proposal. they can also be used to express sympathy or remorse. ♡ w.c.: 2k ♡ a/n: "pls more fluff" "pls more soft luigi-" no. angst will reign. this work of fiction is based on true events, directed by mrsmangi. enjoy!

♡ send me a flower & i'll write a drabble based off the prompt ! ↪ prompts that have been requested

“I like you, Luigi.”

You have rehearsed this moment countless times in your head. You have crafted every word, anticipating every possible outcome. You wish someone would have told you, even with all the possible precautions taken in the world, nothing could ever prepare you for how it actually feels–baring your heart to someone and watching your entire life teeter on the precipice of change.

The words escape your lips, raw and trembling, vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach churn. You’ve been holding these feelings in for so long that they’ve started to claw at your insides from within. They have pulled at your thoughts and tightened your chest every time Luigi’s name lights up your phone. Tonight, though, you’ll let them spill over, even if it means losing everything.

“I thought if I just ignored my feelings for you, they would go away,” you begin gently. He doesn’t interrupt, letting you continue. “I would never risk doing anything to jeopardize my friendship with you, but there’s really no use in denying it anymore. Every time you look at me, I’m just reminded of how much it’s not going to happen. So, I try to cling to that and it helps me, sometimes.”

He chooses not to speak, but there’s a look on his face–one that highlights a tension in his features, and the faint crease between his brows–that tells you he’s listening. You take a breath to try to laugh it off, ease the tension, but it feels more like a deflection.

“I mean, it’s come to the point where I go out with guys just because they look like you,” you say, forcing another laugh, but your breath stutters. “Then, I’m disappointed by them when they don’t act like you–which is ridiculous in itself, I know.”

You know the words you utter won’t change anything because deep down, you already know Luigi’s answer. He doesn’t like you. “I know these feelings are completely unreciprocated,” you add quietly. “So, you don’t have to remind me.”

His lips twitch and he looks like he’s about to say something–something you know will just demolish you if he does, so you continue. You’re not ready to let him say it. “It just weighs on me, Luigi. My sentiment for you creates these expectations for you in my head that you’re not obligated to fulfill whatsoever. I have these urges to get to know you better–to know every boring, exciting, sad, stupid, happy thing about you. Friends don’t get urges to know you like the back of their hand or kiss you when you make them laugh. And it has everything to do with me, and nothing to do with you. I just really needed to get this off my chest and be done with it.”

Finally, he sighs. When he decides to speak, his voice is gentle, careful. It reminds you of a hunter attempting to approach a frightened deer. “I’m flattered,” he says. “But...” He trails off.

That, in itself, tells you all you need to know. It’s not a cruel rejection–not even a flat out rejection, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You know what he attempts to convey with his half-sentence alone. On the contrary, his kindness almost makes it feel worse, like a salve that stings more than it soothes. He looks at you as though he’s attempting to soften the blow. “I care about you, (Name). I really do.”

You nod wordlessly. How can words help you now? Your own have failed you. There’s no anger in your heart, no resentment toward Luigi because how could there be? He’s an outstanding friend. He’s been nothing but good to you, he makes you happy more than any other person you’ve ever known, and he’s never faltered. There’s no reason you could be mad, even if you wanted to be.

“I just thought you should know,” you manage, even though the lump in your throat makes it difficult to speak. Difficult to breathe.

“I appreciate you telling me,” he whispers. You can’t help but let out a laugh of disbelief, shaking your head and looking away.

“Oh, my God,” you breathe, hand rising to hold your head. You run your hand through your hair, still laughing, but it’s bitter. It’s disappointing. “I’m thoroughly impressed by how you’re somehow managing to dodge rejecting me while simultaneously rejecting me.”

“It’s not that,” he protests weakly. “You know, (Name), it’s just that…it’s just a crush.”

“Right.”

“You’ll move on.”

“Okay.”

Silence hangs between you. It feels suffocating, so unlike the comfortable silences you’ve shared before.

Luigi shifts in his seat, his discomfort visible. He’s trying, you can tell. Trying to say the right thing, to make this moment less unbearable for you both, but there’s nothing more to salvage. It’s not just his rejection that stings. It’s the hope that came before it, the fact that you let yourself believe–even just for a moment–that Luigi might feel the same way. You think about the nights you spent convincing yourself that the way he laughed at your jokes or lingered in conversation or did his damndest to bring you joy meant something more. In hindsight, it feels foolish, but at the same time, it just felt so real.

“I really want to stay friends, but I don’t think it’s fair to you,” he says. You can tell he means it. “It feels like I’m not helping you.”

He hasn’t. With his big dumb grin and his stupid awful jokes, how could he ever help you get over him? But you can’t say that. How could you possibly put the blame on him when all he’s ever done is be himself? It’s not his fault you’ve fallen in love with him. It’s not his fault he’s everything you’ve ever wanted.

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“It’s up to you,” he whispers. “I’m giving you the option. You know yourself better than I do.”

True, you think, but if it were up to you, you’d stay at his side forever. You’d let him twist and bend you, like a piece of plastic until it inevitably snaps. Let him ruin you, let him devastate you.

You say nothing.

“I obviously don’t want to,” he voices what you both think, after you don’t reply. “But I know I would end up hurting you and I don’t want that either.”

He doesn’t have to hurt you, though, you hear a voice that sounds like your own whisper in the back of your mind. You’ll do that to yourself anyway.

“Your friendship means so much to me,” you tell him, gently. “I'd really like us to stay friends because having you in my life is important to me. I just wanted to be honest about where I'm at emotionally, so I can work on handling it in a healthy way without jeopardizing what we have.”

When he sighs with relief, your heart falls in your stomach.

“You’re so emotionally mature, it’s insane,” he says. There’s still a carefulness, a subtle difference that wasn’t there before. “We don’t have to let it change anything. We decide how we deal with it.” You can’t tell if he’s trying to convince you, himself, or both.

You finally make yourself look at him, and the expression on his face nearly causes you to unravel. His dark eyes are so soft and apologetic–so guilt-ridden, you feel as though you may throw up. He must notice the contorted look on your face because he leans closer, frowning softly.

“Is it really bothering you?” he asks after a moment. He sounds so tentative. You’re almost tricked into believing he was just lying to you, mere moments ago, when he implied he didn’t feel the same way.

Of course, you’re bothered. You’re sitting here like an idiot, choking on the weight of his kindness. The way it hurts you more than any outright rejection ever could. It’s not that Luigi doesn’t care about you–it’s the fact that he does that just makes it all so much harder.

The affection you crave from him, solely him, isn’t something he can offer to you.

“No,” you say finally, forcing a smile. “I’m okay.”

You don’t have to say anything to know that he sees right through you. His expression doesn’t change–not really–but the way his eyes dim, filled with a subtle sadness, tells you he knows the truth. You can tell he wants to say something. You try to ignore the tense posture of his figure when his lips press together tightly in a straight line. You feel the weight of his restraint as if it were your own. You’ve always understood him in that way.

The conversation dwindles after that, neither of you quite knowing how to move forward. Eventually, you stand. The chair scrapes loudly against his wooden floor and you have to stop yourself from crying when he looks up at you with something akin to regret.

“Thank you,” you say, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“You’re thanking me?” he asks. “For what?”

“For letting me say it. For listening,” you say. “I’m sorry if I made this weird.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, he does so quietly. “Of course.”

You can’t take it anymore. “I should go,” you gesture to his door. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t try to convince you to stay or ask you if you’re sure. If you want a ride home. He just nods, his hands resting loosely on the edge of his kitchen table. You wonder if he’s just as desperate to get out of this position as you are.

“Text me when you’re home,” he says softly.

You only manage to nod before grabbing your things and leaving.

By the time you make it home and close the door behind you, the first sob chokes you as it escapes your throat. It’s soft at first, but it snowballs into something larger quickly, the weight of the evening crashing down on you all at once. You sink to the floor, burying your face in your hands as the tears pour. It’s exhausting and messy–the kind of sobbing that leaves your chest heaving, you coughing, and your head pounding. You let it happen.

The tears finally subside after what feels like a lifetime. You wipe your face with trembling hands and drag yourself to your bed. When you open your phone, Luigi’s name still sits at the top of your messages, just as it always is.

Luigi: Take care of yourself and get home safe, okay? - 40m ago

You stare at the screen for a long time, debating whether to text him as he asked. You could type something simple. His message is nothing dramatic. There’s no overreaching attempt to comfort you, no empty reassurances. He says nothing wrong. He doesn’t try to fix anything or pretend it’s not hard for you. This is Luigi. “Steady, dependable, who will always care about you, just not quite in the way you want him to” Luigi. The text is not cruel, Luigi never is, but it’s distant. Only a reminder of the boundary that has always existed between you, one that feels more evident now than ever before.

A simple “Made it home safe” text from you would suffice. You could pretend everything is fine. Pretend you’re fine. But you can’t bring yourself to do it. Not yet.

It’s too fresh, and the thought of attempting to say something that feels adequate enough to reply with seems impossible now. Your friendship isn’t over, you know this, but this version of it has come to an end. Tomorrow, you’ll figure it out. Take it step by step, work on moving on from this chapter of your life. This “crush.”

But tonight, you want to soak in your ache. In a way that’s not cathartic or labeled “progress.” Just in a way that feels real and unforced. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

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rindreamery · 1 month ago

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hiiiiii. congrats on 300follwrs 🫶🫶🫶 about your event can i request karasu tabito, sweet, kiss on the lips, rivals to lovers if not taken^.^ xo

ORDER 9: READY TO GO !

karasu + sweet + kiss on the lips + rivals to lovers w.c. 1k+

note. this took forever and is lowk booty cheeks 😭 literally right when i gained motivation to write this, got hit with a fever and couldn't write for a few days, and then forgot the plot that i initially thought of for this fic. so here we are... many days later... but i tried my best !!

interested in more? check out the lounge !

group projects are, admittedly, the bane of your existence.

but your professor loved to dish them out every chance they had, much to your dismay, under the pretense of “helping you form bonds with your peers.” though, it was always the same cycle; agree to work on the project on your own, piece together a slideshow or document using your individual work, turn it in, and hope for the best. in the end, your relationships with your peers remain the same, sometimes worse than before. not friends, simply classmates trying to survive the class, together or not.

finding yourself stuck in, yet another, project, it takes everything in you to bite back a loud sigh. mentally, you’re throwing darts at a board with your professor standing in front of it. physically, you’re stuck in the library, late into the hours of the afternoon (when you could be taking a nap), endlessly researching about some topic that you, honestly, could care less about.

but that, itself, isn’t the root of the issue.

writing a project about the effects of dopamine on love should not be complicated. well, at least, not more complicated than just pulling up research articles and getting a few quotes to meet your citation quotas. your issue, more or less, was with your assigned partner. him— karasu.

not that he was a bad person— no, quite the opposite, actually. he was perfect in a way that was so infuriating to you. anything you could do? he could do faster, more efficiently, and produce better results. he could put in half the effort and still come out with something that rivaled, or even topped, your work. that bothered you, and his nonchalance about it all only added to your growing frustrations.

group projects were the bane of your existence, and he was a close second.

even now, as he sits in front of you, doing nothing— he is frustrating. though, you can't explain why.

“if ya stop staring...” his voice slices right through your thoughts. he says it so casually, flipping through his notebook, ignoring the way your glare digs deep into his skin. “dopamine’s what makes people feel good, right?”

“yes,” comes your initial, curt, response. you can’t help the way your eye twitches at his tone, tracking his every move as he actively avoids looking back at you. his eyes are locked onto his notes in front of him, but you know better— he’s not actually reading them. “but it’s also a lot more complicated than that. dopamine affects a lot of things, like our reward systems and motivation. but if we’re talking strictly in the context of love, it’s what makes us feel that rush of excitement when we’re around someone we like.”

he hums at that, pretending to mull over your words. “got any personal experience?”

his question catches you off-guard, and for a second, you find yourself tripping over your words. “what— why do you care? you don’t need to know that.”

“no need to get all defensive.” he responds, once again in that casual tone of his, but mildly amused at the way you react to him. like he’s getting a kick out of making you flustered over his words. "i’m just thinking, to understand how dopamine affects how we see someone, we need to get some real-world data. like, experience it first-hand."

karasu finally looks up from his notes, and he raises a brow at you, anticipating your response.

you see right through him— a lie. this type of research project didn’t require personal understanding, rather, understanding gained from reading other sources. yet, oddly enough, you find yourself entertaining the idea. intrigued. “experience it first-hand? you want me to act as your lab rat or something?”

“well, ya are pretty much the perfect lab rat.” and your mouth opens to retort, but he flashes you a half-smile, that shuts you right up. though, teetering closer to that signature smirk of his. “because ya hate my guts. we can test to see if dopamine can make ya hate me less.”

you blink at him, blankly.

you're gauging for any sign that he’s messing with you, but he doesn’t backpedal on his words. rather, he sits there, chin propped in the palm of his hands as he waits for you to respond. (but it’s hard to, not when your mind is drawn to the way your heart stutters at his insinuation. an unexpected, and unwelcome, reaction from you.) "so, what? you’re suggesting we kiss or something?”

“ya said it, not me.” karasu shrugs, finally straightening his posture out and getting up from his chair. “purely for research purposes, of course.”

there’s another beat of silence as you wait for him to crack— to tell you that he’s simply messing with you. then, the two of you could go back to doing this cursed project, potentially finish it in one go, and never have to meet up ever again. but he doesn’t, and the silence draws into something more uncomfortable the longer it goes on.

“wait, are you... are you being serious right now?” you asked, your eyes widening as you look at him in disbelief.

