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the-californicationist · 7 months ago

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Hello Cali ❤️. Por alguna razón no te había visto más en mi muro de tumblr y me preguntaba si no estabas aquí, por eso busqué tu perfil y me di cuenta que tumblr me estaba jugando una mala pasada.

How are you??? I'm so busy because I have a loooot of work, pero me tomaré el tiempo de leer todo lo que me perdí de ti ✨✨✨

YOU ARE THE BEST, OK? I LOVE YOU ❤️💍

Quisiera que escribieras un smut de John Price CEO/Mafia con un Reader inteligente y astuto, que queda cautivado cuando John comienza a seducirla, porfis ✨

Anything for you, my friend!! I love you so much <3 <3

Wonderland

John Price is a famous mob boss... but you don't know that. All you know is that you've got a crush on a mysterious, handsome man, and you're willing to go all the way to find out if his bite is as bad as his bark.

The parking garage was dark, and the concrete seemed to hold in the cold like a freezer. It felt like ice on his cheekbone, and not even the blood from his eye socket was enough to warm the skin. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, that odd whooshing sound, and in a distant memory he could recall the first time he had ever gotten a black eye. But, all that was gone now. He had ratted out the one man that no one had dared fuck with in the past five years: John Fucking Price.

Those fucking coppers had said they’d protect him. He even had his people outside his house every hour of every day. How could this happen? He had to admit, he wasn’t even scared, he was just pissed off. Fucking bastards. They’d get what was coming to them. Maybe he’d tell them so. Not like they'd give him any more chances.

“Fuck you, Price. I hope those pigs skin you alive,” he spit out the blood that had began to pool in his mouth, and hoped it hit those stupid boots John was always wearing.

John Price slid his shoe away from the red stain that had began to swell on the ground, keeping his kangaroo leather Berlutis from ruin. The fool beneath his feet had no idea what was about to happen to him, and John almost felt sorry about it, if only for a moment. He and Vinson had been friends once. Hell, he’d even stood up at his wedding.

“Vince, what did I tell you about that bloody mouth of yours? Said it'd get you into trouble, didn't I? Wish there was something I could do for you now, cause you and me, we used to be mates. But, I can't afford friends like you. Not anymore," Price gave the rat a quick shove with his heel and watched as the stain smeared in a thin streak across the cement. He turned to his men,

"Well, lads, I've got a party to get to. You wouldn't mind cleaning things up here for me, would’ya?"

"No, boss," was their quiet reply.

"You'll be sorry, you goddamn pussy!" Vinson was screaming now, "I hope they hang you from the fuckin’-”

Bang! The loud gunshot echoed through the hollow space.

Vinson didn't say anything after that.

"Let's get outta here, Gaz."

"Right away, boss," Gaz opened the door to the limo and prepared to drive John back into the city. There was a big gala at the Genting Casino tonight, and Mr. John T. Price was never late.

He was never early either. In fact, he was perfection incarnate. When he was younger, that wasn't always the case, but after his father died, he had needed to change. No one was fit to rule Liverpool in his stead, and he was thankful that no one had been foolish enough to try. His father had made this town what it is. Liverpool was built by his family, and even though everyone thought the Price regime had grown tired of their reign on the old docks, they couldn't have been farther from the truth.

John had his cut from all of the major casinos, and he traded security in exchange. He owned two of them himself, along with four shopping malls, five bars, three neighborhoods, two apartment complexes, and a golf course - not to mention the property that wasn't in his name. He made sure to give his men plenty of reign over their own enterprises, even if most of them were strip clubs. But, he didn't care. As long as tribute came in every quarter, he never messed around in their business.

He thought Vinson was one he could trust. He'd even given him a car dealership just last month.

"Don't run it into the ground, Vince," he had said.

But, no. What had the little bastard gone and done? Put a tracker on his car and dropped bugs in his office. After everything he'd done for him, that's how he was repaid? To tell the truth, John never liked violence. It was awkward. But, his father had given him fists and showed him how to use them, so there was really no going against it. Violence and fear were vital pieces of the only language that men like Vince could understand. Now, with another family coming to Liverpool, John had to be on his best behavior. Even if 'best' was a little more loosely defined.

As he lit the tip of his last cigar, he reminded Gaz to grab him another few sticks on the way home. Gaz would've never turned coat on him like Vince did. He'd give him the car lot.

"You want the dealership on Sefton street, Kyle?" He offered.

"Sure, boss. Thanks a lot," Gaz smiled, knowing exactly which business he was talking about, "You want me to pull around back?"

They had arrived at the main entrance. Throngs of people were craning around the limo, trying to see who was inside. John thought about it for a second, smushed his cigar tip into the ashtray, and adjusted his tie.

"Nah," he said, "We'll give them the show tonight."

"Sure thing, boss."

Gaz parked the car and leapt out of the cab. His hand was on the door before John could take another breath, and on either side of the door, some of Price’s own foot soldiers took up their posts as bodyguards. When he emerged from the muffled quiet of the limo, it shocked John for a moment to be in such a whirl of chaos.

"Mr. Price, can I get a photo?"

"Over here, please, Mr. Price," a cute reporter was frantic enough to step in front of his men. They picked her up and put her back in the crowd.

John made sure to smile and wave, shake hands with those he had seen before, but he knew it was safer inside.

The manager greeted him warmly and, he noted, by first name,

"John! Good to see you again, mate. We've got just the table for you, tonight. Wait til you see the legs on these girls! It'll be a night to remember."

"I'm sure it will."

"Ah, sorry, but we don't allow weapons past the main floor," the manager's face fell. So did Kyle’s.

Gaz cleared his throat,

"I'm sure you can make an exception for Mr. Price. We'll be very discreet."

It was more of a threat than a promise, and John smiled at his friend's heavy tone. Kyle was anything if not polite.

"Uh, yes, we can certainly make arrangements. Right this way, gentlemen," and now the manager was nothing if not nervous. Perfect.

The night continued as well as it could, but he had never really enjoyed gambling. Why make all this money if he was just going to throw it into the wind? But, he could mingle with the right people here. Except that these weren't his people. He had come as a favor to his long time friend, Alex Keller, but Alex was nowhere to be found.

"Passed out on his missus’ tits, probably!" One of the strangers guffawed at the other end of the Blackjack table.

"He’ll show, don't you worry," another replied.

Well, John didn't have all night to wait on a man to get to his own party. He needed a drink. When he rose to head to the bar, Gaz stopped him,

"I'll get it, boss. No need to bother yourself with it."

The table was silent. The strangers who had been so brassy before were now silent and transfixed on the pair of men at their table, one of whom was important enough to have his slightest whim catered to at a moment's notice.

"It's alright, Garrick. Play my hand, yeah? I'm headed out for a smoke."

"Yes, sir."

John retreated. The awkward stares and weird glances were too much for him to bear. Surely there was a patio around here, somewhere.

By the time he found one, he was disappointed to see it was occupied.

"Oh, beg your pardon. Thought I was alone out here," he said.

To his shock, it was a woman's voice that responded from the shadows. Your voice.

"You're fine. You got a light? Fuckin’ matches are all wet..." You fumbled with the book, striking to no avail.

He smirked,

"I have the fire if you've got an extra smoke."

"Fair trade," you smiled back jokingly.

You were dressed in a clean chef's coat, your hair was pulled up, and you might have been going without makeup, but it was almost too dark to tell. It certainly wasn't casino makeup, that was for sure. John watched as you tugged two cigarettes free from the box, put them to your soft lips, and covered his flame with your hand. Your fingernail paint was pink and chipped. You pulled in the fire of both cigarettes and offered one to him. He took it,

"Thanks."

You grunted in a minimal response.

"So, you're a chef?" He asked.

You raised an eyebrow at him, giving him the glare he deserved for such an obvious question.

He back pedaled,

"I mean, you work here as a chef. I just thought, with the coat...I mean, where's your big bloody hat? You need the hat."

You laughed. It was wonderful to hear, and he liked the way your mouth moved when you started to speak,

"Yeah, I work here. Have for the past three years or so. Bill signed me on as head chef, and I've been slaving away for him ever since."

"Bill?"

"Oh, he's the culinary manager. Runs all the restaurants in the casino and the hotel. When the last guy disappeared into thin air, they had to scramble to find someone, I guess. What about you? Where's your fancy hat? Based on that Hermes tie, I'm gonna assume you're here with the party."

He mindlessly adjusted his tie, noticing its feel on his neck as she called it out,

"Well, I might be."

"Yeah? You some kind of big-shot?" You eyed him again, challenging him to answer with something more than a yes or a no. You had heard yes and no plenty of times.

"I might be," he wouldn't give in.

"If we keep going like this all night, you might end up being the Queen, for all I know."

You both laughed, but then, you sighed,

"Oh well, Mr. Mystery. Keep your secrets then," you shrugged and turned away from him.

He couldn't have that.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Sarah," you spun back around, "Rachel. Tiffany. Willamina. Might be anything."

You had the audacity to wink at him.

"Alright, you got me, love," he moved a little closer to you, "I'm John. John Price."

He extended his hand and waited for the bad news to sink in. No one who knew his name in this town would be dumb enough to be on a patio alone with him at night. He had dodged the media for a long time, but his trials always managed to get leaked. Twelve accounts of assault and battery, two separate accounts of theft, three murder charges - all acquitted of course. But, still, he was no stranger to ducking the law.

"John? Of all the names," you shook your head and smiled, taking his hand firmly, "Pleasure to meet you."

"You as well. You've never heard of me?"

"Oh, Jesus," you lamented, "Are you famous or something? Look, if I'm not in the kitchen, I'm at home asleep. Sorry. I don't even watch TV."

"No, nothing like that, I just - " He thought about it for a moment before you saw him decide to take a different trajectory, “Not famous.”

“Why is it that I feel a little bit like Alice tonight?” You took a long drag and let the smoke fall from your lips, “Like I’m following a white rabbit down a deep, dark hole.”

He chuckled, and you enjoyed seeing his eyes shine with his laughter,

“If you follow me down,” he sidled up to you, his face close enough to yours so you could smell the balsam in his aftershave, “I’ll show you just how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

A man’s voice cleared his throat behind you, and you both turned to look at who it was.

“Garrick?” John asked, clearly annoyed.

“Yes, sir. Johnny and Simon made it up. They said they know why Keller hasn’t shown.”

John didn’t answer. He simply turned back to look into your eyes, trying to divine some sort of future from them. He must’ve liked what he saw because the next thing you knew, you were being given a golden key card. Top floor.

Not famous, my arse, you thought to yourself.

“Why don’t you take the night off, love. Come see Wonderland, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“My, my,” you said, palming the card from him, “No one ever tells you no.”

Another smile, a little colder than the first,

“No, they don’t.”

“Maybe I will,” you pulled the tiger’s tail.

“You won’t,” the tiger growled back.

As you watched him leave the small patio, his broad back stretching that expensive suit, his thick fingers flicking his half-smoked cigarette off the balcony’s edge, you were kicking yourself. You knew you were going up to his room, even though something inside of you really wanted to yank this guy’s chain. But, his dark, purring voice had made Wonderland sound so inviting… maybe just one little peek wouldn’t hurt?

You waited a whole five minutes before slinking off to the service elevator, cutting out for the night. No one was making dinner anyway; it was the bar that was slammed. You’d already cleaned and prepped your station, so no one would miss you.

You ducked into the bathroom just before the top floor, getting off on the service side in an empty hallway, checking your face for stray flour or coffee stained teeth. You smelled like a pizza oven, but maybe you could sneak a shower before he showed up?.

What a slut, you heard the angel on your shoulder chastise you.

So, what? The devil’s side replied, indignant.

