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thetriumphantpanda · 8 months

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i'll be needing stitches | din djarin

Summary | The Mandalorian has never had someone else tend to his wounds.

Pairing | Din Djarin x F!Reader

Word Count | 2.1k

Warnings | Future chapters will include smut, but this one involves mentions of injuries, a dead bounty, explicit descriptions of an untrained professional stitching someone up, blood, some explicit thoughts and some yearning.

Authors Note | My favourite tin can man is back and ready for business. I am having such a wonderful time imagining all the things Din has never experienced before and the idea that he has only ever been the one to patch himself up was more than I could cope with. As always, comments, reblogs and freaking out in my ask box are all welcome and if you enjoyed this, please consider supporting me with a donation to my Ko-Fi.

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Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

He’d been gone a few days. That was nothing new. Off hunting his next bounty, leaving you in charge of child. You didn’t mind it, once you’d gotten used to the fact that you couldn’t really reason with him, and that you’d be tired from constantly keeping an eye on him, he was actually pretty decent company.

You’re fussing with him, trying to get him to go down for some rest when the Crest doors open and there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor. That’s nothing out of the ordinary, so you don’t rush to see what’s happening. What is out of the ordinary is the sound of metal crashing to the floor right after it.

You whip around, looking at the scene before you. There’s a dead bounty on the ground, being kept company by Mando, who is crumpled on the floor in his armour, a pool of blood seeping out from underneath his left leg as he struggles to push himself up.

“Bloody hell,” you exclaim, immediately dropping all worry of the child to drop to your knees next to him, “What the hell happened?!”

He doesn’t respond, just grips at the injured leg, trying to get the bleeding to subside. His trousers are torn and there’s a nasty gash to the skin of his thigh that is about to cause a whole world of problems if you can’t fix it.

With your hand on his shoulder, placed there to let him know you’re near, you whip your head around trying to remember where he keeps the healing equipment. He’s needed it before, but only for minor injuries, and has never needed your help before, but with the way the blood is spreading across the floor, he’s going to need you now.

He feebly lifts a hand, pointing in the direction of his bunk, “Left it…. There.” He struggles to spit out.

“Okay, I’ll fetch it,” your voice is laced with panic, like if you leave him now, he’s going to pass out, or worse, “You’ve gotta promise me you’ll stay with me, okay?” There’s no response, “Mando? You hear me? No sleeping!”

He mumbles something unintelligible under his helmet but at least he’s talking. You let your hand drop, guiding him down to lie on the floor whilst you rush to his bunk, pulling at the haphazard sheets until the first aid box appears at the foot of the bed. You’re back on your knees next to him in no time, and he’s still moving about and groaning as you put your hand on his thigh to get a better look at his wound.

Your fingers tear at the edges of the material, wanting to allow him to keep his modesty but see the extent of the damage. The gash is angry, blood seeping from it with red edges. You tip the top of the box open and root through it. There’s a single bottle of bacta spray, which you pull out, give a little shake and go to take the top off, when his wide palm circles around your wrist to stop you.

“No.”

You let a frustrated growl leave your throat, “Then what, Mando?!” You exclaim, “You’re bleeding out, what am I meant to do?!”

“The thread,” He chokes out, “Just stitch it up.”

You look him straight in the visor, hoping your disapproving look is landing through his beskar. You are not a nurse, if you try and stitch him up you’re only going to make it worse.

“I’m going to make it worse like that,” You insist, “I’ve never stitched anything in my life.”

“Y-yes you have,” he squeezes your wrist, to reassure you, “Y-your tunic.”

“Mando, this is your fucking leg we’re talking about, not my clothes, it’s completely different.”

He pulls on your arm now, dragging your attention to him, craning his helmet as much as he can to look at you, “Do not waste that spray.” He demands, and even when he’s bleeding out on the floor, he commands you, knows that no matter what, he calls the shots - he lets your arm go, pushing you away gently but towards his leg.

You could argue with him that saving him from certain death is not wasting it, but the longer you bicker, the less time you have, so with shaking hands, you put the bacta spray back, and instead find the needle and surgical thread. With shaking hands, you do your best to thread the needle and tie it off at one end, before your hands are grasping at his thigh.

“This is going to suck,” You mutter, because it is, it would suck at the hands of a trained professional, so it’s definitely going to suck at the hands of someone who could barely sew their own clothes together, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t give him enough time to respond, or yourself much time to consider what you’re actually doing, you just push the needle through the skin closest to you and over to the other side, trying not to look up or focus too hard on the sounds he’s making as you drag the needle back and forward through his skin, watching as the skin closes together the further along the wound you pull. Your hands are shaking, and you’re holding your breath, but you don’t seem to be making it worse, which is something you’ll take.