“science is science,” is all he offers to you.

you could feel your face heat up, the warmth crawling from the base of your neck and up, and you’re sure your cheeks are sporting a bright shade of red. it takes a few seconds for you to gather yourself, not willing to back down, but in the end, all you can muster is, “fine— for science.”

his grin widens at that, and before you could second-guess your choice, he’s planting his hands on the table and leaning in.

yet, despite his rough approach, the kiss is soft— tentative, almost. his lips are barely brushing against yours, and you could still feel his shallow breaths as he refuses to make that last push to connect the two of you. he's simply hovering over you, almost urging you to make that decision, giving you that choice to back out of it if you wanted to.

all you can focus on is the rapid beat of your heart in your ears, the warmth emanating off of his lips that are so close, yet so far from yours. the logical, karasu-hating part of you is yelling at you to pull away, to get it together. but you don’t.

you close the distance between the two of you, locking your lips in a shallow, but sweet, kiss. full of nerves, from the way your lips freeze up against one another, not knowing where to go from there. the confidence he held washes away in that fraction of a second; his elbows buckle underneath him, caught off-guard by the feeling of your lips, pulling the two of you apart.

it’s brief, barely considered a kiss, but your reaction to him is undeniable. the way your heart pumps just a little harder, the tiny, electric sparks coursing through your veins, or the way you found yourself chasing after his lips as he pulled away.

the two of you stay silent, but you find that he's grinning at you— differently, this time. in a way you can't quite explain.

"hate me any less now?"

#ᯓ★ nishi's dessert lounge .ᐟ #blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #karasu tabito #karasu tabito x reader #tabito karasu #karasu x reader #blue lock fluff #bllk fluff

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idiopath-fic-smile · 3 months ago

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i dunno if that counts as a wip, but personally i've been thinking abt the "conversation at the dinner table of enjolras' family" series for years now so i gotta jump on the oppurunity

oh my gosh, sure thing! when i checked my WIP folder, i learned i'd actually already written a second whole installment (and then completely forgotten about it) so i'll post that too, and then my new chunk after it.

first bit is here. throwing this under a cut bc it's not short!

Two

“So,” said Dad as he ladled the first round of Saturday morning pancake batter onto the griddle, “tell us about this boy you’re dating?”

Enjolras consciously steadied his hands, took a sip of green tea to stall, and reminded himself that if the relationship was real, he would have been dying to share everything he knew about the boy in question. With an unpleasant lurch, he realized this was almost nothing. He wasn’t even sure what grade Grantaire was in.

“He’s…great,” said Enjolras, hoping that with any luck, his panic could be read as lovestruck embarrassment.

Mom curled her hands around her coffee cup and leaned in, conspiratorial. “Is he cute?”

Between Friday afternoon and now, Enjolras had dedicated a staggering amount of thought to the situation, but he hadn’t made much forward progress. Any time he tried, his mind tended to get snagged, or caught in loops, or lost on wild tangents like, Did Grantaire really mean it when he said he would be okay kissing for the sake of this pretense? How could he possibly be alright with that? Was he kidding? But it honestly didn’t seem like he was kidding. But how would it even come up?

One of very few conclusions Enjolras had reached: he needed to find a way to lie to his parents as little as possible. The thought of deceiving them on purpose for months already made the pit of his stomach feel heavy.

“Yeah,” he said weakly, “he’s…got cool hair.” This was true, if asinine. “And um, a good smile. A really good smile.” Also true, although Enjolras mostly saw it either accompanied by a lot of sarcasm or directed at other people.

“So.” Dad craned around to face him, spatula in hand. “Good at smiling. What else?”

Really, Enjolras thought, he should have been able to anticipate this. He could’ve drawn up his talking points beforehand, like he had with the detention. Set aside the time to brainstorm something better than ‘cool hair,’ for crying out loud. He wondered what Grantaire himself would’ve thought of this conversation, the face Grantaire would’ve pulled at Enjolras’s ludicrous attempts to sound like a person with a boyfriend.

Come to think of it, he wondered what Grantaire was telling his own parents about the whole affair. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. Grantaire didn’t strike him as the kind of kid to spend weekends bonding with his family. Besides, given the demographics of the area, it was unlikely that they’d be supportive of Grantaire’s—fake coming out? Real coming out under fake circumstances? Enjolras didn’t even know whether or not Grantaire was gay. On one hand, it was a pretty outrageous thing for a straight guy to do. On the other hand—well. It was a pretty outrageous thing for a closeted gay guy to do, too.

With no conscious input from his brain, Enjolras’s memory rewound itself, yet again, to the sight of Grantaire calling his name yesterday in the cafeteria—eyes flashing under that mop of wild dark hair, back straight, fists clenched at his sides like he was about to take on the whole school in one go and win.

Enjolras had seen him and thought, ‘This is why Nicolas Sparks books work on people. This is why half the songs on the radio are the same insipid story over and over again.’ Novelists and songwriters wasted all those words trying to capture a sensation and tame it into words but really it was just Grantaire—smartass Grantaire who was annoying and disruptive and weirdly moody sometimes, who refused to take anything seriously, who didn’t even like Enjolras—it was just Grantaire striding forward with Enjolras’s name on his lips, fury on his face, throwing away every scrap of popularity to back up a cause he had bitterly ridiculed just days ago, for no reason Enjolras could see.

It was a lot to think about.

God, Enjolras was in so far over his head.

“Are you blushing?” said Mom.

“No,” said Enjolras.

“Frank,” she said, “Frank, he’s blushing.”

Enjolras slumped down in his chair. “He’s—funny,” Enjolras blurted, because any line of inquiry was preferable to this, even admitting out loud that he wasn’t totally immune to Grantaire’s jokes. More than once, Enjolras had walked out of a meeting with a raw spot on the inside of his cheek from an hour of trying not to laugh at his most recent shenanigans. If anything, it was more of a liability than a point in Grantaire’s favor. He never would have been able to bring everything grinding to a halt by just shouting out quotes from Family Guy or whatever passed for humor among most of their peers. He was quick and clever and creative—and he used it to make everything infinitely harder than it needed to be.

He’d been different at lunch, though, Enjolras thought, squinting unseeing at the syrup. Once the initial shock of are these the next two and a half months of my life had started to wear off, one of the first things Enjolras had noticed was how much energy Grantaire put into making the table laugh.

“Sense of humor,” said Dad. “That’s crucial.”

“Yeah,” said Enjolras. “And—a good artist.” This was something he only knew from Jehan, since the contents of Grantaire’s notebooks were apparently top secret to the rest of the world. “A really good artist,” he added. It might’ve been true, at any rate. Enjolras couldn’t picture Grantaire concentrating that hard at anything but maybe he had natural talent. “He can draw anything. And he plays the drums.”

“A musician!” Dad called over his shoulder. “Let us know if he has any gigs coming up.”

“What did you say his name was?” Mom asked.

Enjolras told her. She grimaced around a mouthful of coffee.

“What?”

“I’ve met his mom,” she said. “She’s in my Jazzercise group. She’s—well, maybe he takes after his dad.”

“Why,” said Enjolras, “did she—” He frowned at his empty plate, but of course there was no way to end that sentence without scraping too close to the truth. Try to make you feel ridiculous for caring about anything? Roll her eyes at you for reacting? Mock and defend your friends in the same breath?

“What?” said Mom.

“Nothing.”

Mom pursed her lips. “I want to be fair, maybe I caught her on a bad day, but she—struck me as pretty phony. A very Stepford feel. Plus, when I told her I had a teenage son, she laughed and said ‘I’m sorry,’ which—you know how that kind of thing burns me. Like, look, lady, I’ve got a kid I feel great about, who I love spending time with. Don’t project your issues on me.” She took another sip of coffee. “I thought her son was younger. She didn’t really mention him but she had one of those middle school honor roll bumper stickers?”

“Does he have a little brother, maybe?” Dad suggested, flipping pancakes with practiced ease.

Enjolras shrugged.

“How did you meet him?” said Mom.

“He’s—he goes to all the meetings, for the ABC,” said Enjolras, because stressing their shared history of detention felt like an unwise move and anyway this, too, was technically accurate, just in that slippery politician way that Enjolras hated—dropping breadcrumbs and letting the listener fill in the lie for themselves.

“He’s dedicated, then,” said Mom.

Completely dedicated. Not dedicated at all. I have no idea. “Yeah,” he said. “And smart.” Truthful, if misleading. “And—nice.” Maybe truthful? Enjolras seemed to be the only person he went out of his way to annoy, at any rate. “I don’t know,” Enjolras mumbled, which was, he thought wryly, the most honest claim he’d made so far. “I just—I just like him a lot,” he finished, and nothing in the words or how he said them was an act.

That was the problem.

Three

“So,” said Mom brightly, “how was Joly’s party?”

Enjolras chewed his black bean burger and fought the urge to tug up the neck of his T-shirt over the completely obvious bite bruise blooming slightly north of his clavicle.

He swallowed. “Fine,” said Enjolras. “Good.”

“How are things with Grantaire?” she added and okay, yes, only a fool wouldn't have seen this coming.

Enjolras set down his bun. He couldn’t deal with Mom or Dad thinking he had been pressured in any way. The thought was not only abhorrent, it was completely out of character for Grantaire. Who, regardless of where he actually sat politically, had way more principles than he’d let on.

Enjolras summoned up all the sincerity he could muster. “Great,” he said, thinking of how Grantaire talked to Joly, goofy and kind, without an ounce of condescension. He could feel himself starting to smile. “Really great.” Dad cleared his throat. “You know,” he said. “When you came out to us as asexual, we assumed it meant we could skip over some conversations, but now, uh." Mom and Dad exchanged the slightest of looks.

"It's a spectrum," said Enjolras, face flaming. He hadn't articulated to them where exactly he sat on that spectrum, because for one thing he hadn't known for sure, and for another thing he could think of nothing more painful that tracing the exact topography of his attraction with his parents, for crying out loud.

"Well, there's no harm in knowledge, right?" Dad continued. His voice had the slightest practiced quality to it. Enjolras could imagine him going over his argument out loud before dinner, searching for the best way to make his case. Enjolras found this obscurely comforting. "Plus, you know," said Dad. "Kids talk about these things with each other and there's so much misinformation out there; you might appreciate the chance to be a resource for your friends. About dating or relationships, or the things that happen in a relationship. Is it okay if we go over a few things?”

Enjolras swung his foot under the table and carefully didn't think about Grantaire determinedly giving him a hickey in the kitten-wallpapered bathroom of Joly's basement.

"Sure."

"Great," said Dad, relief rushing into his face. He stood. "If it helps, I have some handouts I can go quick print out."

#world ain't ready spoilers

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crustaceousfaggot · 2 years ago

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So I've been thinking a lot about the setting of Disco Elysium. Specifically it being set in late winter/early spring. It's not something I've really seen anyone else bring up.

I mean, the symbolism seems pretty obvious right? Spring is the time of new beginnings, winter is ending and we're entering a time of potential and rebirth. Definitely nothing new. But I think it goes beyond that.

I live in one of the coldest major cities in the world. Not *the* coldest, but you'll be hard-pressed to find a city with over 1,000,000 inhabitants that gets colder than it gets here. Winters are long and brutal and difficult, and when the soil itself is frozen and covered in a foot of packed snow it's really hard to believe that the world could look any other way.

And don't get me wrong, winter is beautiful. The world is quiet and picturesque. There's none of the usual dirt and debris in the streets because it's all buried under the snow. The way that fresh snow sparkles under street lights at night is one of the most breathtakingly gorgeous things I've ever seen.

It's early April right now, and the snow is melting. It's not all gone, but it's getting there. When the air starts to warm up there's this feeling of excitement and anticipation in the air. Spring is here, and any second now the world will be bursting with new life and beautiful greenery.

But it's not. Not yet.

For about a month and a half after the snow starts to melt, the world is grey. No glittering snow, no budding flowers, no swirling red leaves, just puddles of brown water and lawns of brown grass. It's like winter had ended, but the world has yet to realize that it's supposed to be spring. Until it remembers, we're all trapped in a world where there is no season at all.

Sometimes it snows, but the snow never sticks around. Sometimes it rains, but the rain never brings flowers in its wake.

That last month of winter, that first month of spring, whatever you want to call it, is my least favourite time of year. I heard it described once as "the long-preserved corpse of autumn, finally allowed to rot", and that phrase stuck with me. There are eight month old leaves on the ground, skeletal and bleached grey by a winter trapped under the ice. Without the snow to cover it, you can't ignore just how much we've let our city go to shit. The trees are bare and skeletal, and even the evergreens look washed out and grey when they're not contrasted against the snow. Most of the birds aren't back yet, so the only sound outside my window is the ever-present hum of traffic.

It's impossible to ignore the movement and the sounds of humanity, but at the same time the world has never felt so stagnant.

I think there are all sorts of comparisons you could draw here, some of which hold up better than others. The one that first comes to mind for me is sobriety- the line "Full recovery will take years, though. It’ll be depressing. And it’ll be boring. Don’t expect any further rewards or handclaps." from the "Waste Land Of Reality"o thought is one which really stuck with me on my first playthrough, and one which feels especially appropriate here. But that's just one angle.

How much of this was intentional? I don't know. Probably not most of it. Part of me just wanted to go on a little tangent about the seasonal purgatory I'm trapped in once again. But I genuinely don't think there could be a better time of year to set a game like Disco Elysium. That bleak dusty shoulder season, where all the ugliest and most honest parts of nature and civilization are on display. The time of year where I've gone through the ringer and come out the other side, but everything still looks and feels like shit. It's just a different kind of shit.

Spring isn't here. Not yet. And when it does come, it won't fix anything. There will still be garbage on the ground and pollution in the air, there will still be class inequality and senseless violence and I will still be mentally ill.

But still.

For the first time in months, I can feel the wind against my skin without it hurting.

Whatever that's worth.

#I don't know what this is you guys #don't take it too seriously #i just had a thought and then I had to get all 'ooOoh this is very profound' about it #disco elysium #de #harry du bois #hdb #disco elysium meta #1k

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fandomfluffandfuck · 4 months ago

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Pussy Steve in a leg spreader is all I can think abouttt... Unable to escape any of the touch and he's sooo sensitive guh

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

Ngl, since you sent this in in fucking August, oh god, this is all I've been able to think about.

I just... yeah. It's been on my mind. There's something about spreader bars that I fucking dying for and putting pussy Steve in one? Why didn't I think of that earlier!?

Since Bucky and Steve stumbled into the discovery of how fucking good messing around could feel when they were horny, clumsy teenagers all awkward and lanky limbs, Steve has sworn that the thing Bucky likes most is, just, punking Steve. Fucking with him.

It started legitimate, at least. His thing.

His kink, maybe.