You peeled the chef’s coat off of your body. All you had underneath was a black tee. It was cropped a bit too high for work, but you wore it anyway. Your black work pants were covered in flour and dried food. You brushed them off as best you could. It would have to do. You shoved your coat into your bag and headed back to the hallway.

Luckily, the main elevator was vacant, as was the hallway, so you wouldn’t run into any other guests on your way to Wonderland.

The angel rolled his eyes. The devil glared at him.

The elevator dinged, and you inserted the gold card, clicking the very topmost button to the penthouse.

You’d been up here before. Sometimes, you picked up cleaning shifts on your off days for the extra cash, so you knew the layout. But, that had been in the cold, hygienic light of day. At night, this floor was a sparkling vision. When the elevator doors opened, huge clear windows reached all the way into the ceiling, framing Liverpool’s city center, looking more beautiful than it ever seemed from the ground.

You took quiet, uncertain steps out of the lift, checking for any signs of life. There were none, so you made your way to the bathroom. Huge black marble monolith slabs were carved in a semicircle, a nautilus that curled around the four separate shower heads, all ready to pour their steaming water down your naked body.

You stripped, stepping into the stream, letting yourself pretend that you lived in this sort of luxury for a moment. A soft lather of soap and a little shampoo later and you were clean. The single-use toothbrush and paste was in the hidden drawer that no guest would ever notice, so you stole an extra set, scrubbing yourself to a minty shine.

A pair of black satin robes hung in the closet, so you stole one, tying it around your waist, fully aware that one stiff breeze and the loose-fitting garment would fly right off of you. The soft fabric lay against your skin in the most sensual way, barely touching you and yet making you feel touched.

You explored the hotel room a bit, avoiding Mr. Price’s suitcase like it would bite you. The kitchen came stocked with ice buckets of champagne, so you helped yourself to one, pouring a glass and lounging by the window, wondering how long you’d have to wait for your date.

Fortunately for you, only an hour had passed and you heard the elevator ding. Out from the dark lift came the man himself… bleeding from his lip.

“John! What happened?” You put down your wine and rushed over to him.

He held you back, waving you off like it was nothing,

“Don’t worry, love. Just a bit of a scuffle, tha’s all.”

“But —”

“Seriously,” he grabbed you by your arms and looked you up and down, enjoying the wide opening of the robe as it revealed your body to him, “You should see the other bloke. Let me get cleaned up. Pour me one of those, would’ya?”

Before you could protest, he ducked into the bathroom, out of your reach. You were left standing there, worried and a little concerned for your own wellbeing. You didn’t actually know this man at all, and here you were, lamb to the slaughter, eager and bleating happily.

While he was in the bath, you decided to do a little research. You searched up his name, and you were finding almost no hits, until you stumbled upon a mugshot.

There he was… the notorious mob boss, ruler of the English underground arms dealing circuit, enforcer and racketeering extraordinaire. And here you were, nearly naked in his room with not so much as a penknife within reach. This guy had been in the armed forces, special forces, black ops — the works. He retired and fell into the armed security world, making a name for himself by pushing out the competition by any means necessary. His father had maintained ties to the dark underground, and now John had taken over the family business, doing shady deals for the government and crime organizations alike. All of it was hearsay, of course, and none of the charges had ever landed a single hit… but you knew the truth.

John Price was the most dangerous man in the world; Liverpool’s crime arena was just a quiet little hobby for a man like him. If he wanted to, he could make you disappear like a magician behind a mirror. Gone without a trace.

What would you do? Would you run? Where would you go? How would you explain your sudden exit? Food poisoning?

Before you could even begin to formulate a plan, John was out of the shower. He looked incredible. His hulking, heavy form was steaming from the hot water, and his hairy chest was uncovered. He’d slipped into a pair of running shorts and nothing else, so his brutal body was on display for you. He was covered in scars, and he was heavyset, but his largeness was from his strength. His core was bulky and strong, and when he moved, you could see the tight muscles rolling around beneath the skin like a snake ready to strike.

He turned to you, but even though he wore a smile at first, the moment he made eye contact, his face fell. Somehow, he knew that you knew.

He sighed,

“What did you see?”

He rushed over to his suitcase but found it still locked, looking back to you quizzically. You didn’t move, you didn’t dare. John stepped over to you slowly, deliberately, almost as if he was ready for another fight.

You turned your phone towards him and showed him his own mugshot.

“Thought you said you weren’t famous,” you whispered. Your voice sounded so small and far away, you almost felt like you hadn’t spoken the words.

He smiled bitterly, tossing his towel on a nearby chair and sat beside you on the bed,

“Cat’s out of the bag, then?”

“Yeah,” you looked down at your phone, unable to look him in the eye.

“Go on,” he waved his hand at you, motioning toward the door, “Get out.”

You didn’t move. You should have. Every fiber in your being was telling you to make a break for it. Now was your chance. And yet… you stayed. It was silent for a long while. You could feel his gaze raking over you, hot and heavy. His breaths rumbled in his chest.

“Go!” He spat, “No one’s keeping you prisoner here, girl. That’s me, alright, and the newspapers don’t even know the bloody half of it. Just go.”

You reacted to his volume, shirking back a bit, but you still didn’t stand. You looked at him then, searching for the kindness you thought you saw on the patio just hours before, checking to see if it was still there, if it was even real.

When you met his eyes, his fury was masking a very real pain. He was angry, sure, but the ache of being cast out was apparent, even though you were the one doing the leaving, and you just wanted that bit of brightness back again.

John studied you, watching your every movement, trying to determine what you were thinking but coming up short. He stood right in front of you, his hips inches from your face, and he asked,

“What are you waitin’ on, love?”

A strong thumb lifted your chin, raising your jaw up to look at him again, and he used his enormous hand to grab your face, keeping you there under his will.

“I know you’re afraid of me,” he commented softly, “I can feel it.”

“So?” You replied, trying to keep your tone steady.

His voice was bitter and mocking, and as he leaned forward, you could smell his clean, warm skin,

“You wanna play with the big bad wolf, hm? See if I bite?”

He grabbed you a little too tightly, trying to scare you. It worked, but you tried not to show it. Instead, you decided to place both of your hands at his hips, your palms flat against his warm belly, feeling the dark hair that formed a faithful trail, guiding your eyes down to his waistband.

It was his turn to be surprised. You felt his breathing catch as you moved your hands up along his ribcage, rubbing gentle circles into his skin, petting him like a skittish hound, expecting him to snap.

Letting go of your face, he grabbed your wrist, and just as you thought he was going to stop you, he took your hand and placed it on his chest, stretching your arm all the way up from where you were sat, making you extend your spine as you reached up to him. Your fingers traced the fur that lay flat against his pectorals, and finally, you plucked at his nipples, not allowing there to be any question as to your intentions.

The tip of his wide finger dipped into the silken collar of your robe, swirling around your neck and following it down to the swell of your breast. He didn’t find your peak, but he didn’t seem to care to. He was just exploring.

Suddenly, John moved faster than you could even begin to understand what was happening. He had reached under you, lifting you, and then tossed you back down on the bed. You lay, sprawled, trying to catch your bearings, and then you were covered by his huge form, his wide body casting shadows over your vision, cloaking you in his own private darkness.

His mouth was on you like a hot flame, licking and burning and biting and sucking wherever he wanted to, eager to taste every inch of your skin, the imperfections of a wrinkle or a freckle seemed to go fully unnoticed as he devoured you, sucking you down like his last meal.

You were overwhelmed by the pleasure he was stoking inside of you, and you let a small mewling sound escape from your lips that caught his attention.

“Mm,” he climbed up your body so that you were face to face, “Enjoying your walk on the dark side, love? Think you’re tainted by me now? Or maybe that’s what you wanted, is it? Something naughty, just for a night?”

You didn’t understand his negativity, nor the self-deprecation, so you tried to protest,

“No, I —”

“It’s alright. I’ll show you how to be a bad girl. I’ll teach you, love. C’mere.”

His voice was smoldering and sticky, clinging to your ears with some of that same bitterness from before. But, you didn’t have time to worry about that. He was standing by the bedside again, and he grabbed your arms, making your head and shoulders hang part way off of the mattress. You were left staring at his thick thighs and scarred knees, worried about what he was up to.

Then, all became clear. He had dropped his running shorts, and the fattest cock you’d ever seen hung down, shining with drool, ready to be fed into your mouth.

Your eyes went wide, and although you reached your hand out to try and brace against his legs, it was no use. He supported your head from underneath and bent himself over until the tip of his swollen cockhead touched your lips, the gleaming precome sticking to you like gloss.

Unwilling to be frightened by his aggression, you opened your mouth for him, laving your tongue across his turgid flesh, allowing him to press himself inside of you.

His cock was slick on the head but dry on his shaft, so you did your best to wet him, licking and sucking as he pumped himself in and out, already nearing the back of your throat and not even halfway sheathed.

When he nudged your soft palate, making you gag a bit, you made a noise. You tried steadying him with your hand, and he grunted, grabbing both of your arms by the wrist, holding them above your face, clutched to his hip. Then, he continued to fuck your face, ignoring your writhing gasps for breath.

Your throat tightened around him, but you tried to stay calm. You’d never taken anyone this deep before, but you stilled yourself, ignoring the urge to panic, and you made a point to swallow, feeling your throat squeeze around his head. You could taste him as he painted the back of your throat, salty and sweet at the same time.

That made him moan, and you felt like you’d won some sort of battle. If he was trying to frighten you, it was going to take more than just a little rough sex.

“Mm, fuck… Maybe you are a naughty little girl, aye?”

You hummed, making sure you could feel the vibrations travel through his girth.

He removed himself fully, taking a trail of your own drool with him, gasping from the pleasure of your mouth.

“Fuck, I need to taste you,” he muttered darkly, crawling over you and settling himself between your legs.

You tried to lift yourself back onto the bed, but he kept you hanging there, pinning you down with his strong arm, pressing into your belly with his hand to prevent you from sitting up. Finally, after feeling him kiss and nip at your thighs, teasing you mercilessly, you felt the warm, wet slip of his tongue as it fell between your lips, tasting your throbbing pussy for the first time.

The robe was half-off, and only the tie around your waist was even providing any coverage, and you realized that as he began to eat you, he was yanking off your clothes as well, ripping through the knot of the robe to free you from the fabric.

Now, his mouth moved deeper, and you felt him seal his lips to your pussy, messily drinking you in. As he fucked you with his tongue, his mouth and jaw were strong enough to rock your body up and down on the soft bed, making it seem as if he were actually using his smooth wet muscle as a writhing cock, thrusting it up into you and reaching deep into your hole.

The scruff of his beard was enough to make you want to come, much less the power that he ate you with. Every deep, curling lick sent sparks into your core, making your pussy drip with eager stickiness. It was hungry for that fat, uncut cock, forcing you to imagine how delightful it would be when he popped his giant head into your pink flesh.

You were keening for him. Well, it wasn’t exactly for him, per se. The noises you were making were coming from your throat against your will. If you didn’t scream, you’d pass the hell out, you were sure of it.

“Fuck, that’s it, love. Get loud for me. Ungh… you taste… mmfh… so damn sweet,” he was ruthless, speaking between long suckles from his mouth, commanding you from below.

You wished you could see him, but all you could see from your hanging position was the giant window, looking out across the sparkling city. So, you called out to him, your voice thick with want, with need,

“John…”

That was all it took. He tugged your hips down until he was above you again, prowling over you like some sort of beast, all snarling unbridled lust and appetite. As soon as he was in position — and your body knew he was in position — everything stopped. He stopped.

John looked down at you and became… different. The flirty bloke from the patio was back, and he smiled at you. You smiled back, out of breath and already drunk with hunger, but that was all he needed. He kissed you deeply, making you taste your own musk, and as his soft lips slid over yours, you felt the pressure of his huge cock at your hole, pressing through your folds to reach your hot, soaked center.