You’re trying your best to concentrate on making the line of stitches as neat and tidy as you can, but all you can really focus on are the sounds that are coming from underneath that helmet of his. Low groans and grunts of pain as you work the needle through his skin, groans and grunts that you can’t help thinking about in another context, like if you weren’t currently trying to stitch him up and instead he had you pinned down and was- okay, no absolutely not.

You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the now incredibly distracting train of thought. Sure, there have been moments when you’d thought about it, though about what kind of lover he would be, mainly only out of curiosity than your own desires. But ever since he took that damn helmet off in the rain and touched your face, you can’t help but wonder what kind of lover he’d be for you.

Whilst he’s led there on the floor, all his trust put in you to patch him up and make him better, make sure he lives, and all you can is wonder what those sounds would be like for you. What the press of his thighs would do to your own when he put himself between your body, or what this specific thigh, gripped in your hand, clenched as you push the needle through once more, would feel like between your legs. Would he guide you through it, with those big hands on your hips, or would he lean back and let you take what you needed? Would he snake that hand down the front of your trousers and help you along, or would he let you do it all yourself?

He’s agitated, and understandably so, it’s been a slow patch up, with you making sure that the scar your sutures will leave is as neat as it possibly can be. As you bend your head to look closely as you tie another knot in the end of the stitches, you realise he will have this for the rest of his life. A permanent mark on his skin, made by someone else sure, but patched up by you. The Mandalorian will always have this reminder of you etched into his skin, even if, for some reason, you cease to exist in his life. It’s primal, the way is makes you feel, that one day, if you’re gone, he’ll have to explain your existence to someone when they ask how he got that scar. You will forever be a piece of him.

He’s gone suspiciously quiet, the pain you were causing him by driving a needle through his damn skin has made way to a dull throb. You reach into the first aid box, pulling out some gauze and tissue. You use the tissue and what little disinfectant there is to clean the sutures and the blood from his skin, before haphazardly taping the gauze over it to try and keep it clean and free from infection.

He pushes himself up on his elbows once you’re done, watching as you clean away your mess. He wants to reach out to you, he wants to touch you, to anchor himself to you and never let go, to thank you, but instead he simply tries to push himself up whilst trying to keep the stitches you just put in him intact. He lets out a pained groan, you whip your head around.

“Maker, help me,” You grumble, dropping the things you were attempting to clean up to rush back to his side, “I just sewed you up and you’re trying to move on your own?” You’re trying to speak in a tone that is authoritative but it doesn’t seem to come out that way, “Can’t you just sit still for a minute?”

“Need to get us out of here,” He mumbles, taking hold of your hand that you’ve offered him, using your body to steady himself as he pulls himself up off the floor, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You ask, letting him lean on you slightly for support as he hobbled toward the ladder to the cockpit, despite him weighing considerably more than you.

He doesn’t actually respond to your question, once he’s at the cockpit ladder, he seems to not need your help anymore – struggling up the steps, grunting with each movement of his injured leg, so you let him go, turning around to finish cleaning up. As you’re cleaning the blood from the floor, you’re face-to-face with the body of the bounty he’d dropped on the floor. You’d seen him deal with these bounties more than once – normally when they’re talking back and fighting – so this will prove easier than anticipated. The bounty is slight, so dragging it into the carbonite chamber is easy enough. You flip some switches and press a few buttons and in no time the bounty is stuck there, waiting to be handed off whenever Mando gets you back to Nevarro.

It’s not until much later that he reappears. You’ve fed the child, fed yourself, left a ration pack for him, and you’re just killing time, waiting for the child to wear himself out so you can finally let the exhaustion take over your body and sleep. Mando leans himself against the wall, watching you as you fuss over the child.

“Thank you,” His modulated voice hits your ears, “I’ve never had someone to help me like that.”

You look at him – this one doesn’t surprise you, the lone warrior who hasn’t allowed anyone but you to travel with him, of course he’s only ever had himself to stitch up his wounds.

“Well, I don’t know how to drive this damn thing,” You speak, knocking your knuckles against the wall next to you, “So it was pretty important for you not to die,” you wait for him to laugh but he doesn’t, “You’re welcome,” you speak quietly then, “Sorry it was a horrible sewing job.”