Back then, when Steve was all too close to stumbling and falling through death's door from his precarious place curled up on its stoep like some abandoned orphan, it was for his own good. He didn't want to admit it, not even fucking close, and Bucky didn't demand that he did, but he kept it in mind regardless. He kept Steve still yet aroused, enough to keep him hard (or most of the way there) but not enough to send his heart into a frenzy of the wrong kind. That, usually, ment working him up nice and slow. But, somewhere along the way, between life and body altering transformations and devastating plunges into death and through it, the habit stuck. Maybe they just never had time to learn any other way, though.

Now, still, Bucky fucks with him by winding him up nice and slow. Consistent and sensual, as if waiting for his body to work itself up through its slow circulation and anemia and everything else going against him. He likes to watch the color wash into Steve's pale skin; he likes to feel how he burns hotter with rising arousal; he likes to hear the stuble pick-up of Steve's breath, getting more shallow and hitched; he likes to know that he's making Steve feel good, good enough to be a tugging, distracting current that's not breaking right now, not yet, but it will be, it will build and build and get to the point where, eventually, Steve just can't stand it and he'll shatter. But. By the time that he's breaking, he'll have been so fucking worked up that he doesn't see it coming. Sometimes, that means cumming without a sound, mouth hanging open, nothing but a silent exhale of agony, or, sometimes, that means cumming with a shocked, unrealized wailing-moan as he flails over the edge whether he wants to or not. He's been boiled alive, the water growing hotter so incrementally that he didn't even know.

It's that moment that Bucky chases: the break.

The moment of the break. But, still, getting Steve--a stubborn little spitfire--to break isn't half as fun without a crazy-long, agonizing wind-up. It adds to the break. The anticipation makes it better. Worse, to Steve.

Today, the slow, consistent, easy wind-up wasn't as, uh, private as usual, though. Steve wasn't laid out on the couch in their apartment, held in Bucky's lap, back-to-chest, with Bucky's fingers finding their way up his tight, tight shirt to trace over his skin, the valleys and hills of his muscle definition. Bucky just 'innocently' touching until he's not, circling and plucking and playing with his sensitive nipples until Steve's panting and has lost all sense of time. When did this even start? What time is it now? Will this ever end? Steve wasn't in their shower on a slow, lethargic evening--nothing done all day but lay around, alone together--Bucky sliding in behind him to wash his body and tease him until he's plenty fucking wet to let Bucky in by the time he reaches between his legs, sliding his thighs apart with relaxed, unhurried hands. Fingering him with no rush. Not even stretching him out on more than two fingers. The two of them enveloped in nothing but pouring sheets of water and hot steam. If the mirror could, it'd be blushing, watching Steve get pressed tight against the glass shower stall wall, his face and tits smushed, displayed, all pale pink and desperate. Steve wasn't in bed, either, under orders to not move an inch, or Bucky would stop. Still, still, still--not tense but torturously relaxed--as Bucky skirts the line between massaging him and tickling him, waiting for him to be 'ready...' Whatever that means. Steve's past ready. Hot and wet and puffy between his legs. One touch there, and he could come apart. If only Bucky would. But, no, none of that. Steve wasn't alone.

They weren't alone.

Well, at one point they were, now, when it really fucking starts, they aren't alone.

Winding-up, tighter and tighter and tighter, Steve is trying not to fucking lose his mind in the middle of a goddamn meeting. He's fucking surrounded. All sides. Right. Left. Behind him. Infront of him. Some people are in their supersuits and other agents in low-key, blacked-out S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms.

It's a storm of faceless, nameless shapes that are hardly even people to Steve right now. Whatever the hell this meeting is about (debrief? It's got to be a debrief, right? Bucky wouldn't endanger him or other innocent people by preventing him from taking in intell, right?), Steve isn't registering a lick of it. Instead, he's focused solely around the buzzing, aching, nearly-silent bullet vibrator in his boxer briefs. They're just fucking tight enough to keep it in place, nevermind how Bucky just so effortless slipped it into the pocket at the front of his drawers like it was meant to be there--as if there was no way in hell that Steve would go without it, of course, not.

Steve and Bucky's ears are the only ones that can pick up the subtle earthquake plundering Steve, crumbling his earth, inch by inch as that fucking tiny ass vibrator pulses, buzzes, and rumbles tightly against his swollen clit, soaking the dry-fit material of his boxers.

Oh, god.

All the fucking hours--it feels like hours--they've been sitting here Steve's had to keep himself from squirming or whining or doing anything that'd tip off anyone to the toy going at him. Whatever Bucky's doing to control it or whatever pre-set he's put it to, the pulsing vibrations are perfectly balanced to keep Steve balanced on the razor edge of agony. It's not enough to make him cum. It's too much to not be desperately arousing. And it's not consistent enough to be ignorable. He's still fucking sensitive to it, even after all the dragging, droning conversation.

Trying to keep himself together has resulted in the flush that he knows is painted across his cheeks, sitting high like a sunset just starting, not yet kissing the horizon line. But, more, the way he's sweating like a dog. He can feel the rivers of it pouring down his back, pooling underneath his arms, the dimples of his back, and down his asscrack to the insides of his thighs where he's urgently pressing them together. He isn't sure if he's making it better or worse for himself, pressing his legs together. On one hand, it makes him less fervently paranoid that someone else can hear his little vibrator where its rawing him, making him crazy, but on the other hand, clenched tight in his fist, it's making the vibrations spread through him so much easier. A rock thrown into a pond with the ripples emanating out, lapping at the shore. Steve's nerves are the taut surface of the water, every single vibration a pebble that builds into not little ripples but huge waves that lap and erode at his edges, making him think he's about to cum in his chair, hardly resisting from grinding into his seat, bucking his hips and letting his eyes roll back, his lip coming out from between his teeth to moan more like a roar, finally fucking released from his ongoing torture and devastated by how it eats at him. All that pleasure. Too much.

Right when Steve's about to fucking tap out, thunk his head on the table and shoot his hand down between his clenching thighs to ride his own hand to completion--shoving the vibrator tighter against his wet, wet, wet, and swollen, tortured, clit--as he moans. Fuck all the people in the room, they all have to sign so many NDAs to work for an agency like this, what's another one for, oh, yeah, that time that Captian America orgasmed out of nowhere in the middle of a meeting. Right then, Bucky's metal hand lands heavy on his upper arm, digging his fingers into his bicep through his suit and dragging him to his feet.

Steve feels like a mess.

Steve is a mess.

He can't believe no one else knows what's happening. He's hardly lucid enough to grunt out a 'yes' or bob his head or to anything to make it seem like he's on the same fucking planet as all the people around him. It's just enough, though. Just enough. Not, not enough--

If Steve was sure everyone knew what was happening when he was using all of his self-control to not hump the chair he was sitting in, then he absolutely fucking knows that everyone is immediately crystal clear about what's going on when Bucky hauls him out of that boardroom. Bucky is dragging him away, steadying him on his shaking feet, to fuck him into next Sunday. They know.

Bucky is dragging him off to fuck him.

Pre-emptive relief crashes over Steve like a wave at the realization and he pays fuck all attention to the sights and sounds around him. All he knows is that one minute they're in the meeting, it's dismissed, and the next minute, Bucky has cornered him in the elevator, and they're moving. They're alone. Steve doesn't just melt against the hot, solid line of Bucky's leather-clad body, he disintegrates.

His knees go weak, and his hands curl into clinging, pawing clumsy things that won't work. His face buries itself in his chest--between his pecs, if they were naked like they ought to be--and groans with all the breath in his chest, punched out.

Indulgently, Bucky holds him there like that for a moment, scruffing him around the back of his neck like he's a shaky, anxious kitten. Steve might as well be the way he mewls when Bucky brings up one of those fucking killer thighs to grind against his pussy.

Steve mewls.

The thick, solid muscle of Bucky's thigh forces him to confront, right fucking here in this work elevator, just how wet he is. He's wet. Soaked. Vibrating hard. He's been dripping the entire time they were in that stupid meeting, messing up his boxer briefs and probably even the inside of his suit--it's gonna be a bitch to clean. It's gonna smell like sex forever.

Steve isn't thinking about cleaning.

Steve is, oh, oh--

Bucky has him right fucking there, about to fucking cum, he's so close, he can feel the heated, tangled knot of pleasure pulling taut low in his belly, about to fucking fray apart. Pulled apart. It's in the back of his throat. He can feel it in his teeth, creeping into the muscle of his jaw, he's half-clenching his jaw and half letting it hang open. He doesn't know what his face is doing; it's probably fucked-out and dumb. But--

"Ah, ah, ah," Bucky tuts at him, pulling his thigh away and pulling him up by the nape of his neck.

Steve doesn't give a second thought about the pathetic, sharp whine he gives at having his orgasm disparagingly denied. Ruined? Whatever the fuck happened that's left his whole fucking body quivering and raw. He was so goddamn close!

So, so fucking close that that's the only thing he can hold onto. And even that, as Bucky pulls him out of the elevator--out out the building through a dizzying revolving door, pushes him onto the back of his motorcycle, heaves his arms around him, and drives them home--slips through his fingers like sand. Steve isn't holding onto anything. His arms are physically around Bucky's stocky waist as they ride, holding on, but he's not emotionally holding on to fucking anything. His brain is dripping out of his ears. Hours of vibration, his thighs clenched together, trying to keep it together. Now, his thighs are split wide around the heaving, breathing, rumbling body of Bucky's bike. It's a fucking animal.

Bucky drives like an animal. Feral and reckless as New York blurs messily past them. And Steve just nuzzles in tight, moaning recklessly and unashamedly into Bucky's ear from over his shoulder.

He's beyond desperate.

The blurred, smeared paint effect of the world around him gets worse when they're off the bike. Closer to home, Steve feels more of that pre-emptive relief surge through him more. He can't put himself back together, first shaken apart in that meeting and then blended up by the motorcycle ride. Too much. Not enough. Steve needs more.

Steve knew he was wet, but he didn't realize just how wet he fucking got until Bucky grabs him and twists him around, hauling him over his shoulder, smacking his ass and keeping a heavy, possessive hand there while he walks Steve's quivering body deeper into their home just to pin him down against their mattress all handsy and strong. Steve can't fucking fight. He just lays there, teeth chattering. He's vibrating so much himself he doesn't know if the bullet vibe is still on or not. He doesn't need it. He just. More. He needs more.

Steve needs more, thrown in through their slammed-open front door and stumbling in, unsteady and breakable as a fawn. Fuck it. He's not breakable, he's already broken. Broken open and spilling molten hot--pouring out his lust.

He's so fucking on edge anything could set him off. Anything will set him off. Just. Please.

Steve can hardly fucking hear Bucky over the blood rushing in his ears, his heart pounding like mad. But he's saying something, asking something with that damn gorgeous Chesire cat grin, all predatory and sharp, "you gonna show me how fucking wet I make you, baby?"

"Wrong answer, honey," his salacious grin widens dangerously the higher he gets off teasing him.

Steve can't think.

He can't hear.

He can't move.

Yet, he must shake his head, trying to clear his mind, figure out what the fuck is happening, what to do, because Bucky responds to him like he's answered. Like he can do anything. As if Bucky hasn't turned him into a useless pile of wet, desperate need.

And while Steve can't move, so overwhelmed with his lust, Bucky has no such issues. He's crawling off the bed where he has Steve fucked up and pinned to grab, grab--

There's no time to really process what the fuck that is, what it's doing to him, and how it feels on him when suddenly, like a switch flipped, Steve's cunt is hot and wet and kept clenched between his tensed thighs then Steve's cunt is cold and drenched and exposed to open air.

Steve's vision is so hazy and blurred he doesn't even know what it is and he doesn't think it matters anyway because Bucky isn't using it, rather he's running his hands fervently all over Steve's quivering body to strip him of his uniform. The distraction doesn't last long, though, as ruined and desperate as Steve is, Bucky is the same. Their desire intrinsically intertwined. Twinned and deepened. Made that much more perilous together. Once he's stripped to nothing but his sweat and blush, Bucky uses that thing he grabbed.

It's a spreader bar. The thing. It's a long bar, reinforced, and forcing Steve's legs wide, wide apart.

Bucky peels Steve's legs apart with a grunt and obscene show of strength, his flesh arm fucking flexing and his metal arm revving--recalibrating in a way that Steve could drool over all fucking day--and makes Steve too fucking aware of how stupidly turned on he is. He's wet. He's swollen. He's raw. He's quivering in phantom vibrations. He's so fucking aware of how exposed he is.

Exposed.

He can't keep his legs together. Bucky is just--

Bucky has him.

Bucky is pawing at his wet pussy like the big bad man he is. Fucking him up like he's the wolf and Steve is innocently lost in the wood. Steve should be afraid of his claws, but he isn't. He really isn't. He wants claws. He wants teeth. He wants.

His pussy is so hot and slick compared to the rest of the air in their bedroom. It's mortifying. Could he be wetter? No. He couldn't get any fucking more turned on without just dying. He might die here. Steve wails and jerks but doesn't get anywhere. He can't. He's spread.

Oh.

Oh, god.

Unceremoniously then, exposed and spread, Bucky shoves his face up there, licking his wet slit hotly, and Steve squeals.

What is he going to do to him? Steve could sob. Steve is sobbing. What isn't he going to do to him? He just wants to cum! Bucky doesn't have to kill him. He can just let him cum! He doesn't have to murder him!! Just let him cum!

Pleeease.

#i hope you enjoyed this #this was what i spent my evening doing lol #got home did a shit ton of studying and then wrote filthy smut #lmao #asks #fandomfluffandfuck #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #pussy steve #big sub steve #dom bucky

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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eek! Hope I'm not too late! it's already 30th here!

If you'd write for Tyrion plz could I get a x wife!reader where she takes care of him (running him a warm bath, massages, pain relieving tea etc) when he has a particularly bad pain flare up?

As someone who knows first hand what chronic pain is like I know all too well how difficult it is to accept help at times, even when you probably need it, and I get the strong impression that Tyrion would be more stubborn than most, but sometimes its nice to have just one person that you trust enough to let help.

For Better or Worse

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Tyrion is in pain and refuses to admit it. But you are stubborn as any Stark.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Tyrion Lannister

- Note: The reader was married to Tyrion instead of her sister, Sansa.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

You watch Tyrion from the corner of your eye, his movements slow and careful. His usual swagger seems muted tonight, replaced with an uncharacteristic stiffness. He’s trying to hide it, of course—sipping his wine a bit too quickly, cracking a joke that lacks its usual bite—but you’ve known him long enough to notice the way his hand clenches around the arm of his chair, the way his brow furrows when he thinks no one’s watching.