You gasped through his kiss, both of you moaning in the same timbre as you felt his heavy dick fit into you for the first time, a sparkling desire swirling within you as every delicious inch of him buried itself in you. He began to thrust himself up into your aching slit, fucking you on half of his length, and then using your own sticky fluid to slip himself the rest of the way in.

“Bloody hell, this fuckin’ pussy… fuck me,” he groaned, wrenching his eyes shut from the pleasure.

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He asked, seeking your praise.

“You’re fucking huge,” you didn’t mean to sound so concerned, but there was a part of you that was.

He sat back on his heels, taking some of the pressure away, staring down at your body lecherously, savoring your tits and fondling them in his hands,

“Alright, love?”

“You feel so good,” you insisted, wrapping your hands around his arms as he enjoyed your body.

“Tell me again,” he said, grunting again as he fucked his cock deeper inside of you, reaching a new end before dragging himself all the way back out just so he could start the journey again. He upped his tempo, pounding into you with his weight, the loud smack of his body against yours beating into you like a drum.

“Tell. Me. Again,” he growled his warning, snarling down at you, pinching your nipple to punish you for your silence.

You were gasping for breath. He was so deep now, you could feel the pressure of it in your belly. Between sharp intakes of air, you hissed,

“You… feel.. so… fucking… good…”

“That’s my girl,” he bent over you again and that familiar pressure returned. His cock was too big, and yet you took it anyway. Your body was panic and pleasure all at the same time, and he had you pinned down for the ride of your life.

You weren’t sure how many hours passed that night. He seemed to have the stamina of a much younger man, and every time you dozed off, you’d wake up again to fingers or tongue or cock playing inside of your folds, coaxing you to open yourself up to him. You were happy to oblige, but you were properly fuck drunk. If someone asked you for the alphabet, you weren’t positive you trusted your answer. But, when John Price asked you to open your mouth or your legs for him, you were the top scholar.

A golden, creamy dawn was rising up over the docks as you stared out the window. John’s hand was rubbing your bare back in long, relaxing strokes, and he was leaving soft, lazy kisses down your spine. You knew you were a mess. Your hair was tangled; you’d thrown it up into a messy bun on the second runthrough, done with trying to pretend to be a pristine hot girl. Your body was covered in his marks. Bruises from his teeth and red welts from a delightful slap on the ass or two were painted across you like little tattoos to commemorate your coupling.

“You alright, love?” He checked in on you.

He’d been checking in all night. For all his ruthlessness, he never crossed a line, and he never forgot to make sure you were safe. Sometime in the wee hours, he’d even made you drink a bottle of water and eat some fruit to hydrate, teasing you with grapes like some sort of earthly Baccus.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Looks like it’s time for me to get out of your hair. Not sure I should be seen by the public in my current state.”

“You have work, or…” John looked confused.

You thought about lying to him for a moment. It would hurt so much less for you to just break it off now in the soft dawn glow rather than a painful goodbye over cold breakfast. But, you didn’t.

“No, just… don’t wanna fool myself into thinking this was something that it wasn’t.”

Your truth hung there in the air for a moment, but before he could open his mouth to reply, you heard the elevator ding.

You turned to look at it, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled you off the bed and forced you to the floor. It was so fast that you didn’t even realize what he’d done until your nose was in the carpet. Then, you heard a sharp, snapping pop of something hitting the bed.

You watched in horror as John’s hand reached under the mattress and pulled out a small pistol. He held it like a professional, calm and trained, and shot twice. Then, it was quiet again.

He helped you to your feet, and he was telling you something, but your brain wasn’t registering his words. What had happened? Why were there bullet holes in the mattress? Who had he shot?

Then, you saw it. A man’s body was laying across the door of the elevator. Wanting to descend, the elevator’s alarm wailed, beeping and beeping.

John grabbed your jaw and made you listen to him,

“We have to go. Now. Get your clothes on. Now. Now.”

“Okay…” You couldn’t move. It was so hard to even lift your arms. They felt like solid lead. You just wanted to sink back to the floor. Maybe if you could just…

“Hey! Now!”

He shoved your clothes into your hands and you started to put them on, doing your best not to look at the elevator. John was packing a black bag, half-dressed himself, and checking the windows over and over, looking for something in the streets below.

“There’s no time, c’mon, love.”

You felt his hand cover yours as he led you to the elevator. You watched him ruthlessly kick the body away from the doors and push you inside. Once you were in, the doors closed and you rode in silence with him. You could only hear your heart in your ears.

“...to my car. Stay close to me.”

“Okay…” It was all you could say. No other words even dared to come to mind.

“Hey,” he held your face in his as the floor numbers dropped to the teens, “You’re alright. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Okay.”

The doors opened, and you found it extremely weird that the lobby was empty. There were no workers, no guests, not even a custodian. It was just a big, silent cavern in what was usually a lively casino.

He was leading you out to the parking garage, and just as you stepped into the concrete enclave, you heard the screech of tires round the corner. John stood in front of you and gripped the gun in his hand, but he didn’t move away.

The car stopped in front of you, and you braced yourself, hiding behind your lover as much as you could.

“Get in, boss! They’re right bloody behind us. Soap, shove over,” a man’s voice came from the car. He was in the driver’s seat, and he was wearing a ballcap with the Union Jack emblazoned on the top. In his passenger seat was a man in a black balaclava, and in the back was a bright-eyed man with a mohawk who you guessed had to be Soap.

“C’mon, love,” John shoved you inside just as a black SUV rounded the same corner, the engine roaring when it saw Price’s car.

Gunshots rang out, and you knew some of them had hit the car. You worried for John, but he stood straight up, aiming carefully for the driver, and fired his gun. As if you were in some sort of action movie, the SUV careened off-course and slammed into several parked cars. Men began to pour from it, armed to the teeth.

John jumped in beside you and made you kneel in the floorboards, holding his body over yours protectively.

“How’d they find out? Gaz!” John yelled at the driver, shouting his name when he saw another SUV approaching from the side.

Gaz swerved, narrowly missing being rammed, and sped off down the highway, trying to run from his pursuers.

“No idea, mate, but they think it was us who tore up the warf. Banno’s man must’ve turned snitch. Only explanation.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” the masked man sighed, rolling down his window to fire shots at the SUV chasing you down.

“Who’s the bonnie hen, boss?” Soap peered down at you before turning his attention back on the car chase.

“Uh… she’s…” John tried to explain, but you realized that you never even told him your real name, “I dunno.”

“You dinnae ken?” Soap’s brows knitted together.

“Soap! Shut up and shoot, mate,” Gaz turned his attention back on the fight.

“Well,” the masked man grumbled loudly, “She’s stuck with us all the way to Hadrian’s Wall. Heading to Katie’s house. No place else is safe.”

“Aye, good call,” John agreed.

Finally, after leaving the city, your pursuers turned back around and left you to your escape. John helped you back into the seat and checked you for injuries.

“John… I’m…” Your voice shook with fear, and you felt all of that stress tumbling down into your chest, turning into shock and tears.

“Shh, it’s alright, love. I’ve gotcha. I’m… I’m sorry. Should’ve known better.”

“Better?” You whispered as he held you to his chest.

“Aye. Thought I could be a normal man for a night. Hit on the hot bird at the bar, go to a fuckin’ party. But, nothing’s normal right now. I’ve put you in this mess, and I’m sorry.”

You didn’t have a reply, not one that made any sense, and as he held you, you watched the English countryside come into view. Rolling green hills still wet with their dew made everything that had just happened to you seem so far away, but you could smell the gunpowder on his hands as he pet your cheek, and you knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

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scattered-dreamers · 1 month ago

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I had a thought. Well, it’s been an ever growing through for a little while now. I started listening to the Mechs yesterday for the first time, but this started a little while ago when I learned that Nikola Orsinov’s VA was also part of the Mechinisms. And after learning of Gunpowder Tim. [I made the joke internally about Tim deal with explosives in every incarnation he’s in.]

What if the TMA fears are echoes of what the Mechanisms dealt with??

Brian being lost in the Vast and the Lonely—don’t know if that’s canon. I found a “Lost” poster online. But his fear being echoed out across the cacophony of space and ending up in our plane of existence kind of makes sense—in a Doctor Who sort of way, if you get my meaning.

The Toy Soldier being the inspiration for the Stranger makes sense too. A creature that is in a way like us—living, sentient—but in many ways unlike us, thus inspiring the fear of Uncanny Valley—and again that fear is echoed through the cacophony of time and space.

Idk how Gunpowder Tim dies, but if it’s in an explosion, there you go for the Desolation.

Jonny and his need for violence and action is drawn into the Hunt but it’s not clear if Jonny inspired the Hunt or if the Hunt inspired Jonny.

The Flesh is very animalistic so that probably started on Earth with prey animals. But that’s not my point.

There are many earth based fears—the Flesh, the Web, the Corruption, the Buried—but what if the more obscure ones—the Lonely, the Vast, the Void, the Stranger, and the Desolation—started with the Mechanisms?

Because I can’t help but recall planets getting destroyed in OUaTiS for however long Cole was ruling and destroying planets. Things had to have been released from some of those planets.

Things that lead to the Fears, things that inspired the Fears. Idk. Just my ramblings.

#the mechanisms #the magnus archives #the fears #the entities #Tim stoker #gunpowder tim #jon sims #jonny d'ville #the toy soldier #drumbot brian #nikola orsinov #the stranger #the desolation #the vast #the lonely #the hunt #the flesh

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firefirefruit · 6 months ago

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Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Thirty-Seven

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Washed Up

Kozuki Raya

I have to throw him into the lake, I tell myself again. Throw him in the lake, and the water will do its thing.

That’s what Aragnus said to do before he flew away, planting the rest of my crew and allies all across his thick back.

For the millionth time in that hour, he had to assure my enraged ass that he wasn’t going to harm anyone. That they were going to be taken to rest, and that I would be able to see them after dealing with Zoro if that would make me feel any better. Acting as if he wasn’t trying to obliterate me and everyone I knew only a mere minutes ago.

I stare down at Zoro. His entire body is paralysed, his arms and legs splayed on the floor like a dragged across puppet. I try to stifle down a smile as I look at the priceless reaction on his face. Oh, he’s definitely pissed off about the whole thing – and unfortunately for me, Zoro notices the weird contortion on my face.

“I swear if you start laughing, Tenguyama…” he grumbles.

Even though I do bite down on my tongue, I can’t help but teasingly cock my head. “Or what? You gonna suddenly jump right up and fight me?”

He calls me a not-so-nice name that I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear.

Whatever Aragnus did to Zoro… well, his body just wasn’t cut out for it. My small smile starts to fade as I think about that.

This is probably the first time I’ve ever felt afraid for his pain in the ass. And I didn’t like feeling like that.

It’s not like I’m doing this against my will. It’s the opposite, actually. When Franky offered to take Zoro off my hands, knowing I’m going through the worst identity crisis of my life, I had the audacity to bark back at him like a rabid dog.

I guess that sounds pretty on brand, with who I supposedly am, the incarnation of Retribution – whatever the fuck that even means. I can’t admit it to anyone else, but I’m scared. I’m really fucking scared about what that means about myself.

Do you even know who your mother is? Your father?

Aragnus’s weathered voice echoes in my head again, thrumming against the sore walls in my head. It infuriated me. Back then, he was toying with me, trying to pick at the gaps of my history with his enormous chicken claws. Provoking me to turn into a monster.

But Aragnus was right. Gramps, as much as I loved – no, love him - he’s still alive, Raya, don’t be an idiot, he was always so vague with his answers. He didn’t want to say anything, do anything, almost as if he was trying to fool the fates themselves.

Who really are my parents? Where did I even come from? I’m not sure I want to know anymore.

I frustratedly sigh out loud and force myself to take in my surroundings, trying anything to block out my thoughts. I can’t deal with these thoughts right now. I can’t.

I stare, my jaw clenching, at the trickling lake. A large body of surreal, illuminating water drifts within the cavern - yet another vast tunnel that connects to the rest of the Draconian colony - immediately making my body groan and claw desperately for its comfort.

I begin to tug at Zoro’s lean shoulders, drifting his paralysed body into the water with as much care as I can. He lays there silently, his eye staring up at the glittering stalactite ceiling. I let go of him, beginning to unfurl my pants that’s been cindered into pieces, buttons clinging onto them for dear life.

Zoro attention then crosses back to me when he hears a ruffle of clothing coming from my direction. He chokes on water, looking completely pale.

“What the hell are you doing?” he exclaims, making me yelp and jump in surprise. His alarmed voice takes all of the space of the hollow room, echoing over and over again until all I can hear is a dozen of aghast Zoro’s.

I annoyedly give him a look, my fingers pausing in the middle of unbuttoning my shirt. “What do you mean, what am I doing? Don’t you bathe with your crewmates?”

“Yeah, separately, we do.”

“Sorry, Roronoa, you’re so right. I’ll just let you wash your completely paralysed self first, with your completely paralysed hands, and then I’ll jump in straight after!” I muse sarcastically. “How about that?”

Zoro glares at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. His frustration is palpable, but there’s not much he can do in his current state. I grin at him, sticking my tongue out.

He kisses his teeth. “Get in, then.”

“It’s not like you’re seeing anything new, anyway,” I mumble under my breath, slipping my half-burnt shirt over my head. My fingers go to my bra, my eyes awkwardly averting to the ceiling as I undo the last latch.

Zoro tries to maintain his angry face, but I can see the faint flush of colour creeping up his neck as he averts his gaze. His eye flickers back towards me occasionally, despite his best efforts to look uninterested, his jaw clenching and unclenching quickly.

“Damn it, Ray,” he mutters, his voice rough and strained. “I said, get in.”

“Okay, okay.”

And then I slip into the body of pure warmth.

When I tell you I can’t even describe in words how captivating this liquid felt against my skin, brewing within my bones, it’s a complete understatement. I gasp heavily, my cracked lips parting. It feels like hope kissing her lips my thighs, her arms reaching for my waist with a melancholic look in her eyes.

Zoro’s presence, however, still lingers like a wounded predator, drifting in the corner with his back facing down. His eyes follow me as I wade deeper, and I can sense his gaze lingering on me, assessing, calculating, perhaps doing something else I can’t put my finger on.

A thrumming waterfall behind me plays endless tricks with the light, casting restless shadows across Zoro’s face. His jaw glints like a sharp-edged blade, constantly refining the line connecting to his shoulder blades and the sinewy muscles running through his relaxed arms. Even the grassy curls that lay across his wet forehead look like they’re pulsating with new colour, more energy.

I tread towards him, not knowing what to say in the midst of the silence between us. All I can do is feel the water rush and lap over my bare body, my lips parting again from the tumult of sensations. Roronoa glares at me, his jaw clenching with restrained frustration, the muscles rippling beneath the surface of his skin like coiled springs waiting to be released. Every movement he makes is deliberate, controlled, yet there’s some sort of intensity that threatens to break free at any moment.

I can feel the heat radiating off him, from his breath, his skin overcome with streams of teardrops over the curve of his muscles, and I can’t help but lean closer to him. My wet brown curls snake over my bare shoulder, pressing across his chest like a string of unfurled ribbon. He releases a breath he was trying to restrain, which makes me suddenly hold mine in.

This is so… intimate. I haven’t even yet touched him, and yet the slightest touch of my hair on his skin feels like we’re breaking boundaries.

Neither of us wants to break the silence as we lay here, allowing the small trickles of waterfalls be the only source of sound within this large cavern.

For a moment, I tip my head backwards, feeling the heat of the liquid flow through me. I sigh dejectedly. This was a painful day. A stressful and a lonely one, to be honest. I’ve never felt so vulnerable and uncovered in front so many people until now.

I raise an arm from underwater, staring at the water that chases past the honey hue of my skin. And for the first time in a while, I notice that my skin is smooth. Bright. Full of life. No colourful bruises, no spurting blood, no torturous metal caging its way into my veins like some kind of hell-spawn.

I hold my breath as the image of myself flashes into my head.

I became light.

I transformed into some sort of thing in shades of gold and black, metal encasing my whole being as if that was my original form all along. My mind starts to race.

Retribution? What does that event equate to? A punisher? A torturer? A Goddess who demands revenge and destroys all for her personal gain?

All I’m missing is a scythe. Then I’d be the fucking Grim Reaper.

Gods, I’m a monster.

“Okay,” I snap out loud with my eyes closed, quickly plunging my arms back into the heat of the water. My voice echoes with no end within the emptiness of the room. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You really don’t need to do this,” Zoro quickly says, his eyes trained on the ceiling.

I cock my head at him, frowning. “Come on. It was my fault for getting you into this.” I stare at his beautiful, tense face. “If only I’d shut my mouth and let that bird talk, I wouldn’t have put everyone in danger.”

“What you did was pretty fuckin’ stupid, yeah, but you weren’t making me do anything against my will.”

I shake my head, and finally decide to trace my fingers over one of his rough hands, my skin brushing against his delicious warmth. I cup some water in my palms, sifting some over his coiled, hard biceps and admiring the way the water beads off in harmony to his form. When all of a sudden, I feel his fingers curving over mine, catching my hand into a loose squeeze. I gasp a little.

“I wanted to fight that chicken freak so bad, you know,” Zoro breathes out heavily, his chest rising in reaction to my cold fingers. He’s trying his best to train his eye on the ceiling and not on my bare form that hovers above him.

I snort, cupping more water over his neck and shoulders. My hand doesn’t even manage to wrap even halfway around his bicep, so I decide to use both. My palms slowly ripple over his tense skin, lathering over each surface with silent admiration. “The both of us could’ve skewered him.”

“Given that damn cook something to barbeque.”

I laugh out loud. My burst of joy envelops each and every crevice of the cave, making Zoro’s mouth slightly twitch in return. “Well, you should be glad he wasn’t. You’d be stuck here, motionless, forever.”

There’s a defiant glint in his eye as he locks his gaze onto my face and says, “Would’ve been worth it.”

I lean towards him even closer, slightly drunk on the joy of the water. I hold my breath, taking a moment to stare at him and the thin sketch that runs over his other eye.

Wasn’t I supposed to hate him?

A few other green curls have found its way to rest over his eyes, the heat of the water tracing over his face in dewy drops. My fingers are itching so bad to touch more of him.

Snap out of it, Ray. What the hell am I doing?

I instantly turn away and busy myself with cleaning him up.

Zoro stares at me with an unreadable look as I focus only and solely on his neck. “You don’t need to do this,” he hoarsely says.

I hesitate, my fingers pausing right above his Adam’s apple. “I mean, if you’re so hell-bent on doing something, there is one way you could repay me.”

“And what’s that?”

“Um…” I swallow, avoiding his questioning stare. My fingers begin reaching for his warm chest, my palm softly drifting across his muscles on its own. I hear him take in a quiet, yet sharp breath as my fingers come into contact with his skin. His eye darkens instantaneously with an edge of wanting.

Obviously, that didn’t last for long as I release the next sentence from my mouth.

“Well, you mentioned somebody named Kuina.”

If a paralysed man could become even more paralysed, that’s exactly how Zoro reacts.

He doesn’t respond for a few moments, almost as if he’s brewing on what to say.

“What… about her?” He asks, his low voice warning me to tread carefully with the topic.

“The Kuina you knew served the Wado Ichimonji, right?”

He gave an approving grunt.

“Short hair? Blue?”

“Yeah.”

“Her dad own a dojo? Was she strong? Fucking amazing with swords? Was always a little bit defiant, but could still act all cool and collected when she had to? Did she—”

“You knew her.”

I pause. My chest feels tight as I force out a fake smile. “Small world, I guess.”

“You knew her,” Zoro repeats, still taken aback by the information. “How? When? But…”

I’m an actual fucking moron, then. I release a bitter laugh from my lips as my fingers clench into fists, resting firmly over his hard chest. Since when had I turned into this thoughtless air-head?

Because the Kuina I knew, the Kuina who would drag her Wado across the deserted fields of the island we would meet up on, would complain to me. How her father couldn’t see her as anything more than a female. That she had noticed herself, how her own limits were only multiplying; her breasts were forming, her body slowing its growth in height and strength. And.. And she’d complain about…

“She’d tell me how this one green-headed, snotty-nosed kid was always running up to her for a fight,” I mutter, my voice cracking. “She’d gloat about it, too. ‘Lil’ fry didn’t know what hit him when his sword flew across the room.’”

“She said that about me?” Zoro snaps.

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that. I can’t bring myself to reply, terrified that if I do, I’d probably just cry.

Zoro’s breathing is harsher now. I can tell just by staring at the way his chest is dramatically rising, trying so hard not to blow up.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe it was a mistake, digging up a part of Zoro’s past, because I’ve never heard him ever talk about his life before the crew in much detail. There must be a reason why he doesn’t.

I needed to know, though. Because no one in my life besides my Gramps knew about Kuina, and now knowing that someone else does… it makes her existence more permanent. As if she wasn’t a dream I made up all along, and now I can honour her more by knowing that.

Zoro’s still breathing heavily. “I’ve…never told anyone about her, not even to Luffy,” he mutters. “I can’t… I don’t even know how to deal with this. I didn’t even deal with her…” He stops himself, gritting his teeth hard.

I don’t know how, but I just knew what he was about to say.

He didn’t even try to honour her death.

“I guess that’s where you and I differ,” I mumble, furiously trying to suck in the tears back into my eyes. “I made my own small burial for her, with all the things she liked. Made this tiny-sized shitty dojo out of bamboo, with a sword-shaped locket I made for her placed beneath. There were pictures of us inside, acting like dumbasses in front of my snoring Gramps.”

I laugh out loud, my eyes glazing over. “Man, we attached balloons to his arms and threw darts at them until he woke up. Got into so much trouble with him that day…

And the Wado - it was supposed to be the finishing touch to her burial, you know. And maybe then, I’d honour her by wielding her sword later. But when her father told me that it was gone – given away…I was furious. Enraged. I screamed at him. Sobbed. I told him, who else deserved his daughter’s sword, besides him or…”

I stop myself, biting my lip hard until I feel blood seeping across my tongue. I was about to say, ‘someone who promised her they were forever sisters, regardless of blood.’

I shake my head, moving away as to hide my face from Zoro. “That’s why I hated you so much when you came to my shop, with those three broken weapons by your side. Not only did I think you stole Kuina’s possession, but defacing it like that, like it meant nothing…”

My voice breaks and I dejectedly let myself take a few breaths. I don’t have the heart to continue anymore, so I wait for Zoro to reply.

It’s unbearably silent. I don’t even hear him pause to say anything. The silence feels like an ending more than a continuance, and for some reason I feel dread run cold through my body.

I raise my head up to look at him, and my suspicions are confirmed.

Zoro shakes his head unforgivingly, glaring at me with hatred in his eye.

“What?” I ask.

I notice that his arms are moving by his will now, his legs drifting underwater to steady himself upright. His body’s slowly gaining back sensation. “Who are you, Raya?”

I freeze. I feel like a thousand poisonous daggers are raining over me, a tumult of all my worst fears stabbing me through my skin. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he spits out. He steps towards me, making me stumble backwards until my spine hits the edge of the lake. “I never saw you at the dojo, meaning that every time Kuina said she was off for the weekend with her dad, she was seeing you. People don’t travel across islands to meet just anybody, Raya. So, who are you?”