It’s one of those nights. The kind where his pain flares up, gnawing at him like an uninvited guest.

“Tyrion,” you call softly, approaching him with the kind of ease you know won’t set him off. “Are you all right?”

He glances at you, offering a smirk that’s meant to reassure. “Ah, my sweet wolf, ever the doting wife. I’m fine. Really.”

You narrow your eyes, not buying it for a moment. “You’re terrible at lying, you know that?”

“Is that what they say in Winterfell? In the South, we call it ‘selective honesty.’” He chuckles, but it’s short-lived, and you catch the wince he tries to mask with a sip of wine.

You sigh, crossing your arms. “You’re in pain.”

Tyrion waves a dismissive hand. “A minor inconvenience. Nothing to worry your pretty head over.”

“Right.” You give him a look that says you’re not leaving it alone. “You’ve been shifting in that chair for the past hour like it’s full of splinters. When was the last time you had some relief for your back?”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your persistence. “Relief, you say? Are you offering, my dear?”

“Don’t distract me.” You step closer, laying a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension knotting under your fingers. “Let me help.”

Tyrion sighs, but there’s a softness in his eyes that betrays him. “I appreciate the offer, truly, but I’m fine. I’m not some frail thing in need of coddling.”

“I know that. But even the smartest man in Westeros needs a bit of care now and then.” You kneel beside him, looking up at him with a determined glint. “Please, Tyrion. Let me make you some tea, draw you a bath… do something.”

He huffs, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated annoyance. “You’re as stubborn as a mule, you know that?”

“Must be the Northern blood,” you quip with a grin. “Come on, just this once. You don’t have to be so damn proud.”

Tyrion stares at you for a long moment, his defenses slowly crumbling. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Gods, how did I end up marrying the one Stark who’s more persistent than the Other?”

You smile triumphantly and start preparing the tea. In the dim light of your chambers, the soft clinking of the teapot fills the silence. The scent of herbs wafts through the room, soothing in itself, and you bring the steaming cup to him.

“Drink this,” you command gently, “and then I’m running that bath.”

He gives you a mock scowl. “You’re bossier than I anticipated when I married you.”

“And you’re more stubborn than I anticipated,” you shoot back, gently pushing the cup into his hands. He takes it with a resigned sigh and drinks, the warmth seeming to ease him a little.

When the bath is ready, you help him out of his clothes, Tyrion muttering something about feeling like an old man. You ignore the remark, guiding him into the warm water with a care that surprises even him.

“This is… oddly nice,” he admits after a long silence, the tension in his shoulders beginning to melt away. “I might have to make a habit of this.”

“Only if you promise not to be so difficult about it next time.”

Tyrion grins. “No promises.”

Once he’s soaked long enough, you coax him out, wrapping a soft towel around him before guiding him to the bed. He watches you with an expression caught somewhere between appreciation and disbelief, like this kind of tenderness is foreign to him.

“Turn around,” you instruct as you straddle the edge of the bed behind him. He raises a brow but does as you ask.

Your hands move to his back, gently kneading the knotted muscles, feeling the way his body tenses and then slowly starts to give in to your touch. He sighs, a sound of relief that’s almost inaudible.

“You’re too good at this,” he mutters. “You should charge me. A Lannister always pays his debts, after all.”

“Consider it part of the marriage agreement,” you tease, your fingers working into another knot. “For better or worse, remember?”

“I recall something along those lines.” He shifts slightly, his voice softer now. “You’re a patient woman, you know. More than I deserve.”

“I think you deserve a bit of care,” you say quietly. “Whether you believe it or not.”

Tyrion is silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. “You’re… far kinder than I expected, marrying a Lannister.”

You press a kiss to the back of his neck, feeling him relax further under your touch. “Well, you’re not just any Lannister.”

“Flattery,” he mutters, but there’s a warmth to his voice. “It might work.”

It’s a quiet moment, one that feels both intimate and oddly vulnerable, but there’s an ease to it, too. For all his bluster and pride, you know that beneath it all, Tyrion is simply a man who’s not used to being taken care of.

And tonight, you’re more than happy to remind him that he doesn’t always have to carry everything on his own.

#game of thrones #got x you #got x reader #got x y/n #a song of ice and fire #asoif/got #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #tyrion lannister #tyrion x reader #tyrion x you #tyrion x y/n #house lannister #house stark

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feyclowns · 5 months ago

Text

a look at magic and the core system

the core system explanation and my loose idea of what magic is. this uh. this got long. this is a longass post.

my thoughts on magic

i have this idea that mother nature, while creating her earlier lifeforms, used magic as a sort of bind-all, something modeled after the overarching powers of time and creation, etc- giving them extra powers and extending their life (like a kid making their first ocs). most of her older creatures are on planes higher up and function on magic. as she got better with her craft she began to appreciate the complexity of making all those bits and pieces stuff on earth has, and the faster ebb and flow of life AND death. humans are one of her favorite creations.

magic is inherently chaotic. it exists in multiple forms, on multiple planes. it's something that touches things in a biological way and yet obeys physical laws set before it. it can be stored and used up. it can create more of itself. it can corrupt things. when mother nature realized it was a bad idea to give near-unlimited power to beings when she was creating ones of lower ability on the planes below, she changed magic and the creatures that used it- gave them weaknesses, sometimes bordering on the ridiculous, compulsions too. things to keep them in check.

i also like to think you can't entirely 1:1 seelie to humans on even a biological cell-scale. they just fundamentally are different.

magic's function

the more pure magic is, the more powerful it is- magic comes in all colors of the rainbow, but different colors have slightly different attributes. one can never truly filter one color out of magic entirely, as it needs all its components to function.

with the True Fey nearly extinct, the only beings that can use raw magic without the assistance of a device or sigil are genies, and i'd argue they got quite the short end of the stick considering their compulsion.

fairies, fey and their subspecies primarily function on purple magic. this stuff is filtered, diluted, as "neutral" as one can get. if you create magic rather than consume it, and your species functions on filtered magic, you cannot handle it raw. like, your body can't handle the extra energy. physically.

magical backup is when a fairy has so much magic in their system they cannot filter the chaotic energy that magic produces and explode.

filtered magic is also, simply, on paper, easiest to use. as a third party, non-seelie magic user- use raw magic while unprepared and get evaporated while changing the laws of physics. use overfiltered magic without the correct sigils and nothing happens except maybe a bitter taste in your mouth.

onto the core system.

the core system

the neural core is where magic flows freely up towards- the filter strains clean, purple magic from the magic produced by the central core. conscious wishes are also made from the brain connected to the core here.

the central core is where magic is generated. the central core takes calories and nutrients from ingested food (fairies have a stomach that is right next to their core) and converts it into magic. the core membrane acts as a storage for filtered magic in both areas.

the core pools are located at the base of the wrists of a fairy, which are where excess magic flows and stays in anticipation of use. when a fairy exhausts the magic from their pools, they must wait until they begin to refill from the reserves in the core membranes.

the inner cores are the most important part of the system; if this part of a fairy is damaged they will die. this part also holds the data for the rest of the body- if worse comes to worse, the inner cores will maintain the body parts left and rebuild the core system before completing the rest of the body. this is in part why fairies are so gd resilient. no inner core, no regeneration.

magic threads are what magic travels along throughout the body. they are thick, wide tubes that extend through the torso and extremities. the central thread is also called a nervous thread. during pregnancy, the body creates a sixth thread (and sometimes seventh) to deliver magic to the developing child's core.

fairies produce raw magic in their central cores. they have two cores- a central and neural core, which are connected to each other through the nervous thread and extend to their magic pools and flow magic through the body by the four magic threads.

anti-fairies are where all that excess magic goes when fairies filter it out. anti fairies don't need to generate magic or filter it- they can handle it just fine. they have a simpler core layout- a thick core membrane to hold their magic and the excess chaotic magic swirling about in their inner core. this enables anti-fairies to grant powerful rule-free wishes. anti-fairies tend to have strange colored magic threads, generally aligning with the color of their counterparts' eyes.

pixies are quirky things. pixies have the same amount of cores as their fairy cousins but do not produce raw magic. they instead need to feed on magical creatures (or take their magic supplements, as provided by pixies INC) to keep their core systems afloat. another issue is that most pixies' core filters still work- which would be fine if they produced magic. pixies overfilter their magic, leading them to use a highly complicated wand (along with several binding contracts) to utilize the magic still delivered to their core pools. (it's also a phone. why not toss that in for free? Head Pixie was feeling really nice when he made that decision.)

pixies have a very large core filter and membrane in their neural core, with a small central core and large magic pools. their magic threads are thin.

#gettin' biological #anti fairy biology #fairy biology #pixie biology #fairly oddparents #fop #the fairly oddparents

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klausysworld · 2 years ago

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Sex with Rebekah head canon😋

Sex with Rebekah head cannons:

Rebekah is defo a switch in my eyes.

One day she’ll be on-top of you trying to see how far your legs can stretch while she grinds down on you and sucks purple marks into your neck

The next she’ll be squirming with your fingers deep inside her, girlish moans echoing through the mansion

Bekah is much more eager for long, time well spent fucking love making over a quick little interaction

She likes to have you all dressed up nicely to her liking, she loves to take you lingerie shopping, having you all pretty and fuckable

Of course she could never not wear something absolutely delicious. Always dressed in the finest lace showing her luscious curves

Her hips always swayed seductively when she walked, it was never clear if she was naturally so elegant or purposefully trying to entice you

When she lured you back to your bedroom she was always ready to pounce on you, pinning you beneath her and claiming your mouth enthusiastically

She loved to have you hump at her leg, she enjoyed the little noises you would make while you ride her beautifully thick thighs. She doesn’t even have to touch you to have you begging for her.

Occasionally she will beg for you too, especially if you’ve been teasing her.

Oh how easily she falls apart when you have you face between her thighs. She can’t help the loud cries and moans that leave her plump lips as your tongue curling inside her. Nails scratch at you scalp as she pulls at your hair.

Sometimes (with your consent) she’ll wake you up by having her talented tongue on your pretty clit, having you flutter your eyes open only to shut them again as you moan loudly and waves of pleasure crash through you

Rebekah is up for basically anything. Role playing? Sure, what do you have in mind?

Toys? Always.

Accessories? She’s always excited.

Bex wants you to be able to indulge in your every fantasy. She’s had 1000years to learn how to do everything, now she gets to show you how good she can be.

On the rare occasion she hasn’t tried something, she’s even more excited, rubbing her thighs together in anticipation as she waits for what’s to come.

She loves to give to you, she likes to know that she can make you feel better than anyone else and always wants to please you

That’s not to say she isn’t over the moon for you to have control over her though. Gosh the dirty things you’ll whisper to her while her hands are stuck above her head, her body struggling to contain itself.

Sometimes when one of you is especially needy in public she’ll have her hand wondering between your legs, urging you to open them so she can feel you.

A few times she would pull you hand to her, she’s been wearing dresses much more since being with you, always ready for your waiting fingers, buzzing in her seat for you.

Even her siblings know that you two are like breeding bunnies. The distaste is clear on Elijah’s face as he glances at the sofa knowing that you two had been there nearly the whole night before finally moving it upstairs as a very embarrassed Klaus accidentally walked in while he was going to get a drink.

Kol was quick to tease his sister and Freya couldn’t help her giggles seeing both your flushed faces.

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atinylittlepain · 2 years ago

Note

hello bestie im back here again with a joel idea <33

ur smut is so fucking good but im in need of some nice fluff rn because I love the last of us but god that show is hard to watch i get so emotional its hard to keep watching sometimes

but for a fluff idea where the reader, joel, and ellie settle down in jackson and Joel begins to realize that he's happy again and he becomes unsure because he feels guilty about sarah but it ends happily bc its what all of them deserve

my darling, my comrade, thank you for bringing this idea to me. i hope i did it justice <3

gif by @maygrant

Good

Joel Miller x f!reader

joel miller masterlist

Stuck between the despair of the past and fear for the future, Joel struggles to accept the goodness he's found in the present.

warnings | 18+ angst, living with grief, lovely sweetness

..........................

“I still can’t believe that. All that time in FEDRA school and they never taught you how to swim?” Ellie huffs at that, stomping a little further ahead of Joel as she mutters.

“It’s not like we had a fucking pool to do laps in, old man. Give me a break.” He breathes out a laugh, glancing away from the kid and toward his woman as she falls into step beside him.

“No time like the present, kid. Gonna have you swimming like a pro by the end of the day.” He can’t help but smile at her words, and in anticipation of the spectacle that watching her teach Ellie how to swim is going to be. They had lucked out, all three of them having this perfect summer day off from class and shifts in town, and had packed up their day in rucksacks to hike out to the nearby lake with the promise that Ellie would finally learn how to swim.

Life has been– he won’t think the word good, not wanting to jinx anything– but maybe normal? They’ve been living in Jackson for a few months now, and he never thought he’d get used to things like running water and home cooked food ever again, but it seems like he has. Ellie goes to classes while they pick up shifts wherever they’re needed, and at the end of the day, they all come… home. He supposes it is home now, and that makes him nervous as hell. He knows better than most that the minute you get used to something in this world, it tends to disappear on you, and maybe that’s what has been making him hold his woman - the same woman he crawled across the country with - a little closer when they go to sleep each night in their nice, comfortable bed.

His thoughts have been swirling between these fears for the future, and a deep despair for the past. If he stays surface level, he usually concludes that he doesn’t deserve any of this, any of the smiles, the easing laughs with Ellie, the sweet press of his woman’s palm along his shoulders letting him know she’s still there. Not after everything he did to get by before. But if he needles past the last twenty years, he hits something that stings even more when he remembers that any happiness he gets, Sarah will always be gone.

He’s starting to be pulled under by his mind as they continue hiking, but she keeps him buoyed with the way she tangles her fingers with his, offering him a smile as they near the lake. They all shrug off their packs in the grass, she and Ellie already toeing off their shoes. When he sits down with a groan, leaning back on his hands, she gives him a questioning look.

“You’re not coming in?” He squints up at her, the mid-day sun a halo around her head.