I press my hand against his chest, forcing him to take a step away from me. I instantly turn from terrified to angry, scowling up at him with defiance.

“You answered your own question. I’m Raya, asshole.”

“Tenguyama Raya?” He pushes. I bristle, feeling his large hand cup over mine on his chest. He swipes it away and advances toward me, his gaze darkening. “That right? Or have you been lying to us the entire time?”

I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him, my mind furiously hisses, whispering over and over again the million different possibilities that could happen if I did reveal myself to them. I’m afraid that things will only get worse if he knows, what could happen to the crew if they all did figure it out.

A small part of me still doesn’t trust any of them. I hate that I feel this way, but it’s true. I don’t know who to trust, and frankly, I don’t want to be known as a Kozuki anymore. I want freedom from that cursed name.

“I’m…” I hold in a breath and furrow my eyebrows in irritation. “I’m just Raya. Can’t you just accept that answer and move the fuck on?”

“No. Not if you’re going to hurt my crew,” he simply says.

Hurt my crew. My crew.

I feel I’ve just been punched in the face.

“You don’t trust me.” I don’t pose it as a question, but instead say it matter-of-factly. I search his gaze and purse my lips. “You never did trust me, did you?”

He scoffs, leaning his head towards my face, his hot breath landing against my cheeks. “You think I want to be this close to you? You think I want to be spending my time, watching you, following you, like some sort of fucking dog? No, Raya, you don’t trust me either. Don’t be accusing me of distrust if you have it.”

I suddenly feel an odd sting to my eyes but I’m not sure why. Blood is rushing through me so quickly, and I’m immediately in a state of fury.

“You should’ve decided that when you kissed my hands, Zoro.” He stares at me with confusion, and I scoff, pushing him away from me. “That day, when I was losing blood and then passed out? I saw you. When you put me to bed, and before you left, you kissed my hands as I was bleeding from them. Why?” I wryly look at him when he doesn’t respond. “What, was that last minute guilt?”

Zoro's expression shifts, a mix of anger and contemplation flickering across his features as he meets my gaze. He considers my question. The silence stretches between us, thick with fury and fear.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and measured, each word weighted with anger. "I did it because..." He pauses, as if searching for the right words. "To show you I’m not afraid of you."

He takes a moment to stand in front of me, his fist opening then closing by his side as if deciding whether to reach for me. He heaves out a frustrated sigh before turning his back to walk to the other edge of the pool.

I don’t move; I don’t look at him or try to even understand what he meant by saying that. The water trickles across multiple broken rocks, calmly fluttering into the lake with a discontented sigh, and all I can do is sink my shoulders deeper into the warm liquid, hoping that maybe it’ll wash even my memories away.

Zoro in the distance begins to dress himself, throwing on his shirt and pants with unnecessary aggression before grabbing at his two swords. He doesn’t offer a look back to me as he storms out of the cave, except he leaves me with a few parting words, the words that will stop me from going to sleep at night.

“You don’t scare me, Kozuki.”

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lime-bloods · 1 year ago

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The theory used to be that Caliborn was his own dad. Thematic echoes ring around the story; his followers' obsession with "MOTHERFUCKING" evokes the Oedipal undertones of Yaldabaoth imprisoning and corrupting his creatress Sophia. And Aranea, often misinformed but rarely, if ever - in spite of the school of red herrings surrounding English - intentionally misleading, seems to hint at such a possibility: Caliborn and Calliope's home planet is the former home planet of their father, which is in her words "a loc8tion now conspicuously occupied 8y a truly massive 8lack hole". Now that the comic's over, and we have a more comprehensive idea of English's life and times - he was born, he fucked with the trolls, left to try to kill his sister, and then died - it seems pretty unlikely that he had the opportunity to go back to the era of his birth and spawn himself... in the incarnation we're most familiar with, at least. We've known from much earlier on that there were Englishes in "countless universes", and that the "mobster Hulk" menacing Homestuck itself would never be fully representative of all of Caliborn's crimes. And now that I've spent some more time looking over the mechanisms by which Caliborn is able to exist in so many countless universes, I'm not totally convinced that he isn't his own dad?

Cherub romance is chiefly two things; it's caliginous, and it's incestuous. One way in which it is widely understood to be incestuous is by way of being masturbatory: in its mate, a cherub looks for "qualities its other half once had", seeking to replace the aspect of itself it once referred to as brother or sister. But increasingly, I also think cherub mating is incestuous by way of being cyclical. Indeed, it's difficult to draw a line between 'cyclical' and 'masturbatory' for a race who couple by forming an ouroboros; but as touched upon already, the planet around which Caliborn's father intertwined with his mother was also the planet around which his father's father intertwined. Because cherubs always mate around black holes.

It's easy to fall back on the simplest, most surface-level observation of the black hole, that it's a symbol of Lord English. I have described the singularity in the past as English's mouth, the orifice that swallows suns in the same manner the god of time Cronus swallowed his own son. But once more, English is ouroboros; the mouth that swallows his prey is also the mouth that swallows itself. The number of times I've pointed out the significance of white and black holes in Homestuck could be aptly called ad nauseam: but for the comic's metanarrative purposes, being a gateway out of the story also makes the white hole a gateway forward into progress, and by contrast, the black hole is necessarily a pitfall into regression. Just as the black hole is where the god of cycles is swallowed by his own cycle, and is therefore a signpost of Lord English's resurrection, it is also where cherubs go to enact violence upon their sibling-spouses because that is where their parents, and their grandparents, and their grandparents' grandparents, enacted violence upon each other.

Bruce Banner was transformed into the monstrous green Hulk halfway by radiation, halfway by a brutal childhood at the hands of his own monstrous father. Cronus devoured his son, black hole-like, because he received prophecy that his children would overthrow him the same way he had overthrown his own tyrannical progenitor. Even Oedipus was an early victim of the time loop; had prophecy not deemed him at the moment of his birth to be responsible for his father's death, his infamous transgression upon his mother could never have taken place. Whether we choose to believe English literally stepped through that black hole in some winged incarnation to commit the Oedipal sin, or if the rift through space and time is simply a symbolic wound - the bleeding hole left by generations of fathers traumatising wives and sons - the end result is the same. By becoming the Lord of Time, that god of cycles, and embedding himself in the very story structure cherubs dedicate their lives to upholding, Caliborn must embody that cycle; and the Oedipal is in the cyclical just as much as it is in the incestuous. Whether or not Caliborn's dad is him is irrelevant to the simple fact that Caliborn is his own dad.

#homestuck #analysis #caliborn #lord english #marvel comparative #black holes

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ms-oswald · 2 years ago

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unspoken words | finan

author's note: it's been a while, but after watching the last kingdom, had to jump on the wagon :) this one is a bit long - it was difficult to figure out where to trim it down, so hopefully it won't bore you. To whoever reads it, i hope you enjoy this little concoction. Lots of love & stay safe 💕

She was lost in the thick of it. Mud, sweat and blood were pouring left and right as she injured and maimed every body that reached her across the battlefield.

She was a good fighter, a warrior in her own right. Not only could her quiet demeanour send chills down a man’s spine, but her presence during battle were songs to write about.

She wore the name of a god - given to her - even though she was not part of their world. Saxons claimed she was the devil incarnate, while Danes thought her a witch, or worse, a malevolent spirit roaming the earth to haunt, hunt and kill them all.

To the sight of the strangers that crossed her path, they would scurry away while praying to their gods to protect them, to shield them from her evil presence. She couldn’t care. The soil she spent years marching on had no emotional ties to her body - well, almost.

She was far away from what she once used to know. Space and time had created a convoluted way of separating her from her old life.

And so, here she was. In a war zone, fighting for her life and for the lives of the men she grew accustomed to. She was fighting for their survival, to aid them in their endeavour.

He might have feared her when they met. The way her eyes first laid on him had sent shivers down to his bone - he had grasped onto his little crucifix, reciting a quiet prayer out of fright and distrust.

And then, with the time they shared together, with the moments they spent, she became something else entirely. Whenever he would catch himself looking at her, staring at her, intrigue came and made his initial feelings obsolete. She became a mystery he wanted to resolve, an enigmatic and mystical being overpowering his logical senses in exchange for timid devotion, and then, tumultuous desire.

She was made of steel, it was as clear as day. Her body carried her through bruises and sickness. She was a shield herself; her skin, her hair, her eyes, as well her weapons, protected her from the insanity she had been dragged into. Her knowledge of the human anatomy, of Mother Nature and her gifts, her combat skills, her agility and flexibility were a driving force.

Qualities that left his heart rendering to endless possibilities, good and bad.

The worse, the greater the grief; while in battle, he always knew where she stood. She was easy to find. There weren’t many women who could terrorize men twice their size. And yet, today, he had lost her in the crowd.

Anxious, panicked, he yelled for her name while swords were clashing against the enemy. While he still fought, his mind wandered to what could have happened. “Freya!”

Though his accent was strong and though his voice was loud, the grunts and yells from soldiers and warriors alike were louder, and louder. It was to such strength, ears could be beaten to deaf.

His heart raced not only from war, but from uncertainty and it drove him wild. Drumming away between his ears, he was scared. He was terrified. He was getting enraged. It couldn’t be that she had fallen, that the enemy had taken her, sweeping her life off this ground.

He kept calling for her, his voice trying to echo across the massacred field. It strained him - his anxiety creeping through as his world slowed down, almost to a halt. He could feel it in the back of his throat. His voice cracking as the worse played itself in front of him, blinding him from reality.

She was nowhere to be seen and nowhere to be heard.

She was down against the grass, her body bathing in mud and blood, the stench of dead bodies suffocating her.

She could always take men that were bigger than her - it was cocky to think that way, but she knew herself too well.

And it almost killed her.

In the middle of it all, she thought she had slain yet another opponent, cutting him frontward, backwards and then down to his legs, forcing him to fall. But instead of crashing to the ground, he was back up on his feet. She had already turned around, ready to fight the next big Dane, but unfortunately, she was pushed on her back.

The stranger grabbed her from her collar, holding her from behind and yanked her down, her back hitting the rough ground with brutal force. The gesture cut off her breath from her lungs. It left her disoriented for a moment until she saw his axe swinging her way.

She caught the weapon with the head of the blade resting between her hands, as they touched its shoulder. She could feel the edge pushing down on her face, the sharp end tickling her skin. With all her might, she tried to push it away - if the cost were her fingers, then so be it. She just had to get out.

The maniacal laugh he was emanating gave her the strength she needed to push him out. She used her legs to kick him off her; one to the knee, the other straight between his legs. By shock, he dropped the weapon and with its loosened grip, she was able to hold it steady and position it to her advantage.

It was still a tough fight.

Once she was able to get back on her feet, she got hit right in the face. She felt her nose take a hit as it cracked; blood was dripping down to her chin.

It was hearing his voice calling out for her that distracted her.

She could sense the desperation in the tone and it tore her apart.

She had to survive. She wanted to survive - for him. She whispered his name between her own lips, not able to gather the energy to call out for him.

She needed him, and the slow realization left her begging for his help with no way of speaking up.

The hit to the nose resonated to her head, adding to the pounding headache she was already carrying from falling on the ground.

She could barely make any sense of what was happening anymore. It was only when a sharp pain throbbed across her body that it woke her up.

Her opponent had caught her again. He nicked her neck with a dagger; a step closer and she would’ve been gone.

She punched him across the face, hoping to phase him enough that she could pick up her sword and ram it straight through him.

Once she did, he fell to his knees. She kicked him, forcing him out.

She moved on to the next and fought again, as weapons caught onto her. Big or small, her skin was taking streaks of wounds, leaving her vulnerable enough to join the dead.

She wasn’t giving up. She needed Finan.

Out of breath, she kept going, all in the hopes she would prevail and find him.

They couldn’t yet tell if this battle was coming to an end, but the dread of her possible death was driving him insane.

It left a taste in his mouth he never wanted.

Distraught, his emotions had taken over; his sanity was losing its grip to reality, his heart wrenching in his chest. His voice carried across the field the best he could. Like a prayer, her name fluttered through the wind, trying to find her and still hoping it wasn’t too late.

Finan was at a complete loss.

Where could she have gone? Maybe she backed out - or maybe she was down and dead, he thought.

Grunting for force, yelling for assurance, his body kept him busy. Sword in his hand, he fought left and right, front and back, slaying one Dane after the other. He needed victory against the enemy.

With faith stuck at his neck, he begged his God that the woman he cared for was alright. He begged, his whispers shadowed in the fight, that she was still alive and fighting just as he was.

It wasn’t their first battle together; they’ve fought side by side before and always made it through. But the gut feeling residing in him made room for his anxiety to cripple him.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

She was sometimes impossible; infuriating even. She was stubborn and sometimes reckless. She was fearless, and yet gentle. She had a touch that could either melt a thousand men or bring them to their knees, begging for their lives.

There were more reasons to love her. He couldn’t depart from it; it was like she stuck to him, every part of her body and soul intertwining with him.

The words were never spoken, but they still stood by each other’s side - mute, but not blind. It was an invisible thread pulling and pushing but never breaking them apart.

“Freya!”

Piles of bodies were scoured across the open field, their blood tainting Mother Nature’s body.

The noise had quietened down; only the victors remained as they gathered the prisoners and tended to the wounded.

He was stumbling across the dead, searching through the fallen faces to find her.

It was a dreadful maze, an overwhelming route to nothing. And yet, he wasn’t giving up. How could he when she was still out there? How could he stop searching when the woman he loved seemed to have disappeared forever?

Frantic to his core, only his voice deafened the silence surrounding the world.

“Freya!”

His knees were about to cave in, guiding him downwards; his brother by his side, Sihtric held the man up with an arm around the danish warrior’s shoulders as he was carried away back to the main grounds. However, Finan forced himself still. His eyes were still looking, still wandering. “Where did she go?”

To his hushed tone, his inquiry came with no answers.

The silence hugged the air. Hopelessness was crawling up inside him, shaking his body.

Sihtric then spoke up. “Finan.” He placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder for attention. “Look.” He gestured to turn and watch the horizons.

Lifting his head, he saw her.

Finally.

Finally, she graced his view with her survival.

Her body was covered in scratches from head to toe as she silently made her way to him and the others. She remained speechless.

They had won, and she couldn’t bother dancing to victory as her heart wore her heavy, its weight dragging her towards the mudded grass.

He should’ve felt relieved - she was safe and out of harms way. But for some reason, his heart still broke at his sight; he was troubled, on the verge of anger, of frustration.

She could hear him call her name as he ran towards her.

She tried to speed up her steps but did not have the energy to pursue.

“Where have you been?! You made me believe you were dead!” He burst out without thought. He was completely exhausted, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I couldn’t find you! I-I was worried sick!” He didn’t even stop to take a breath, he kept going without holding back. “What the hell were ya thinking?!”

She was watching him, her eyes following the traces of his features as he expressed his worry and his anger, his voice tone increasing slowly.

She could tell he had gotten scared. It was the way he was staring at her that gave it away.

He was still rambling; she wasn’t paying attention to his words anymore when she dropped her weapons. She then took his hand and gently placed it on her chest, right where her heart stood, holding him in place.

She still did not speak, letting his voice carry both of them.

The realization slowly hit; her heart raced against the palm of his hand, he started to calm down.

He was catching his breath, his chest heaving up and down.

Tensions were still running high when comfort softly slipped in. She was standing in front of him, alive.

She bore bruises like the rest of them, and he couldn’t look away.

As his left arm still held her, his right hand wandered to her wounds. His fingers gently traced the small cut on her head, down to her broken nose and then to her neck. Only then, when his arm kept following the limbs of her body did she wince at the touch under her waist.

Her voice barely made a sound but Finan knew something was wrong; she had tightened her grip on his hand, her eyes closed as her body took in the pain that waved across her.

He looked down to notice the blood slowly slithering down her hip to her leg, then down to the mud.

She tried wearing a reassuring smile, something to ease his discomfort.

“Finan…”

It was muttered, delicate; hearing his name roll across her tongue, he could almost cry. He could feel the tears prickling the corner of his eyes, his browns gazing at her.

Freya took one step closer, wanting to feel his warmth - the sign he still lived - against her own body. To feel the spark bursting from his skin to hers; the thought of it accelerated her heart rate. Oh, did she love this man.

He wanted to kiss her. The sheer need of it, the wanting and desperation that crept out of him could turn a person blind.

And yet, he didn’t dare. It was too good to be true, right? The darkest part of him was playing mind tricks. It was mischievous, treacherous even.

But he could feel her breath against him. Her lips so close to his, one move and he could take her right there and then.

But again, nothing happened.

They stood still, like time itself.

The sun was peaking high up, lighting up the sky to its prettiest of blue and they did not move.

It was cold. Her skin shivered as their breaths crowded the space between them.

His eyes were still gawking at the wound on the right side of her waist - it couldn’t have been that bad since she was still on her two feet. A few inches deeper and she would’ve been cold in his arms.

She sensed his distress. His breathing was catching up to him, making him dizzy.

He tried to speak but the words were stuck in his throat this time.

His hand was still pressed against her chest when she reached for him; her hands carrying his head as she leaned towards him, their foreheads pressed against one another and bringing their bodies closer together. It was her way of telling him ‘I’m safe, I’m here’, of telling him she was spared.

She felt the tingle at the edge of her lips; he stood so close and yet he was so far away.

They stayed like this for a little while longer - the rest of the group let them be, not daring to interrupt the moment.

The sentiment they felt for each other, the unspoken words that draped their skins and wrapped them tightly against one another, held them strong.

The noise of the war was gone.

They were the only two people left in this place.

These unspoken words were dancing across their lingering touch, the ghostly tingle carrying them on into another day, until the next battle, and the one after that.

They were here, voiceless - closed up to the physical world around them.

But with Finan, with her, unspoken words were enough.

They always knew what they meant to each other and that was okay.

Looking into the future was a dangerous game, and so they let it be.

--------------

xoxo,

#the last kingdom #finan #tlk fanfic #finan x oc #finan x reader #mywriting #mark rowley #finan imagine #the last kingdom fanfic #finan the agile

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kovacs-of-courage · 1 year ago

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Eclipse AU(Tldr at bottom of post_

So I made a modern-sort of percy jackson inspired AU for Linked Universe, I think it's fun to write! I hope other people enjoy it. Here's my weird rough summary. Willing to answer any and all questions!

The Chain are lost in time, trapped in an unending cycle of life and death. A familiar tale to the hero's spirit. In their last confrontation with the incarnations of demise, and the demons he commanded--the whole of reality went asunder, and the power of the gods shattered entirely.

After that confrontation--the nine embodiments of the hero’s spirit suffered the same fate as their homeland--their souls washed away in caskets of golden tears and failed promises.

Hyrule was wiped away, wiped from the face of history and beyond. The goddesses had to begin their creation anew, without the baggage of those that caused it’s destruction in the first place.

Earth, modern earth, was created in it’s place--with a few key changes.

For all their efforts--the remains of their first creation leaked through, infecting the history of our earth like vile rot. The monsters were the first to make the breach, their combined hatred and inhuman will to survive holding their corrupted essences together through the transition.

There are stories of these creatures, often disregarded as exaggerated hyperbole by historians, or metaphors for natural disasters.

They were not.

The Queen Gohma haunts the jungles of South America, legends of her urchin-like young making victims of unfortunate wanderers; sustaining her immortal lifespan in the depths of her hollowed tree.

Argorok terrorized the skies of medieval Europe, casting plumes of fire on the feudal armies that tried opposing it’s oppressive reign; her accompanying packs of gleeoks hunting ancient sailors in the atlantic.

And there were many, so many more monsters that endured the chaotic folding of time and space, the near-annihilation of any sense of self--as the mind and soul were put to battle against the last, drawn out gasps of their dying universe. The destruction was biblical, the return of gods seen only in legend--it’s a wonder that anything survived that cataclysm.

The chain suffered a similar fate--at first--their existence and histories torn apart atom by atom, their souls stretched paperthin as thought and reality blended together during the collapse of stars.

But they endured.

They tumbled through the new cosmos, the echoes of their shared spirit melding into the foundation of the universe--as immovable as gravity. When humanity came to prominence; the chain were there to follow. They were reborn, stripped of their memories, into a thousand different societies, and countless eras.

At times of crises and devastation; their nine courageous souls were reborn across the earth, their courage burning brighter than it had been before. They were prepared for the changing world, their skills old and new continuing with each reset.

There are some echoes of continuity, however, rules that their spirit must follow.

Twilight is related to time in some way, and they’re the two who meet again the most.

Wind is always born in sea-faring communities, whether that be in the literal age of pirates, or as an early tribesmen at the dawn of civilization--rediscovering his aptitude for sailing.

And as the chain have been reborn, so too have many of Hyrule’s legends, their essences bleeding forth onto our realm. The memory of that primeval history scars our world, and fragments of every era hides under the bustling, nation-states of our modern age.

Some more aware than others.

Those with the blood of Hylia returned, bringing the memory of their goddess with them--thought to be eradicated. They possess no royal heritage, living as normal citizens, the zeldas being born nearby their links.

The sheikah bounced back quickly, as Impa(SS) managed to come out of the transition with her memories intact--assembling her fractured tribe during the stone ages.

TLDR: Modern AU that’s sort of percy jackson in how Hyrule seeps over. Ancient things hidden in modern times, with the chain reborn worldwide.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #fanfic #lu au #linked universe fanfic #linked universe au #eclipse au #involves alot of time travel #not sure if I want a long term story for it but I have alot of oneshot ideas #lu chain #linked universe chain #lu time #lu twilight #casting these chain tags like candy on a fishing rod #lu impa #lu sky #lu warriors #lu wind

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grailfinders · 1 year ago

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Grailfinders #329: Sakamoto Ryouma (Lancer)

today on Grailfinders we’re building the best argument for a completely superfluous Grailfinders episode, Sakamoto Ryouma (Lancer)! it’s Sakamoto, but again! in-game it’s a stronger version of the original, but here we take all the builds to level twenty regardless of their rarity. what I could do to differentiate this build from the first stumped me for a while, but I think I’ve hit on something.

Ryouma’s still an Echo Knight Fighter to summon his wife as a bonus action, but now instead of a monk and a rogue, he’s a Lore Bard to learn some buffing spells for oryou’s super-saiyan mode.

check out their build breakdown below the cut, or their character sheet over here!

next up: you better watch out, you better watch out, you better watch out! you better watch out!

Ancestry & Background

I won’t bore you too much here, it’s exactly the same as before (except for one thing). Variant Human, so that’s +1 Wisdom and Charisma, Stealth proficiency, and instead of that UA feat we’re getting Magic Initiate for some Druid spells. Primal Savagery is how oryou will be attacking most of the time now, using her acidic claws instead of your piddly strength score. you also embrace modern technology like weather stations with Druidcraft, and Oryou can keep you safe thanks to her Protection from Evil and Good. Ryouma’s still a Soldier though, so that’s some History and Intimidation proficiency for you.