“Someone oughta keep lookout. You two go on.” Her mouth twists up, but she drops it with a shrug, pulling off her t-shirt to reveal the faded swimsuit she had managed to trade for along with Ellie’s. The kid is standing with her hands on her hips, looking out at the lake like she’s surveying a new planet. She sidles up alongside Ellie, slinging her arm over the girl’s shoulder and murmuring something about “proving the old man wrong” that makes her laugh, the worry scrunching up her face quick to relieve itself. Joel doesn’t even have time to be annoyed at what she called him, times like these making him quick to thaw, when the kid actually gets to be a kid.

As she is in most things, Ellie is a quick learner, after some initial trepidation, and soon Joel’s watching the two of them dip and swerve through the water, the picture of grace in the clear summer heat. He smiles to himself, remembering how Sarah learned how to swim. Tommy bribed her into the rec center pool with the promise of a strawberry milkshake, and by the end of the day, Joel had to bribe her out of the pool with the promise of fries to go with said milkshake. The pain is quick to settle in at the memory. He finds himself bringing a palm to his chest, trying to rub out the ache even though he knows it won’t ever go away.

His attention is pulled away by Ellie hauling herself out of the lake, bending over and shaking her dripping hair out before plopping down next to him to rummage through her pack. He glances down at his jeans, now darkened by spots of water from her aggressive shake-off, before turning and quirking his brow at her. Already scarfing down her sandwich, she shrugs, mumbling through a mouthful.

“What? I’m fucking starving, man.” He shakes his head, trying to look annoyed, but failing miserably with the smile he can’t fight off.

“Language, kid. And you’re gonna have to wait a while after eating that if you wanna get back in.” Her brow furrows at that.

“Why?”

“Because– because you– look, that’s just the rule, ok? S’what they always said– gotta wait a while after you eat if you wanna swim.”

“Who’s they?” That makes him huff.

“I don’t know, alright? Christ, do whatever you want.” He knows it’s too harsh, but he’s having a hard time staying in the present when the past is hanging so heavy over him. He sighs, resting his arms over his knees and leaning forward, his gaze unfocusing into the grass.

“Joel?”

“Hmm?” He keeps his gaze hung low, just tilting his head slightly toward Ellie to let her know he is listening.

“Are you ok?” The question catches him entirely off guard, his head whipping around to look at her, his eyes squinted.

“I’m fine.” Ellie mirrors his own expression, eyes squinting, mouth in a close line as she nods.

“You deserve to be ok, y’know? I believe that.” She just keeps surprising him, and he coughs hard, trying to clear the tightness in his throat before he responds.

“I know, kid. Thank you– I’ll be ok.” She nods again, seeming to accept his answer as she looks back out at the lake. His eyes follow, seeing his woman, floating on her back with a serene look on her face, her arms lightly swaying in the water. He knows Ellie had slipped and called her mom the other day. Maybe it wasn’t a slip at all.

“Well, if I can’t get back in right now, one of us might as well. Go on, old man. I’ll keep lookout.” He grumbles at the nickname that both of them seem to have settled on for him, but the heat has gotten to him just enough that he listens to her, getting up and shrugging out of his unlaced boots, his t-shirt and jeans quick to follow.

“Jesus, my eyes!” He huffs as Ellie cackles to herself, but is a little too focused on the look his woman is giving him from the middle of the lake to pay much mind to her jabs.

The water is cool, a relief to every aching joint in his body as he wades in. He can’t remember the last time he did something like this. She meets him in the middle of the lake, an easy smile on her lips as she winds her arms around the back of his neck.

“Hey, handsome.” Even after all this time, he’s still prone to blushing when she talks like that, all syrup and sweetness. He scoffs to hide the creeping heat, his one hand coming to skate up and down her back. She tilts her head, seeming to search his face as she murmurs lowly.

“You’ve been scowling all day. Gonna tell me what’s going on?” She can read him like a book, always could, and it drives him insane most of the time.

“M’fine.” By the look on her face, he knows she isn’t going to accept that answer. He sighs.

“I just– this doesn’t feel real. Like– it’s too good to be true, don’t you think?” Her brow furrows at his words.

“I think it’s good for sure. But I can understand what you mean– waiting for the other shoe to drop, right?” He nods, both of them swaying lightly in the ebb of the water.

“It’s that– but I can’t stop thinking about– about–” His words fizzle out in his throat as he catches sight of something, a flickering of movement hovering just above the water.

Wings. The smallest splotches of colors blinking like eyes. A butterfly. The only thing that runs through his mind is a name. Her name. His Sarah.

Suddenly, a breathy laugh is rolling out of him.

“What? What is it? Is this– are you having a stroke?” The ridiculousness of the genuine worry across her face just makes him laugh more, his hands finding purchase on her waist and pulling her closer.

“Joel, this isn’t funny. What’s–” He cuts her off with a smacking kiss, her face stunned when he pulls away.

“I’m fine, darlin. I’m gonna be fine.” He glances one more time at the butterfly, alighted on the surface of the lake for a second before it flutters away. But he knows she hasn’t really left him. Wherever he goes, he knows he has her with him.

He kisses his woman again, this time to the much-vocalized chagrin of Ellie on the water’s edge.

“Gross! You guys are scarring me for life here!” She pulls away from him with a laugh, hollering at Ellie to mind her own business before fixing her attention back on him with a grin.

“Good?” He nods.

“Good.”

#joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller one shot #joel miller imagine #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #tlou

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grimbanes · 2 years ago

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I'm Getting Used to You. (Kaz Brekker x gn!reader)

Summary: “You should shut your mouth, Brekker, before you say something you regret. If you drive me out of here, you’ll only be back on my doorstep in five months time. You need me more than you want me so suck it up. You’re becoming a liability, not me,” Venom. You had enough, laying it out to him. Kaz’s form stood in front of the table, an unreadable expression on his face. OR kaz and the reader have a hard conversation and you're pretty tired of his shit. PART TWO OF I WAS USING YOU. WC: 3.1k GENRE: angst, minor action, sprinklings of fluff, ooc kaz? tw: violence, blood, the usual warning for SOC. a/n: i left it open for a possible part 3. i intended for more angst but cheri cheri lady by modern talking was on replay.

You continued on your path through the streets of Ketterdam, baked goods tucked under your arm and a light skip in your step. The sun was starting to kiss the seas goodnight, laying to rest beneath her depths and the cool breath of night air was starting to introduce itself to leaning rooftops. Your shoulder had been healing nicely, still bandaged and sore at the joint, still bruised. It would scar and be a permanent reminder for yourself. Don’t fall in love with criminals. To everyone’s surprise, you and Kaz had fallen back into your usual routines with not a mention or hint of prior feelings being discussed. Business as usual.

Your shoulder had healed and your heart had frozen over and you had to learn to like it that way. You couldn’t let yourself be the kind of person to force somebody else to face your feelings for you, to pull you through your trauma instead of you learning to swim through it. You hadn’t been on a job in just over a month, Kaz’s orders. He said he hadn’t wanted to risk any liabilities in his plans and didn’t like to work around the possibility of one either. And you were glad for it. Getting shot was turning out to be one of the best things to ever happen to you.

As you approached the Crow Club, you momentarily considered just how lucky you were to have the people in your life that you did. You pushed the door open and immediately shuddered, welcoming the slightly warmer air and clicking the door behind you shut.

“Are you cold?” That voice that used to haunt your dreams and comfort your evenings called out from behind the bar, Kaz Brekker emerging with a ledger in one hand and a pen in the other. It seemed he had been taking stock, doing his usual numbers and checks. Perhaps the new liquor had been selling nicely or maybe he wanted to double check before they opened for the night.

“It’s Ketterdam. It’s always cold,” You smoothly replied, stepping further into the building and aiming for the door off to the side. You had fresh baked goods to store away, jams and creams to preserve or else they would spoil much too soon. You had workers to feed, after all, and street urchins who sometimes stopped by for some warmth and a snack before looking for a place to sleep for the night.

“Jes has gone to the Slat,” Kaz said uselessly, closer than you anticipated. You hadn’t even heard him follow you.

You glanced over your shoulder, wincing a little with the strain and met his curious gaze, those stoney irises watching you with careful consideration. That’s how the two of you were. No more breaths wasted on confessions or anguish. You didn’t even argue, not since you were shot. Instead he watched you like a crow scouting its next meal, lingering a little too long and offering you his presence. You liked it better than arguing, truly. That was draining and the last thing you needed was to be emotionally drained and injured.

You hummed in response to him, nodding once. You knew that already, Jesper had told you where he was spending his evening.

“Coffee?” You offered gently, holding up two cups.

“I have work to do.”

You didn’t fight him, nor did you react. Not like you used to. Before, you would have told him ‘work can wait for Dirtyhands to have a cup of tea’ or ‘indulge me, Mr Brekker, I know you want to’. Your routine with him was the same but the soft little moments you had together had been the price.

You ignored Kaz’s fidgeting, his lack of cane. You ignored the way he checked his timepiece, rocked on his feet and approached. You hummed to yourself as Kaz began to assist you, placing jams on shelves and creams aside - they would spoil by tomorrow, but it was treat enough. You only acknowledged it when you offered him a thankful smile, a nod and began to pour yourself your drink. You could only stare at his gloved hands as they delicately held onto the rim of a cup and settled it next to yours, his fingers lingering on it. Your head turned from the cup to Kaz, his eyes already locked onto you.

Kaz Brekker truly was a beautiful individual. High cheekbones and fresh scars, his bottom lip split from whatever fight he had recently been in. You had no doubt his knuckles beneath his gloves were scarred. He stood dressed in all black, the warm light of burning candles reflecting warmth in his conflicted irises - the way his throat bobbed and mouth twitched when he considered saying something, the tension rigid in his shoulders with the stiffness in his arm whilst holding the cup. He was an enigma and one you were deeply fond of, even if you didn’t wish to pursue anything with him further. It hurt too much.

With only you and Kaz Brekker standing in that building, you didn’t utter a word as you poured the hot liquid into his cup. You wouldn’t dare tell a soul that the Bastard of the Barrel changed his mind on something.

“Nina is also at the Slat,” Kaz spoke up, clearing his throat and stepping an inch back from you, startled by the lack of distance between the two of you - you wanted to roll your eyes.

“I know,” You replied curtly, sliding over his cup and bidding yourself exit from the makeshift kitchen.

“Then why are you here?” Kaz asked, a few uneven steps behind you but trailing you nonetheless. Kaz Brekker didn’t follow anyone.

“I work here,” You stated the obvious, sinking into a corner table beside the bar.

That seemed to be enough. Kaz stopped trailing you.

“You should quit,” He said from across the room, coffee in hand, his nose buried into his numbers and papers even though you both knew damn well he had it all memorised three times over.

You laughed, bitter and lacking all amusement. You slammed a hand down on the table, irritation bubbling deep in your skin. You never snapped. You were accepting, patient. All the things somebody like him needed when he was acting without thinking, sabotaging himself and you. This time, you weren’t putting up with it.

“You should shut your mouth, Brekker, before you say something you regret. If you drive me out of here, you’ll only be back on my doorstep in five months time. You need me more than you want me so suck it up. You’re becoming a liability, not me,” You had enough, laying it out to him. You were echoing Nina’s words back at him. Kaz had to realise what he was doing. He couldn’t not see it, right?

Kaz’s form stood in front of the table, an unreadable expression on his face. He pulled out a chair, sat down opposite you and carded his gloved fingers through his hair, disheveling his appearance further. He didn’t speak for a moment, analysing you. This is what he did, he studied and looked for weakness, one he could use against you later and force your hand when he deemed it convenient. Unfortunately for him, your only weakness happened to be him.

“I want you out of here by the time we open. You’re done with the Dregs,” Kaz decided, a small nod of his head and bitter curl of his lips.

His eyes didn’t meet yours, staring down at his twitching fingers atop the stained table. You stared at him incredulously. You laughed at him. Kaz Brekker, Bastard of the Barrel, was so afraid of his own feelings that he was really willing to fire you. You shook your head, an amused smile on your face and a snort escaping, pointing at him with a waggle of your finger as if to say ‘good one’.

“And who will be there to cover Jesper when he inevitably wanders away from the door? Who will cover Wylan on jobs when he has to focus on his other businesses? Who will watch your back when you need a scout? Certainly not Inej, she’s got her own life. Nina? Not likely. You need me, Brekker. You don’t have to want me, you can fight that all you want. You’re making rash decisions based on fear, on weakness, and it’s making you a hypocrite. It’s not easy for me either so just deal with it or go away,” You explained. You knew you were being condescending but it felt so good to be the only person who could talk down to Dirtyhands.

“I don’t want you gone because of feelings for you.” Kaz said, his gaze unwavering and irritation clear in the twitch of his eye, the lazy raise of his eyebrow and the subtle, dangerous smirk wanting to pull up one side of his face, “I want you gone because I don’t want you to be hurt again.”

You couldn’t stop your own guard from slipping, your expression falling the more you stared at him. He hadn’t been firing you, he was worried about you. You licked your lips, nodded once and then shuffled in your chair. You pulled it around the table, placed it next to Kaz’s and sat yourself beside him. Where you were always supposed to be. Without touching him, you leaned into his space, close enough that when he turned his head to face you, there were only mere inches between the two of you.

“We’re both very dark people, Kaz. Despite that, you’re still my light. I understand that you’re worried, that you don’t know how to process your feelings when you’re overwhelmed but that’s okay. We don’t always have to fight. We can just be,” You said with a small, tender smile on your mouth. All of your anger began to dissipate and the tension in Kaz’s shoulder began to cease, his hands unclenching and something akin to a smile graced his pale eyes, vulnerability staring straight back at you.

“We could have this,” Kaz mumbled, his head dipped and momentarily, his forehead knocked gently against yours. It was barely a touch, enough for him to exhale shakily, his throat bobbing and he was all yours in that single moment.

“That’s right, Kaz. We could have this,” You nodded and his head was turning from you, “You just have to want it enough. You’re a man who sees value, what value is this to you?”

Kaz steeled himself, leaning back in his chair and then he was looking at you again. Conflicted. He breathed out, rolled his tongue into his cheek and accepted his fate. His arm moved from in front of him to instead drape over the back of your chair, pulling the wood closer to himself and his eyes met yours once again, his bruised face illuminated in a stunning, golden glow. The dark cloud in front of you stepped aside, revealing the sunshine that he kept hidden deep beneath his rugged surface.