Ability Scores

this one’s 100% the same. highest to lowest- Charisma, Dexterity, Wisdom, Intelligence, Constitution, Strength. I would love to be able to stat up oryou this time around, but sadly Ryouma’s still the main servant.

Class Levels

1. Fighter 1: this Ryouma’s a bit more martial since he’s a knight class, so he’s starting off as a Fighter. this means his starting proficiencies are completely different, getting proficiency in Strength and Constitution saves, as well as Insight to see through political bullshit and Animal Handling to stretch the definition of “animal” to its breaking point. and “handling”, for that matter.

also, starting as a fighter gets us oryou’s Fighting Style earlier, so pick up Unarmed Fighting, just in case those claws don’t work out. if you’d rather grab something for Ryouma, I’d just go with Two-weapon Fighting and reflavor a rapier as a light spear, with a shortsword in his off-hand.

you also get a Second Wind once a short rest, giving you back some HP as a bonus action thanks to the power of oryou’s healing spit. …she does really have healing spit, right? I didn’t just hallucinate that while forcing my way through the event?

2. Fighter 2: second level fighters can make an Action Surge once a short rest, adding an action to your turn so you can fight like there’s two of you. because there is.

3. Fighter 3: as a third level fighter you become an Echo Knight, letting you Manifest Echo as a bonus action. now oryou can float around in her own space without using your action to move, as long as she’s within 30’ of you whenever your turn ends. it has a good AC but only one HP, so expect to spend your bonus action bringing oryou back a lot. while she’s out you can swap places as a bonus action, and you can attack and make attacks of opportunity from her space. primal savagery doesn’t count as an attack for this, so I guess oryou’s relying on her fists when she’s not hanging around you. that’s disappointing, but we’ll find a way to make her awesome later on.

also, you can Unleash Incarnation once a day to make an extra attack from the echo’s position. if you want to let oryou use a dex weapon, I won’t tell anyone, promise.

4. Bard 1: bouncing over to bard gives you proficiency in Persuasion, as well as the ability to cast Spells using your Charisma. you can also give Bardic Inspiration to your allies Charisma Modifier times per day, letting them add a d6 to any one attack roll, save, or check they make in the minute after you hand it over.

to be more specific about spells, you have Blade Ward to be protected by oryou physically with resistance to weapon damage, and Mage Hand to have her carry random stuff around, for your cantrips. you also get spells like Distort Value to be a smooth-talking bastard that can convince a whole town to sell him their rice supply, Heroism to make everyone else more ardent supporters of restoration, Feather Fall so oryou can save your frail ass from falling, and Thunderwave so she can punch people so hard they go flying.

5. Bard 2: second level bards are Jacks of All Trades, so now you’re at least half-proficient in every skill. you also have a Song of Rest, so you can add more health to your party over short rests. your gf with one hit point will be grateful.

you can also use Unseen Servant now; in case you need to send oryou off on some errands. a vastly, vastly weaker version of oryou, but an oryou none the less.

6. Bard 3: third level bards can learn up on some Lore, giving you an extra three proficiencies, like in Deception, Arcana, and Athletics. this is still Ryouma after all, did you think I’d forget deception? this is also the level you get Expertise in two skills, doubling your proficiency bonus in Insight and Persuasion.

you also get second level spells like Gift of Gab. Ryouma’s good with words, but you probably aren’t. at least, not as good as he is. with this spell you can undo any unfortunate wordings and rewrite your last six seconds of dialogue.

when you want painful dialogue, you can use Cutting Words to spend inspiration on weakening a creature’s attack, check, or damage roll. if your wife only has 1 HP, she’ll need some protecting too. only a little.

7. Bard 4: fourth level bards finally get an Ability Score Improvement, so you can bump up your Dexterity for better spearing an better dodging.

you also learn the Friends cantrip to force your way into conversations, and the Aid spell for our first taste of healing. is giving your echo an extra 5 HP a good use of a spell? god no. could it be cool? maybe! at least you can also give that buff to a couple other friends at the same time.

8. Bard 5: at fifth level you are a Font of Inspiration, so your inspiration dice refill on short rests as well as long ones. they’re also d8s now, so they’re more effective over-all. on top of that, you get third level spells like Mass Healing Word to top off the whole party in one go.

9. Bard 6: sixth level bards get Countercharm, but that’s pretty much useless, we’re here for Additional Magical Secrets, a feat that I will never get tired of pointing out comes before the first magical secrets. basically, you get two extra spells, and they can be from any spell list. use Tidal Wave to send a little splashback at your enemies, and Primal Savagery again to use charisma instead of wisdom. it’s still tied to just you, but now we’re using your good casting modifier.

for his normal spell Sakamoto gets Motivational Speech, a slightly more offense-based heroism, because by this point Acquisitions Incorporated might as well be bankrolling this build.

10. Bard 7: seventh level bards get fourth level spells, and now oryou can finally set off completely on her own with the help of the spells Phantasmal Killer. every turn the target has to make a wisdom save or they’ll take psychic damage. real simple, but real effective.

11. Bard 8: use this ASI to bump up your Charisma for stronger spells and more inspiration, and now you can Charm Monsters. I mean, you already charmed one!

12. Bard 9: ninth level bards have a better song of rest, and you can also use fifth level spells like Scrying. literally just. send oryou off to spy on people.

13. Bard 10: tenth level bards have d10s for inspiration, plus another round of Expertise! now you’ve got better animal handling and deception. you also get Thunderclap for a free oryou punch, and another round of Magical Secrets!

now you can Summon Draconic Spirit for a full oryou summoning with much more than 1 HP. they get a bunch of resistances, and she even shares one of them with you! on top of that even at the lowest level you can cast it at, oryou will be able to make three attacks each turn! if you just want uppies, you can use Freedom of the Winds to get a piggyback ride from oryou, giving you a flight speed, as well as advantage against being grappled, restrained, or paralyzed. oryou can also yeet you away from an incoming attack or spell, and if you land outside of its range, you take no damage. of course, this also means your ride is over.

14. Bard 11: remember how I mentioned Ryouma conned a whole town out of their food? now it’s time to use it. Heroes’ Feast gives everyone who partakes a panacea against disease and poison, immunity to poison and being frightened, advantage on wisdom saves, and increased HP, all for 24 hours. this is the benefit of being a 5 star.

15. Bard 12: use your last bardic ASI to receive the Gift of the Metallic Dragon. with this, you can cast Cure Wounds once a day for free or by spending spell slots, and oryou can shield you or your allies as a reaction, adding your proficiency bonus to their AC, and you can do that proficiency times a day.

16. Bard 13: thirteenth level bards get seventh level spells like Etherealness. for up to eight hours you can travel around the ethereal plane without having to worry about anything on the material plane, creatures or objects. this seems out of place for Ryouma, but tbf literally every servant should have this spell.

17. Bard 14: at level fourteen your Peerless Skills lets you add inspiration dice to any ability check you make. you’re two people, you should roll like two people. well, one and a half. you both have your weaknesses and it evens out.

you also get one last round of Magical Secrets, turning yourself into oryou in one of two ways! if you want raw power, Tenser’s Transformation gives you plenty of extra health and stronger attacks, but if you want a more thematic transformation, there’s always Draconic Transformation, giving you blindsight, a breath weapon, and wings.

18. Fighter 4: going back to fighter gets you yet another ASI, so bump up your Dexterity for more lancing.

19. Fighter 5: fifth level fighters get an Extra Attack each attack action, that’s two per turn, four with action surge, and up to five with unleash incarnation. sorry it took so long to get this, I just felt the dragon stuff was higher priority.

20. Fighter 6: fighters are awesome, so we get to end this build with another ASI! this time we’re getting the Gift of the Chromatic Dragon, allowing you to add elemental damage to your weapon for up to a minute, and you can react to gain resistance to one instance of elemental damage proficiency times a day. now oryou protects you from everything!

Pros & Cons

Pros:

you have a lot of Protection, so actually getting a solid hit in on you is tough. you have a pretty good AC, plus many, many ways to increase your AC or your save or reduce incoming damage.

you’re also great outside of combat, with tons of expertise in social skills, high charisma, and a way to add even more dice to your skill checks. you will definitely be the face of the party. either you or oryou, at least.

I know I bring this up every time, but flying is awesome. it nullifies most enemies, and it’s just a really cool way to get around.

Cons:

you need all that protection because you’re a politician, not a fighter. you have barely over 100 HP, so a sneeze will put you into power word kill range.

echo knight is super fun, but this time it’s hard to use in combat for us, since oryou’s in-character options for hitting anything are “attack with a -1 to hit” or “hope the DM is kind enough to bend the rules for you.” without a good way to deal damage, the echo knight stuff is just an easily popped balloon.

our biggest goals don’t happen until late game, so for most of the campaign your build will be more awkward than anything else.

#fgo #fate grand order #D&D 5e #DND #sakamoto ryouma

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shuxiii · 2 years ago

Text

Everyday pt. 12

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt13

a/n LOORd i am not part 11 shu now i am part 12 shu i am sorry but part 11 shu lost their sanity and I am not the new part 12 wshuw, credits to ''every day'' by David levithan

Day 6015

I wake up, and I’m not four hours away from her, or one hour, or even fifteen minutes.

No, I wake up in her house.

In her room.

In her body.

At first I think I’m still asleep, dreaming. I open my eyes, and I could be in any girl’s room—a room she’s lived in for a long time, with Madame Alexander dolls sharing space with eyeliner pencils and fashion magazines. I am sure it is only a dreamworld trick when I access my identity and find it’s Hanni who appears. Have I had this dream before? I don’t think so. But in a way, it makes sense. If she’s the thought, the hope, the concern underneath my every waking moment, then why wouldn’t she permeate my sleeping hours as well?

But I’m not dreaming. I am feeling the pressure of the pillow against my face. I am feeling the sheets around my legs. I am breathing. In dreams, we never bother to breathe.

I instantly feel like the world has turned to glass. Every moment is delicate. Every movement is a risk. I know she wouldn’t want me here. I know the horror she would be feeling right now. The complete loss of control.

Everything I do could break something. Every word I say. Every move I make.

I look around some more. Some girls and boys obliterate their rooms as they grow older, thinking they have to banish all their younger incarnations in order to convincingly inhabit a new one. But Hanni is more secure with her past than that. I see pictures of her and her family when she is three, eight, ten, fourteen. A stuffed penguin still keeps watch over her bed. J. D. Salinger sits next to Dr. Seuss on her bookshelf.

I pick up one of the photographs. If I wanted to, I could try to access the day it was taken. It looks like she and her sister are at a county fair. Her sister is wearing some kind of prize ribbon. It would be so easy for me to find out what it is. But then it wouldn’t be Hanni telling me.

I want her here next to me, giving me the tour. Now I feel like I’ve broken in.

The only way to get through this is to live the day as Hanni would want me to. If she knows I was here—and I have a feeling she will—I want her to be certain that I didn’t take any advantage. I know instinctively that this is not the way I want to learn anything. This is not the way I want to gain anything.

Because of this, it feels like all I can do is lose.

This is how it feels to raise her arm.

This is how it feels to blink her eyes.

This is how it feels to turn her head.

This is how it feels to run her tongue over her lips, to put her feet on the floor.

This is the weight of her. This is the height of her. This is the angle from which she sees the world.

I could access every memory she has of me. I could access every memory she has of Minji. I could hear what she’s said when I haven’t been around.

“Hello.”

This is what her voice sounds like from the inside.

This is what her voice sounds like when she’s by herself.

Her mother shuffles past me in the hallway, awake but not by her own choice. It has been a long night for her, leading into a short morning. She says she’s going to try to go back to sleep, but adds that it’s not likely.

Hanni’s father is in the kitchen, about to leave for work. His “good morning” holds less complaint. But he’s in a rush, and I have a sense that those two words are all Hanni’s going to get. I get some cereal as he searches for his keys, then say a goodbye echo to his own quick goodbye.

I decide not to take a shower, or even to change out of last night’s underwear. When I go to the bathroom, I will keep my eyes closed. I feel naked enough looking in the mirror and seeing Hanni’s face. I can’t push it any further than that. Brushing her hair is already too intimate. Putting on makeup. Even putting on shoes. To experience her body’s balance within the world, the sensation of her skin from the inside, touching her face and receiving the touch from both sides—it’s unavoidable and incredibly intense. I try to think only as me, but I can’t stop feeling that I’m her.

I have to access to find my keys, then find my way to school. Maybe I should stay home, but I’m not sure I could bear being alone as her for that long without any distractions. The radio station is tuned to the news, which is unexpected. Her sister’s graduation tassel hangs from the rearview mirror.

I look to the passenger seat, expecting Hanni to be there, looking at me, telling me where to go.

I am going to try to avoid Minji. I go early to my locker, get my books, then head directly to my first class. As friends trickle into the classroom, I make as much conversation as I can. Nobody notices any difference—not because they don’t care, but because it’s early in the morning, and nobody’s expected to be fully there. I’ve been so hung up on Minji that I haven’t realized how much Hanni’s friends are part of her life. I realize that until now, the most I’ve really seen her full life has been when I was Ahn yujin, visiting the school for the day. Because she doesn’t spend her day alone. These friends are not what she wants to escape when she makes her escape.

“Did you get to all the bio?” her friend Yeeun asks. At first I think she’s asking to copy my homework, but then I realize she’s offering hers. Sure enough, Hanni has a few problems left to do. I thank Yeeun and start copying away.

When class begins and the teacher starts to lecture, all I need to do is listen and take notes.

Remember this, I tell Hanni. Remember how ordinary it is.

I can’t help but get glimpses of things I’ve never seen before. Doodles in her notebook of trees and mountains. The light imprint her socks leave on her ankles. A small red birthmark at the base of her left thumb. These are probably things she never notices. But because I’m new to her, I see everything.

This is how it feels to hold a pencil in her hand.

This is how it feels to fill her lungs with air.

This is how it feels to press her back against the chair.

This is how it feels to touch her ear.

This is what the world sounds like to her. This is what she hears every day.

I allow myself one memory. I don’t choose it. It just rises, and I don’t cut it off.

Yeeun is sitting next to me, chewing gum. At one point in class, she’s so bored that she takes it out of her mouth and starts playing with it between her fingers. And I remember a time she did this in sixth grade. The teacher caught her, and Yeeun was so surprised at being caught that she startled, and the gum went flying from her hand and into Hannah Walker’s hair. Hannah didn’t know what had happened at first, and all the kids started laughing at her, making the teacher more furious. I was the one who leaned over and told her there was gum in her hair. I was the one who worked it out with my fingers, careful not to get it knotted farther in. I got it all out. I remember I got it all out.

I try to avoid Minji at lunch, but I fail.

I’m in a hallway nowhere near either of our lockers or the lunchroom, and she ends up being there, too. She’s not happy to see me or unhappy to see me; she regards my presence as a fact, no different than the bell between periods.

“Wanna take it outside?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, not really knowing what I’m agreeing to.

In this case, “outside” means a pizza place two blocks from the school. We get slices and Cokes. She pays for herself, but makes no offer to pay for me. Which is fine.

She’s in a talkative mood, focusing on what I imagine is her favorite theme: the injustices perpetrated against her by everyone else, all the time. It’s a pretty wide conspiracy, involving everything from her car’s faulty ignition to her father’s nagging about college to her English teacher’s “gay way of talking.” I’m barely following her conversation, and following very much feels like the right word, because this conversation is designed for me to be at least five steps behind. She doesn’t want my opinion. Anytime I offer something, she just lets it sit there on the table between us, doesn’t pick it up.

As she goes on about how affectionate Kazuha is being to Yunjin, and keeps shoving pizza into her face, and looks at the table much more than she looks at me, I must struggle against the palpable temptation to do something drastic. Although she doesn’t realize it, the power is all mine. All it would take is a minute—less—to break up with her. All it would take are a few well-chosen words to cut the tether. She could counterattack with tears or rage or promises, and I could withstand every single one.

It is so much what I want, but I don’t open my mouth. I don’t use this power. Because I know that this kind of ending would never lead to the beginning I want. If I end things like this, Hanni will never forgive me. Not only might she undo it all tomorrow, she would also define me by my betrayal for as long as I remained in her life, which wouldn’t be long.

I hope she realizes: The whole time, Minji never notices. She can see me in whatever body I’m in, but she can’t see she’s missing. She’s not looking that closely.

Then she calls her Silver. Just a simple, “Let’s go, Silver,” when we’re done. I think maybe I’ve heard her wrong. So I access, and there it is. A moment between them. They’ve been reading The Outsiders for English class, lying on her bed side by side with the same book open, she a little farther along. She thinks the book’s a relic from when weepy gang boys bonded over Gone with the Wind, but she quiets herself when she sees how much it’s affecting her. She stays there after she’s finished, starts reading the beginning again until she’s done. Then she closes the book and says, “Wow. I mean, nothing gold can stay. How true is that?” She doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to question what it means. And she’s rewarded when she smiles and says, “I guess that means we’ll have to be silver.” When she leaves that night, she calls out, “So long, Silver!” And it stays.

When we head back to school, we don’t hold hands, or even talk. When we part, she doesn’t wish me a good afternoon or thank me for the time we just had together. She doesn’t even say she’ll see me soon. She just assumes it.

I am hyperaware—as she leaves me, as I am surrounded by other people—of the perilous nature of what I am attempting, of the butterfly effect that threatens to flutter its wings with every interaction. If you think about it hard enough, if you trace potential reverberations long enough, every step can be a false step, any move can lead to an unintended consequence.

Who am I ignoring that I shouldn’t be ignoring? What am I not saying that I should be saying? What won’t I notice that she would absolutely notice? While I’m out in the public hallways, what private languages am I not hearing?

When we look at a crowd, our eyes naturally go to certain people, whether we know them or not. But my glance right now is blank. I know what I see, but not what she’d see.

The world is still glass.

This is how it feels to read words through her eyes.

This is how it feels to turn a page with her hand.

This is how it feels when her ankles cross.

This is how it feels to lower her head so her hair hides her eyes from view.

This is what her handwriting looks like. This is how it is made. This is how she signs her name.

There’s a quiz in English class. It’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles, which I’ve read. I think Hanni does okay.

I access enough to know she doesn’t have any plans after school. Minji finds her before last period and asks her if she wants to do something. It’s clear to me what this something will be, and I can’t see much benefit to it.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.

She looks at me like I’m an imbecile puppy.

“What do you think?”

“Homework?”

She snorts. “Yeah, we can call it that, if you want.”

I need a lie. Really, what I want to do is say yes and then blow her off. But there could be repercussions for that tomorrow. So instead I tell her I have to take my mom to some doctor for her sleep problems. It’s a real drag, but they’ll be drugging her up and she probably won’t be able to drive herself home.

“Well, as long as they give her plenty of pills,” she says. “I love your mom’s pills.”

She leans in for a kiss and I have to do it. Amazing how it’s the same two bodies as three weeks ago, but the kiss couldn’t be more different. Before, when our tongues touched, when I was on the other side of it, it felt like another form of intimate conversation. Now it feels like she’s shoving something alien and gross into my mouth.

“Go get some pills,” she says when we break apart.

We have been to an ocean together, and a forest. So today I decide we should go to a mountain.

A quick search shows me the nearest place to climb. I have no idea if Hanni’s ever been there, but I’m not sure that matters.

She’s not really dressed for hiking—her Converse don’t have a whole lot of tread left on them. I plunge forward nonetheless, taking a water bottle and a phone with me, and leaving everything else in the car.

Again it’s a Monday, and the trails are largely clear. Every now and then I’ll pass another hiker on his or her way down, and we’ll nod or say hello, in the way that people surrounded by acres of silence do. The paths are haphazardly marked, or perhaps I’m just not attentive enough. I can feel the incline as it’s measured by Hanni’s leg muscles, can feel her breath shift into more challenging air. I keep going.

For our afternoon, I’ve decided to attempt to give Hanni the satisfaction of being fully alone. Not the lethargy of lying on the couch or the dull monotony of drifting off in math class. Not the midnight wandering in a sleeping house or the pain of being left in a room after the door has been slammed shut. This alone is not a variation of any of those. This alone is its own being. Feeling the body, but not using it to sidetrack the mind. Moving with purpose, but not in a rush. Conversing not with the person next to you, but with all of the elements. Sweating and aching and climbing and making sure not to slip, not to fall, not to get too lost, but lost enough.

And at the end, the pause. At the top, the view. Grappling with the last steep incline, the final turns of the path, and finding yourself above it all. It’s not that there’s a spectacular view. It’s not that we’ve reached the peak of Everest. But here we are, at the highest point the eye can see, not counting the clouds, the air, the lazy sun. I am eleven again; we are atop that tree. The air feels cleaner because when the world is below us, we allow ourselves to breathe fully. When no one else is around, we open ourselves to the quieter astonishments that enormity can offer.

Remember this, I implore Hanni as I look out over the trees, as I catch her breath. Remember this sensation. Remember that we were here.

I sit down on a rock and drink some water. I know I am in her body,

but it feels very much like she is here with me. Like we are two separate people, together, sharing this.

I have dinner with her parents. When they ask me what I did today, I tell them. I’m sure I tell them more than Hanni would, more than the day usually allows.

“That sounds wonderful,” her mother says.

“Just be careful out there,” her father adds. Then he changes the conversation to something that happened at work, and my day, briefly registered, becomes solely my own again.

I do her homework as best I can. I don’t check her email, afraid that there will be something there that she wouldn’t want me to see. I don’t check my own email, because she’s the only person I’d want to hear from. There’s a book on her night table, but I don’t read it, for fear that she won’t remember what I’ve read, and will have to read it again anyway. I thumb through some magazines.

Finally, I decide to leave her a note. It’s the only way she’ll know for sure that I’ve been here. Another palpable temptation is to pretend that none of this has happened, to deny any accusation she makes based on whatever remnant of memory remains. But I want to be truthful. The only way this will work is if we are entirely truthful.

So I tell her. At the very beginning of my letter, I ask her to try to remember the day as much as possible before she reads on, so what I write won’t taint what’s really left in her mind. I explain that I never would have chosen to be in her body, that it isn’t something I have control over. I tell her I tried to respect her day as much as I knew how, and that I hope not to have caused any disruption in her life. Then, in her own handwriting, I map out our day for her. It is the first time I’ve ever written to the person whose life I’ve occupied, and it feels both strange and comfortable, knowing that Hanni will be the reader of these words. There are so many explanations I can leave unsaid. The fact that I am writing the letter at all is an expression of faith—faith both in her and in the belief that trust can lead to trust, and truth can lead to truth.

This is how it feels as her eyelids close.

This is how sleep will taste to her.

This is how night touches her skin.

This is how the house noises sing her to bed.

This is the goodbye she feels every night. This is how her day ends.

I curl up in bed, still wearing my clothes. Now that the day is almost done, the world of glass recedes, the butterfly threat diminishes. I imagine that we’re both here in this bed, that my invisible body is nestled against hers. We are breathing at the same pace, our chests rising and falling in unison. We have no need to whisper, because at this distance, all we need is thought. Our eyes close at the same time. We feel the same sheets against us, the same night. Our breath slows together. We split into different versions of the same dream. Sleep takes us at the exact same time.

#newjeans fanfic #newjeans #hanni #hanni x reader #Hanni pham #newjeans imagines

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