“I would burn kruge to keep you warm,” Kaz chose to say.

It was a silly response, one that had you laughing into your hand, your head cast aside. He was staring again, something soft painting his renaissance features a gentle version of his previous self. There was a tilt in his head, a subtle smile on the left corner of his lips that met his eyes, steady and confident as he always was. Your fingers hugged the surface of your cup and you clinked it against his.

“That would be a lot of kruge and besides… I don’t feel so cold anymore,” You said to him, watching relief practically emanate from every pore and every little motion that belonged to Kaz Brekker.

____________________________________________________________

You ducked and weaved, jumping back and arching yourself in a way to avoid swing after swing. You kissed your brass knuckles, pulled back your arm and lunged, cracking your fist down on an already bloody cheekbone. The man fell onto the floor and you groaned, rolling a kink out of your shoulder. Your weight shifted to your heel, realigning your centre of balance and you were kicking a leg out as you turned, the nails sticking out of the bottom of your boots sticking into a chest as you sent the second assailant into the alleyway wall. You wiped your forehead, smudging blood away. You had to run. If they pulled guns, that was it for you.

Turning on your heel, you darted towards the exit of the alleyway but instead of going through the exit, you hopped up and gripped onto the edge of a tall, damp wall. One foot at a time, you climbed and swung your body over the top. You dropped into a roll to carry the momentum and began to sprint. You weaved through carts and traders, slipping past Komedie Brute disguises. It had been foolish to wander so far, you knew it, but you just needed a nice stroll in the night and the weather had been somewhat clear for Ketterdam.

There was no other explanation. Someone from the gang must have let slip the precarious nature of your relationship with Kaz Brekker. You hadn’t put a label on it but it was obvious how you felt about one another. One of their many fools must have let it slip on a gambling table or in a rival club’s bar. You had been followed and targeted. Of course you would be, anyone would love the chance to get at the one man who had single handedly dominated the game to the point where it barely seemed like a war and more like a massacre. The possibility of turncoat or traitor was dangerous, accidental or not. It had to be dealt with.

You continued to run, scaling fences and low walls and arches, your stamina draining only slowly. You kept running even on the algae slick cobbled paths, throwing yourself down alleyways. Luckily, they weren’t able to keep you. You threw yourself up the stairs to the Crow Club, bursting through the door and staggering through patron and client. You kept pushing until you were throwing open the door to Kaz’s office, slamming it behind you. He looked at you with annoyance at first but it quickly turned to confusion, then anger.

“What happened to you?” Kaz asked, his tone dry. He gestured a hand for you to sit and you did, throwing yourself into the seat opposite him. His hair was slicked back away from his strong bone structure and he looked bored, itching to go do anything else even if he loved puzzles and numbers.

“Felt like going for a little walk and got jumped. Seems one of our donnies may have said something he shouldn’t have,” You said, accepting the handkerchief Kaz extended to you between two fingers. You wiped blood away, hissing. He then opened his drawer, pulling out a flask of what could only be his usual brandy and he tossed it to you. You opened it, poured it on the cloth and began to wipe at your cuts and bruises, sterilising them.

“There’s always a risk in being associated with me,” He said but it was evident that he was unsettled. He rose from his seat, left his paperwork open and circled the desk.

The young man sat against it, his tall height towering over you and gingerly, he took the handkerchief from your clumsy hands. He’d always been dexterous, careful and exact with his skilled hands, much more elegant than you would ever be. Kaz took your chin in between his finger and thumb, tilted your head up to look at him. Bow shaped, unfairly pink lips pressed into a firm line and gentle touches brushed your fresh cuts, wiping away fresh blood. Carefully, he turned your head to the side and tutted, dabbing your temple. If it affected him, he was doing well not to show it other than heavier breathing. He didn’t stop until he was satisfied, his hands dropping to settle in front of him and he stared at you.

“No murderous intent?” You asked quietly, leaned forward. You wouldn’t push into his space. He always had to come to you first, you didn’t want to overwhelm him.

Kaz’s lips broke into a malicious grin, his teeth on show and something dangerous stared back at you in his blue hydrangea eyes, a flood beginning to rise and a cyclone daring to push onto land. “Oh darling, I am furious. Patience is a skill I have mastered and nurtured. I’m going to gut every single Dreg until my floors are stained the perfect shade of red. I’ve been meaning to redecorate.”

“Who knew you were such a romantic,” You laughed, your heart stuttering your chest.

Blood was currency in Ketterdam, worth so much more than kruge and everybody and anybody knew if there was one thing Kaz craved more than kruge, it was blood. His gloved fingers brushed hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear and he was everything in that moment. He was violent and he was malicious. He was loving and he was affectionate. More importantly, you were truly starting to believe that he was yours. He tutted, tsked and sighed, pushing away from the desk and reached for his cane where it had been propped against his desk.

“Will you be alright?” He asked, the thunderous rage crackling through his towering figure adorned in black and gold and you had never felt more loved in your entire life. Kaz was making sure you were okay before he got his own revenge. How sweet. You smiled, your cheeks flushed pink.

“Even if I wasn’t, I know you’d make sure I would be,” You teased, standing behind him and he glanced at you from over his shoulder, his brows raised.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” He rolled his eyes, turning around to face you and leaning his weight into his cane.

“Is that an offer?”

“I’ll cut out your tongue if you keep talking, love,” Kaz stepped past you, reaching for the handle of the door and then he paused, looked at you and pointed his finger as he said, “Stay here. If I see you anywhere but this office, I’ll break your legs too.”

“If you want me on my knees, just ask,” You continued, flipping through the pages on his desk.

“You’re irritating.”

“You adore me,” You were still distracting him from completing his mission but you were thoroughly enjoying the hold you had over him. Kaz shook his head, annoyed.

“I do.”

That was the last thing he said before the door was slamming behind him.

You hadn’t expected him to agree.

tags: @noctemys @osteopsycho @stxrg4zer @vyctorya

( comment if you want to be apart of future tags! )

#kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker #six of crows #six of crows duology #shadow and bone season 2 #shadow and bone #shadow and bone netflix #grishaverse

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nerdforreid · 6 months ago

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Prologue - Burnt out

Authors note - Hi! This is a teaser for what will hopefully be either a long one shot or a multi-part depending on whether it’s enjoyed or not but I’ve never written before and wanted to put out a teaser before releasing anything else. Please let me know if there’s anything I should change/ include.

Summary - Spencer Reid x reader. Although this is only a prologue the fic is going to be about the readers struggles with burn out and pushing her concerned coworkers away as a consequence. Despite this there is one of her coworkers who has been watching her throughout her time at the BAU and has recognised the patterns in her behaviour. However, will Spencer’s interference cause more harm than good?

Genre - hurt/comfort, heavy angst, fluff at the end

Warnings - fem!Reader, she/her pronouns used for the reader, allusions to depression, mentions of a difficult childhood, allusions to childhood trauma, possible lack of commas and proper grammar

Word count - very short but don’t get used to it x

While your childhood had been a blurry array of mismatched memories, there were a couple lessons your parents unconsciously taught you that you carried with you every day, like a form of sacred scripture. For example, you learnt at a young age how to ‘predict’ or anticipate the ways in which someone may act; some may call this walking on eggshells, but you preferred to view it as an early sign of the life ahead of you as a member of the BAU. Because of this, you liked to view yourself as very emotionally intelligent and empathetic, and you were even praised for this by your fellow team members. However, despite the highly valued benefits, it could definitely be a hurdle in itself sometimes, considering what you did for work.

It wasn’t a rare occurrence that there would be times when you would lie awake at night plagued by questions about the victim's friends and family and what came next for them. Despite your better judgement, you’d constantly torture yourself with the question, “What if things were different?”. But they weren’t different, and they never would be.

Burnout was something you ran from in the fear that showing the slightest weakness would prove to yourself and your coworkers that you weren’t cut out for this. You could even go months before the exhaustion and pain finally caught up, but when they did, it was all consuming.

Out of your two years and three months working at the BAU, there had been four separate occasions where you had sent emails in the early hours of the morning pleading with Hotch to let you take time off, each time only stating it was due to personal problems. You knew it was stupid to not just lie and say you were ill, but you also knew it would be naive of you to try to lie to one of the best profilers you knew.

You tried to keep occasions like this rare and would take any precautions necessary to limit the worries of your BAU family. You would force yourself to reply to each and every one of the cat memes that Penelope would forward you, and you would even reply to the long and thoughtful messages from JJ confirming that, despite her probably valid worries, you were in fact completely okay. However, there was one member of the team who could see through your perfectly crafted mirage with ease, and it was none other than your best friend, Spencer Reid.

—————————————————————————————————————

Hi again! I hope you enjoyed this despite it being so short! Please let me know if you’d like me to continue :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid hurt/comfort #criminal minds fic

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tawneybel · 5 days ago

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Request: “I hope you could whip up a lil bit more smut for the pink soldiers.”

Imagine being taken aside by two Pink Soldiers so they can take you.

The first Triangle had taken his time. Made sure you were excited enough to effortlessly accept two cocks. Not at once. He would have loved to see you double stuffed. But his less experienced coworker had snuck inside you before he could bring it up. Rude. Still, it was fun to see a pretty girl’s face contort as she playfully pretended to struggle to accommodate the girth.

If the other players knew you were getting preferential treatment, or thought you were a plant, things might get messy. He glanced at your thighs, which had already been coated with cum when they led you to the hallway. Were you sleeping with another player? Other players? Nice.

You were perfect at taking dick. One after another, the first Triangle thought. Perfect at taking him after other players, after his coworker. You panted, tongue out, face pressed against the pastel wall by a black glove. When he was alone in his cell, he’d probably cum again, mask off, inhaling your sweat off of it. Instead of licking the slick right off his fingers.

The black gloves weren’t terribly comfortable in or around your openings, but raw fingering was A-OK. Not that you were in any position to tell the Guards what to do.

Outside of work, the first Triangle usually preferred full nudity. Both his own and his partners’. During the games was different. He wasn’t risking you seeing any bare skin. If you wanted to flick your pebble, it made no difference to him. You got so wet just anticipating a threesome. If you didn’t, he’d have used the discreet vibrator you wore on a necklace, concealed under your shirt. He’d felt it while groping you, testing your compliance. Lifting it out of your cleavage, he gently dropped the pendant over the green ___ printed on the white cotton. Not even needing to tilt his head to get you to understand he knew what it really was.

Sometimes players smuggled stuff in. This was new, though. Dirty girl.

Way better use of a necklace than a pill case, you mentally huffed while the Pink Guard examined the accessory.

Lucky for you, the other Triangle was happy to stroke at your clit with his pinkie. If you’d looked down, the sight of a partner desperate to please would have ushered you into the first orgasm. (Of the session, not the day.) Climaxing onto his twitching digits. Glossy goo sleeping all the way down his warm palm to his wrist. If he’d been more experienced, he might have realized you were ovulating.

Not that it mattered if you got knocked up. Just two more games to go. Even if you won, you wouldn’t have time to balloon up like 222. His more experienced coworker, who’d had a vasectomy, didn’t bother mentioning being snipped. You were an all round risk taker. A taker in general, judging from the way you used other players sexually and took more and more fingers than he’d seen anyone take in their cunt before. So wet. So slippery.

Because the thought of you bringing your own vibe to the island, making use of it while hidden away on one of the top bunks, your little gasps attracting the attention of a bunkmate…! Maybe he says something to the guy below him. Next thing you know, the faux-phallus is supplemented with real dick. It looked like the previous guy’s semen was cleaned out, but spilled onto your thighs. Or someone pulled out and finished on them. The thought of that likely scenario made him blow his load, bucking his hips against your plush ass. Ramming into your grip, any lingering concern over your comfort had melted away.

This guy was gonna bust soon. You could tell.

Second Triangle’s cockhead was peeking out, eager to reintroduce itself after a break. It was bad enough he couldn’t kiss your pretty pussy quite yet, or at least lick up the mystery jizz. He had to withdraw his fingers and back up as his fellow guard shuddered into you. Lest your crotch bump into his mask.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, promptly straightening up as the soft cock slipped out. His hands had migrated to your biceps. You let your cheek rest against the cool wall. Then you crossed legs. Futilely holding their mixed cum inside.

“I don’t feel like waddling to the bathroom right now,” you whined. “Can one of you eat me out?”

They looked at each other.

It wasn’t like the second Triangle’s reputation really mattered here, and he had just fantasized about licking up someone else’s semen. (Off the thighs of a hot babe, but still.) His own, though?

As they both stood before you, a sigh escaped your lips. “Quit eyefucking each other and do rock, paper, scissors or something.”

It really wasn’t your place to tell the Guards what to do. Yet the first guy made a fist and rested it on his palm, ready to throw. Post nut clarity should have warned him not to. Just let go of your arms and- When would he get this opportunity again?

“What are you two doing?”

They stared past you, while you had to swivel your head to see who it was. A Square. He wasn’t addressing you, maybe because he didn’t expect you to behave any differently. Cameras were everywhere, after all. Frustrated, you stuck your pendant into your mouth. At this rate, the battery would be used up before you won. Not that this Square probably knew that, let alone what it was.

He addressed his underlings. “Removing masks would result in immediate termination.”

The three of you stood facing him. Arms hanging at your sides. Unsure how to proceed. Nobody spoke. Then the Square Guard took up his walkie talkie.

“What-?” you started.

“Either we get a disposable Circle, or Player ___ comes with me.”

The two Triangles watched as you pulled up first your panties, then your track pants. And chose the second option.

“Fix yourself,” said the first Triangle, before turning around to continue his shift. The second had forgotten to tuck himself away.

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bibibbon · 7 months ago

Note

I feel like fan discussion regarding MHA has become so boring for the past months/year or so, at least around some social media platforms (I don’t check Twitter). Criticism is the most interesting thing about MHA discussion right now.

It’s hard to have fun theorizing or speculating about the plot because the story is incredibly shallow and plot points only happen to move the story along. For other series you might think more about the deeper meaning of the story themes and symbolisms and give multiple interpretations of the same scene, but for MHA not only do they poorly attempt to spell out the plot for you but they also have too much plot convenience so that whenever somebody asks “Why did X happen in the story?” there’s no deeper reason behind it besides “Horikoshi just wanted to write it that way regardless of whether it made sense or not.”

And because Horikoshi just pulls shit out of nowhere for any reason, it ruins speculation when anything stupid can happen for any reason. It’s gotten to the point where I know readers are dreading the idea of something stupid out of nowhere happening just because the plot wills it. Some readers despise the idea of Deku ending the series Quirkless so they’re waiting in anticipation for the next chapters not because they are hyped but because they are afraid of what the author is doing to their own series. MHA is just so mid.

As someone who has been in quite a few fandoms and has seen their mangas end there's usually huge uproars and widespread criticism of the story because thats kind of what people move onto. I guess what I mean is that by the lack of content and ability to theorise what would happen fans in general move to looking back over at the story and maybe nitpicking details that the mangaka hasn't addressed. Also don't get me started on the endings because it seems like every time a mangaka ends their manga they will get criticism one way or another. Take for example the attack on titan ending that got so much backlash that isayama literally had to modify the ending by adding half a chapter and that didn't even stop some people from whining. Personally I really enjoyed the aot ending and I have almost no criticism for aot in general.

To me MHAs quite different because we can tell it's rushed and the plot points are somewhat predictable. In all honesty MHA fanfiction can sometimes be better than canon itself which says a lot in my opinion.

I have been on the MHA critical tag since December/November of last year so Iam not surprised to see more posts on that tag since the mangas writing has taken a turn for the worse due to various different factors.

In the end I practically agree with all that you said anon.

#mha critical #bnha critical #mha #hori is a bad writer #horikoshi critical #bhna critical #bnha #asks #thanks for the ask #thanks anon #thanks for the ask!#thanks anon!

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reki-of-the-valley · 3 months ago

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Summer Time (Family) Madness

lmao it's been like 6 months since the last time the last revision. And like 2 and a half years since the end of this fic. But alas. At least I'm still working on the revisions. So here's an updated chapter 6!

First | < Previous | Chapter 6 | Next >

It wasn’t uncommon to find Langa hidden under the counter at DopeSketch. Normally, it was to avoid having to interact with any of the customers; Reki was just naturally so much better at the whole customer service part of their shared retail job. Now, however, Langa found himself more often than not with a book on his lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor. Now, he spent his shifts groaning about the homework that was assigned on summer break of all times.

Thankfully though, DopeSketch really wasn’t the busiest shop in town. Langa could get away with his time wasted watching videos instead of reading his novel, or all his lost minutes staring at the same math equation. Barely anyone entered the little shop, and those who did never stuck around for more than a few minutes, browsing the few shelves of skateboarding equipment. So, during the shifts where Langa remained cooped up in the small shop, watching the sun beat down on the smiling people in the streets, he got to do homework. If he had to explain to someone what he was being paid to do, the most honest answer he could muster was that his paycheck covered the cost of someone playing the role of a babysitter for a store that most definitely would not up and run away. Or maybe he was being paid to keep his grades up since he had nothing better to do than work on his assignments.

It was a miracle Oka still gave him shared shifts with Reki. It didn’t take a genius to know that employing two best friends was not the ideal recipe for productivity, but maybe the man knew how lonely it could get in the shop. Maybe that was why he let the boys keep each other company during their long shifts. And that was what they did; even if they silently did their own separate thing, at least they had each other. As long as they were together, everything would be okay. As long as they had one another, the day wouldn’t feel eternal. And sometimes, a calm and silent afternoon was exactly what they needed.

Langa groaned as he leaned back against the counter, tipping his head back in annoyance. He had tried, he had really tried to get a head start on his summer schoolwork. He had really tried to power through his assigned readings as fast of possible. He had tried to get it over with as soon as possible, but that determination was too good to be true. When it came to actually doing it, it proved itself much harder than anticipated. And Langa hadn’t been proud to admit that his reading skills could almost rival his handwriting.

“I don’t get it.” His eyes fell shut as another sign fell from his lips. “Why do we need literature? What’s the use of old books no one cares about? Even in English, I sucked at it. I just…” The world reappeared before him, brighter than he remembered it to be just a few seconds ago. “I don’t get it! And I just don’t care!”

A pen was clicked a few times as Reki hummed to himself. He must have been sketching in the margins of his notebook instead of doing the math problems he had said he would be doing. He had to have been; the pen strokes were far too methodical and repetitive to be that of writing.

“I don’t know, man. Something about culture and it’s important we know about our past.” A smile broke across Langa’s face as he peeked out from under the counter just as Reki surrounded the last part of his statement with air quotes. “But I can help you if you want. But in exchange,” red hair fell to the side as Reki leaned over to get a better view of Langa, “you gotta explain to me our next English project. ‘Cause like, that man talks way too fast for me to catch a single thing he says. I’m pretty sure I understand those American sitcoms better than him, and I never know what’s happening in those.”

Langa chuckled as he agreed on their deal. Reki would be helped with some English homework and Langa wouldn’t fail yet another written assignment; this friendship definitely had its perks beyond the whole having a friend thing. And it wasn’t even like Reki was exaggerating about their English teacher; the man really did speak way too fast. It also did not help that he had the heaviest accent Langa had ever come across, occasionally slurring his words and making it hard for even Langa to perfectly understand what was being said. But at least he had the advantage of being completely fluent, even if his grades didn’t always reflect that, which meant he could rely on the instruction sheet rather than the verbal expectations.

Silence reigned once more in the little shop, both boys having returned to their individual activities. Quiet, methodical pen strokes echoed against the walls; the sound of rustling pages made its place in the song being composed in the little skateboard shop. It was quiet and relaxing, peaceful even.

Langa had come to appreciate watching Reki work his crafts, be it doodling in the margins of his notebooks or his repetitive shaving of a board. Whether he knew it or not, he made the funniest faces as he concentrated on his work. Sometimes he would furrow his brow, leaning closer to the paper before straightening out to continue adding endless details to his drawing. Other times, he would stick his tongue out as if that was what helped keep focus on his work. And once he completed something he was particularly proud of, his eyes would glow with pride as he held his piece up to the light. That was the face Langa liked the most; it was the face of someone who was proud of themselves, and Reki deserved most of all to be proud of himself. He deserved to be proud of himself, to see himself the way Langa saw him. None of that frustration that would often overcome him as he would huff and rip the page out of his sketchbook or notebook. No more crumpling and tossing of masterpieces he simply could not see. If it were up to Langa, none of that would ever happen again, but for now, he would content himself in collecting Reki’s trashed art. Even if they weren’t up to Reki’s standards, they would always be works of art to Langa.

Langa loved watching Reki draw. It was quiet and tranquil, a moment where Reki wasn’t bouncing around, talking with his hands, words stumbling over themselves as he went on and on. And as much as Langa loved Reki’s endless energy, he also deeply appreciated the calm moments they would share. But as with everything else, good moments must come to an end, the door chiming as a customer walked in.

“Welcome to Dope— Oh, hey Emily!”

Langa perked up at the name. Emily? Why was she here of all places? Langa had purposely avoided telling her where he worked in hopes of getting away from her. Dope Sketch had been the only place Langa could go to escape the teasing remarks and those eyes that stared straight into his soul. It was the one place where he felt safe from her badgering questions about his oh-so-obvious crush on Reki. Work had somehow become his little slice of quiet heaven, and now that bubble had burst. Now, she had found him and his hiding spot.

Reluctantly, Langa pushed himself off the ground only to smash his head against the counter and crash back down. He held the top of his head as she let out a whiney cry of pain.

“Dude! Langa!” Amber eyes fell onto him, eyes filled with worry and shock. “What’s up with you and hitting your head lately?”

If Langa had known the answer, he would have told Reki. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. Maybe it was all those distractions, distractions disguised as the people hovering around him. Maybe it was Reki and just how absolutely distracting he was, be it while he would sketch, his face will with concentration, or when he would kneel next to Langa, his beautiful eyes still wide and filled with worry.

Between Reki and Langa, there was no doubt that Reki was the more accident-prone one. He was the one constantly sporting bandages for his sprained ankles and wrists. He was the one scraping his knees after wiping out from trying another new trick he had found on the Internet. He was always the one laughing as he fell on his ass, his board flying from under his feet. Reki was so much more the accident-prone one, at least when it came to skating. When it came to their daily lives, Langa was starting to believe he was the clumsy one, if the last two weeks were any indication. He was the one tripping over his untied shoelaces, eating pavement as Reki choked on his laughter. He was the one splitting his eyebrow open on a window frame in the dead of the night. He was the one smashing his head against the counter instead of greeting his cousin.

“Is he… Is he alright?”

Emily’s head poked from above the counter, her hair a curtain for the nook under the counter. She must have climbed onto the counter to see what mishap was happening away from her prying eyes. And given the frown that pulled at the corners of her mouth, she mustn’t have been proud of clumsy Langa.

A flood of memories washed through Langa at the sight. It wasn’t the first time she had looked down at him like this. Somewhere, somewhere long lost to the fog of memory, this exact situation had happened. But somewhere in those memories, there had also been smiles. A flash of a faceless childish grin. A flash of a girl hanging above his head. A flash of blond hair blocking the sun. Some distant chatter. A storybook. A treehouse. Grass. Laughter. Summer.

Reki pulled Langa from the floor, pulling him out of his impromptus trip down memory lane. He looped his arm around Langa’s waist, holding him tightly as if he were afraid that Langa would drop back down to the ground as soon as he would let go of him. Or maybe Reki feared that Langa had concussed himself; thankfully, that had yet to happen. A miracle, really.

Langa let himself be guided towards the stool Reki had been using earlier. He let his body crash against the wood as soon as he felt it brush against his thighs. If Reki was asking him to sit, then Langa could not refuse. He could never refuse Reki, no matter what it was he was asking. He had learned that the hard way, and there was no way he was going through those torturous days without Reki ever again. No way, especially not when Reki was this close, squeezing his way between Langa’s knees, his rough yet soft fingers holding onto Langa’s burning cheeks. Especially not when he was letting Langa hold on to his waist as he steadied himself onto the stool. Because obviously he needed something to steady himself; otherwise, he would have risked falling again. And he couldn’t fall again. Or was it too late for that?

Reki was so close. So fucking close. Langa could practically count the freckles scattered across his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, his ears… He could almost count every short lash of Reki’s. And he was talking so softly to Langa. His voice was just so mesmerizing, so magical.

“How’s your vision? Do things look blurry?”

“Not more than usual.” A frown pulled at the corners of Reki’s mouth; so much for cracking a joke to lighten the mood. “My vision is fine if that’s what you’re asking. I see just fine. It was an accident; didn’t think I was that far under the counter.”

“And your head? Does it hurt? Do you feel dizzy? Do you feel like—!”

Now, had this been some teen summer romance blockbuster, then maybe Langa would have quieted Reki with a spontaneous kiss. And maybe that would have been the beginning of the best summer of Langa’s life. But Langa was no movie protagonist and, while he was gutsy, he wasn’t that impulsive. So instead, he simply tightened his grip on Reki’s waist, interrupting the boy’s panicked questions.

“I’m fine, Reki. I barely bumped my head against the counter. I’ve dealt with far worse in the past and I’ve survived every one of those blows.”

“You smashed your head against my window frame the other day! I don’t know dude, but that’s kinda worrying! You could be concussed or something! Like, it’s not normal or good for you to constantly be hitting your head! You’re,” Reki’s voice dropped, his eyes finding Langa’s, “you’re not lying to me, are you?”

Reki had never made it easier to smile. “I’m fine, I swear. And I’m not lying to you, I promise.”

Reki huffed as Langa held up his pinkie finger. A light chuckle fell from his lips as his hold on Langa fell away before returning, his own finger curled around Langa’s. A promise had been formed and sealed, a promise that could no longer be broken, at least according to the rules of pinkie promises. But that touch didn’t linger, Reki finally backing away from between Langa’s legs.

“I’m getting you some water and you better not have moved when I get back, you hear me?”

Langa scoffed but still gave Reki a curt nod. There was no point in arguing with Reki; if he had to tape Langa down to the chair to keep him from getting up and wandering around, then he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. So Langa knew better than to try to argue. He simply watched the boy dash to the backroom where their bags were stashed.

It never took much for Langa to look absolutely smitten. All he needed was a door swinging shut behind Reki, leaving Langa hidden from judgement. All it took was that adorably serious expression on Reki’s face as he ran off. All it required was for Reki to be, well, Reki. Everything about Reki was enough to leave Langa floating, because Reki was adorable. Seriously, absolutely adorable.

“He sure it touchy with you.”

Langa jumped at the sound of the voice, having forgotten about the girl standing by him. She had since gotten off the counter, but still, she leaned over it, eyes also glued to the door. The English almost sounded strange, like a foreign dialect taking over a safe space. Emily’s presence felt wrong, as if she had no business being here, next to him. Her presence left Langa annoyed once more, the feeling tugging on his insides. Work had always been one of the places where it truly was just him and Reki. Sure, sometimes Manager Oka would pop in, but most of the time, it was just Reki and Langa. Most of the time, it was a space for just them, somewhere where no one could burst their little bubble.

Dope Sketch was one of the few places where Langa didn’t feel self-conscious every time he snuck a glance at Reki. It was the only place where he knew he wouldn’t be caught by anyone. It was the only place where he felt he could be so unapologetically himself, knee-deep in his feelings without the fear that someone would bring it up, tease him about, or worst of all, call him out on his dumb crush. Here, at work, it was a land that belongs to only Reki and Langa.

“He’s just treating me the same way he treats his sisters when they get hurt.” Langa’s tone was sharp and dry, leaving little room for a retort from the queen of annoying. “Probably just his brotherly instincts kicking in or whatever. It comes naturally to him to be caring, y’know?”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Emily clicked her tongue as she climbed back onto the counter to sit cross-legged on top of it. “You keep telling yourself that, Lover Boy.”

Langa had gotten his fair share of nicknames over the course of his life. He had gotten used to being called a variety of names by the people surrounding him. Reki often teased him by calling him Prince Langa, a name which made no sense to Langa given that he was the furthest thing from a prince. His mother still called him her little man or her baby, which, the more Langa thought about it, were hilarious things to be called. And Emily had gotten into the habit of calling him whatever passed through that thick skull of hers, though she did tend to favor the twig insult. There had been so many names that had shaped Langa, but Lover Boy had never been one of them. Lover Boy was… it wasn’t Langa. It was a name for someone with confidence, someone who was a smooth talker, things that were definitely not Langa when it came to people. Those were things that left Langa’s inside squirming with discomfort. It was a name he wanted to run from, and the best way to do that was by completely changing the subject before Emily could ever bring it up again.

“Hey, Emmy? Did we have a treehouse as kids?”

Emily scrunched her nose as she turned towards Langa. Her brow was pinched, looking strangely at her cousin. “Yeah? Grandpa built it when I was 10, but had to take it down that same summer for some unknown reason, don’t you remember?”

Langa shook his head with a shrug.

“We spent nearly the entire summer in that tree. But why bring that up now? That’s so random.”

Langa shrugged once more. He wanted to change subjects and had had a flashback right after hitting his head. It was random, but that was the thing with foggy memories: they reappeared at the strangest of moments.

“Seeing you looking down on me reminded me of that summer, but I wasn’t sure if it was a real memory or just my brain making things up. It’s just… It’s all a little haze, like every summer memory overlaps. I can’t really tell what happened and when, except the really big events that often got us in shit. Like that one time everyone thought I broke my arm after I fell from a tree? The first time we were allowed to go to the park alone and got home like an hour after the set time? Or that time we accidentally splashed paint on Grandma’s carpet?”

“Oh man! She was so pissed at us! The stain is still there, you know? Almost faded, but you can still see it if you know where to look. And like, I was so sure she was going to rip our heads off that day.”

“Yeah, she was not happy about that one. But the treehouse…” Langa leaned back on the stool, careful to not tip over and crash once again. “The memory feels fake. It’s like I had made it up to give myself some resemblance of a real childhood.”

“But you did have a real childhood, Langa. Sure, it was maybe a little unconventional with all your snowboarding training and competitions, maybe a bit of a gifted kid childhood, but you did still have a childhood. Your parents still took you out to the park when you were a kid and weren’t such an antisocial mess.” Emily stuck her tongue out at Langa’s pointed glare, grinning at the low blow. “But for real though, you had a pretty normal childhood otherwise. Like your parents used to push you on the swings for hours on end when you were a baby. Apparently, you like those things so damn much that the only time you would cry was when someone took you out of your swing.”

Langa slumped down on his stool, ducking his head in embarrassment. The swings were one of those vague baby memories he still had. He had forgotten the whole of it, but he did remember the wind in his face and how much liked it. Still likes it, actually. That had maybe played a big part in why he had gotten into snowboarding in the first place. Maybe that was why he still loved skateboarding so much. All Langa wanted was to be able to fly.

“We spent summer after summer together, playing in the basement and outside and all around the grandparents’ house. And you even throw the biggest temper tantrum ever in the supermarket because your mom didn’t get you the cookies you wanted.”

“I did not do that.”

Emily snorted at Langa’s defensiveness. “Uh, yes you did. Auntie Nanako even has the pictures to prove it and she showed them tome. Something about despite not being pleased with her yelling child, she needed physical proof of you being a total brat out in public so that if ever you have kids and want to kill them for screaming in a public place, then she’d show you that you were no better despite being the quietest, shyest kid ever. Something about every kid throwing a temper tantrum at the most inconvenient of times. And then you’d just have to deal with it and understand your kid’s point of view of some shit like that?”

Langa bit the insides of his cheeks, not quite wanting to believe the story. His mother had always insisted that he had been an exceptionally easy child, though a little worryingly emotionless. He would rarely argue or cry, so the possibility that he had been an absolute monster in the middle of a supermarket because of a box of cookies, it felt wrong. It felt impossible. Out of character. Fabricated, especially since Langa didn’t like cookies that much.

“But it’s not because you weren’t part of the popular group at school or that you didn’t hang out with the other kids at the park after class that you lack a childhood. Childhood is… It’s a lot of things. Like trying to teach you how to do ballet. Or watching movies during lunchtime. Or playing video games in a basement.”

“I think you mean repeatedly hitting me with a Wii remote because I somehow managed to beat your high score on Just Dance.”

“You weren’t even trying!”

Langa chuckled at the girl’s outburst. “Just have to learn the mechanics of the game to win. You don’t actually have to be good at dancing. Or dance at all.”

“You…”

Emily huffed, but it wasn’t long before her frown broke into a grin. Laughter spilled from her lips as Langa swatted her hand away, dodging her attempt at a hair ruffle. Because even if they were going down memory lane, Langa sure as hell was not letting her treat him like he was 5 years old again.

“I know you feel like you’re a big weirdo and you didn’t have a childhood since your past doesn’t look like some American Walmart Thanksgiving commercial, but I can guarantee you had one. And a damn good one, for that matter! And you also definitely made mine a whole lot more memorable and fun. Like, I don’t know what I would have done without my little baby cousin to play with all summer long. Most probably would have turned out a whole lot worse than I have had you not been there to entertain me and keep me in check.”

Despite Emily’s teasing tone, it was her sentimentality that really stood out to Langa. And he never knew what to do with that. He didn’t know how to respond to the girl who always seemed so energetic, always so ready for the future. She wasn’t one to reminisce, tripping over memories from the past. Or at least, that was how Langa had always perceived her; that wasn’t the Emily he knew. To him, she was someone who lived to tease and annoy him, wholeheartedly. She wasn’t one to smile as softly as she was now, a light mist covering her eyes as the ancient years rolled by like a silent film. Those brown eyes, they were made to shine from mischief and scheming, not from the threat of tears.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Langa felt something in his chest. His heart? Was it beating? If it was, it sure wasn’t the same heartbeat as when he was around Reki. It also wasn’t the same heartbeat that would race as he would slide through the world on a board. No, this time, it was going slower, feeling calmer. It beat with such a different feeling that Langa could not name it. It wasn’t excitement; it wasn’t anticipation. Was it perhaps nostalgia? Safety? Was it remembering what it was like to be a little kid, scrapping his knee as they played soccer against the garage door? Was it finding his first best friend, the person who had once been so important to him? It wasn’t anything like being with Reki, exciting and energetic and new, but still, it was nice. It felt like forgetting the distance that had estranged him from the girl who had been his only friend for so many years.

“Em,” Langa felt himself choke up, but he had to say something. He couldn’t remain silent. He couldn’t let the moment die. He couldn’t leave things unsaid, things he’d later have to bury deep within himself because it would be too late. He couldn’t let this moment pass, let the words fester until there would be no one to say them to anymore. “You also—!”

“Sorry it took so long! I just couldn’t find my water bottle anywhere, but I finally found it!”

Reki’s head poked out from behind the door as he held the bottle in the air. Almost like magic, all signs of tears vanished from Emily’s face. She perked up, a grin lighting up her face. And with such a grin came the dawning realization that all hell was about to break loose, the girl leaning dangerously close to Reki.

“You should feed it to him.”

Never had Langa felt so mortified in his life. He didn’t even dare look at Reki; his eyes remained on Emily who was now giggling hysterically to herself as she kicked her feet in the air like a child. For the first time since landing in Japan, she didn’t stumble on her Japanese words. They came as naturally as if they had been English. There had been no hesitancy whatsoever, which only made it worse for Langa and his stupidly burning cheeks. No need for a mirror to guess the color of his face; the blossoming heat was the only indicator he needed.

“You feeling sick, man? If you need anything else, you’d tell me, right? If you’re not feeling well, you can go home. I’ll tell Oka what happened, don’t worry about it! I promise he’ll understand and I’m totally capable to working alone! You don’t have to worry about me at all!”

Emily may not have hesitated, but bless her word for word translation passing over Reki’s head. And bless his not asking what she meant; explaining would have been far too awkward. Otherwise, there would have been more hesitancy in Langa’s grabbing of the water bottle before chugging down half of its contents.

“I’m fine, Reki. Really. You have to stop worrying so much about me. And Emmy’s just being a bitch who thinks I can’t do anything on my own.”

“Not my fault you were a mega crybaby back when you were a kid.” The shrug was just for show, but the twinkle in her eye was the real jab. “Took you forever to figure out chopsticks, I was convinced the grandmother was going to have to feed you until the day you die.”

“Wait, but if I remember correctly, weren’t you the family’s crybaby? Because I’m pretty sure I saw you sobbed uncontrollably that time your pink spoon was dirty and you were forced to eat with a purple one.”

“I—!"

“I can’t imagine either one of you crying.” Reki’s voice cut through the argument, both turning towards the boy. He was glancing away, refusing to meet either of their gazes. “You guys are both just so… not like me.”

The forced, bitter laughter that fell from Reki’s mouth broke Langa’s heart. Crying had always been a sensitive topic for Reki. He had never liked how easily his emotions could get the best of him. He hated how easily tears formed at the corners of his eyes. Just the idea of crying left him insecure, feeling like less than those around him. And Langa, well, he hated how Reki felt obligated to bottle up his feelings, not wanting to let others see his sadness or distress out of fear of being seen as less.

Langa remembered the first time he had seen Reki cry. It had been a hard time for both of them. It had been hard on Reki who had been holding back his tears until the dam broke free, a flood of tears pouring from his usually bright amber eyes. All his sadness, all his stress, all his insecurities had been let out, a ticking timebomb that exploded at the worst possible moment. And it had been hard on Langa who hadn’t known what to do. He didn’t know how to comfort Reki. He didn’t know what to say to him either. He didn’t know how to deal with everything that was happening so quickly, all around him.

Since then, Langa made sure to remind Reki that crying wasn’t a bad thing. There was no reason for him to be ashamed of the tears. They weren’t a weakness. They weren’t a character flaw. It didn’t matter what other said or did or how they looked at him. None of it mattered; all that mattered was that Reki knew that crying was natural. All that mattered was that he didn’t find himself hating himself more for letting it all out.

“Someone willing to let others see them cry is the bravest and strongest kind of person out there,” Langa had once said when Reki looked like he was holding back tears. “Not only are they honest with themselves, but they’re also not afraid to let others know how they’re feeling. There’s no point in hiding when you’re hurt.”

It wasn’t every day Langa knew what to say, but in that moment, he remembered his mother’s words. They had been said to him when he was at his lowest, but still, he hadn’t taken them to heart. Still, he hadn’t let himself cry. But thankfully, Reki had listened. Thankfully, Reki had let it all out, weeping into Langa’s shoulder, hiccupping muffled words into a soaked t-shirt until he passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Reki didn’t need to be like Langa. He didn’t have to put up some emotionless person. He didn’t need to be ice cold like Langa. He didn’t need to look like he was ready to fight whoever got in his way or brush off everything anyone said. He didn’t need tears to be foreign to him.

Reki, he was allowed to be emotional. He was allowed to be messy with his feelings. He was allowed to care about everyone around him and he was allowed to feel something about what as being said about him. He was allowed to cry his frustrations out if that was what helped him because Langa would be there. Langa would always be there. He would always be a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold if Reki so wanted.

Emily’s fingers curled around Reki’s forearm, leaning in closer than strictly necessary. “Don’t cry! I was kidding, you know! Langa is more than capable of taking care of himself! See? He can drink all on his own!” Her fingers dug into Reki’s skin, nearly breaking it as she gestured frantically at Langa with her other hand. “See? He’s a big boy! Totally capable of using his weird lanky body all on his own!”

Had it not been for the far more natural and pretty laughter that bubbled out of Reki, Langa would have hit his cousin upside the head. Or thrown the water bottle at her. Really, anything to shut her up. But Reki was rubbing at his nose, a grin slowly making its way across his face once more. There he was, smiling and bright, just the way Langa like it. Because while Reki was allowed to cry, it didn’t mean Langa liked it. If he could have it his way, he would have kept Reki happy for the rest of eternity. If he could keep Reki laughing, then there was nothing Langa wasn’t willing to do for that. There was absolutely nothing he wouldn’t do to see that pretty smile blossom across Reki’s face.

“So,” Reki straightened himself out as he fell back into his more cheerful and professional voice, “can I help you with anything? Looking for anything in particular?”

Emily slid down from the counter, her eyes scanning the environment as she hummed. It was obvious she hadn’t come here for anything at all; all she knew of skateboarding was that they had wheels and Langa could go fast on his board. Other than that, she had never shown interest in the sport.

“Not really?” Langa rolled his eyes at the girl’s words. “I mean, I was looking for something, but that was mostly company from you guys. I’m just so bored at the apartment with Auntie Nanako at work and Langa’s not there either and there’s just so much tv and doomscrolling a girl can do in a day. So yeah, I was just bored and wanted to check out where you two spend your days.”

Reki leaned against the counter, his eyes following Emily’s gaze and fingers. “That sucks. Can’t you visit around or something?”

“Not fluent enough and definitely can’t read anything. I’d be lost in a matter of seconds.”

Her fingers swept over rough boards and smooth helmets. The colors reflected against her skin, staining her momentarily as she moved across the little shop. She seemed so out of place here, surrounded by loud t-shirts and colors. but at the same time, Emily seemed at ease. She browsed as if she were in any other shop, her eyes flickering between the many pieces on display. There were no questions or disgust in her eyes; there was an understanding that this was just another sports shop.

“Well, you know how to skate?”

Emily turned back to the boy and shook her head. So much was obvious; she didn’t have the scars that Langa had or the fearlessness. She was dainty and princess-like, the exact opposite of what a skateboarder should be. Or maybe she did have what it took to be a skateboarder. Maybe Langa was just afraid of the sudden direction of this conversation.

“I tried to do a bit of figure skating back in the day, but I highly doubt that’s the skating you’re referring to. I always had to be careful to keep my bones intact since, you know, dancing and all that.”

“I can teach you if you’d like. I promise I won’t let you get hurt. You got my hand to hold for as long as you need and want.”

Reki’s smile was… Emily’s laughter… Everything started to fade out. Everything but the ringing in Langa’s ears. Everything but the tightness in his chest. Everything but the twist in his gut. Everything but the choking sensation building up at the base of his throat.

Everything was fading. Everything was buzzing. Everything was going to hell.

Oh no.

#Hello my friends #I know I havent written anything new in a hot minute but alas #I have a full time job now #but have this!#reki #reki kyan #kyan reki #sk8 reki #langa #hasegawa langa #langa hasegawa #sk8 langa #renga #sk8 #sk8 the infinity #lils writes #stfm

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