He walks towards you now, visible limp but better than you imagine anyone else with a similar injury would walk, sitting down on the bench next to you. He’s so close that you can feel the heat emanating from his body. He sets a gloved hand on your own thigh, squeezing it slightly, making your pulse jump. He has to know, right? He has to know that he has this effect on you? That whenever he touches you, though that isn’t often, it makes your blood boil with want. Does he know that as your hands worked to close his wound earlier all you could think about was what his perfect, meaty thigh would feel like wedged between your own?

He doesn’t move his hand, just lets it rest there, thumb rubbing across the material of your trousers, comforting you, because he’d scared you earlier, he knows he did, and he needs you to know he’s never going to leave you, even if he’s not quite ready to verbalise that to you yet. You let your head drop to his shoulder, closing your eyes as he stays there for you, his body offering you’re the comfort you so desperately need.

“I’m always going to fix you Mando,” you speak quietly, “You’ll never have to stitch yourself up ever again.”

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aesthetic-bbyg · 9 months

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SMOOTH OPERATOR- TOM K.

Tom Kaulitz x chola!reader

in which you and a group of friends walk into a convince store in LA only for you to end up crushing on the German boy buying beer and candy.

Nattie speaks: I came up with this while listening to music hehehehe. I was also torn between braids or dreads but ultimately I chose braids🤞

TOM SHUFFLED ACROSS the aisle of the gas station, eyes wandering across the variety of candy and occasionally glancing down at the crumpled up paper in his hand, scribbles of what everyone wanted hardly readable. He wasn’t familiar of the area, only being in LA for a few days for the tour but he was still sent off to find all the necessity’s to survive in the hotel a little longer. His black glasses were shoved up onto his hat, braids swinging down his back with each step while also pulling his baggy pants up. His hands were full of chips, candy, cookies, now his vision was directed towards the back freezers were the beer was stored.

Off in the distance he could hear a faint buzz, a booming sound of music being heard from a mile away and it only got closer. The lyrics of a Tupac song echoed into the store, a mixture of boys and girls stumbling in loudly. The one holding stereo grinned innocently, lowering down the music as the clerk behind the counter glared at him. Two girls trailed in after, you and your best friend, Alejandra, pinkies interlocked as you whispered about some teen pregnancy that happened downtown.

“Hurry up, or I ain’t getting you nothin’.” Your brother, Manuel, demanded, heading towards the food. His hair was slicked back, far too much gel layed on his dark locks to stick it in place.

The two of you headed down to the back, immediately searching for the cold drinks, you sharp eyes looked around the glass doors of different beverages. You gasped suddenly, wrapping your fingers around the metal handle of the door and pulling it open. A fresh breeze blew onto your body, contrasting against the hot sun that beamed brightly just outside. “Damn, Jandra!” Your friend jogged by you with curious eyes. “They released a sandía version of the Arizona Teas!” A big grin filled your face, grabbing the red tin can.

“Shiit.” Alejandra smiled, “Alright, you get the sandía and I get the mango, just so we got options.” You nodded, closing the door as someone walked behind you. You looked over your shoulder instinctively, catching sight of a tall boy, adorned in baggy clothing, a bandana wrapped along his hairline and long cornrows.

Tom had also taken notice of you the moment you stepped into the store, he turned to catch a better look but was met with your own eyes. For a moment, time slowed, both of gazed kept on each other, waiting for the other to look away. In the end, his eyes were lost behind a shelf, but you could see the way his lips quirked up into a smirk before he walked into the chip aisle.

You nudged Alejandra, removing her attention from the kids juice box section. You subtly nodded over to the boy who stood a few feet away, grabbing a bag of salty snacks. “He’s cute.” You whispered, Alejandra nodded in agreement smiling over at you knowingly. “Should ask I for his number?”

“Do it.” The girl giggled, revealing her pearly teeth that were caged behind a pair of braces. But, before you could walk over he began to make his way to the front, breezing past your brother and his group of friends who were going ham on the condiments. You huffed, walking by your brother to get a better look at him but still keeping it nonchalant. Your hands were inching towards a bag of Hot Cheetos, you brother loudly chewed on his hotdog, you stared over at him with a disgusted face. Alejandra opened up a bag of hot Cheetos, filling it up with cheese from the nacho section. You joined her, doing the same till your ear picked up a brewing commotion.

“In the United States you need to be 21 to buy beer.” The old clerk lectured, angrily glaring at the boy in front of him, a ID slipped on the counter that showed all of the mysterious cute boys information.

“But I am 19,” He pointed at the date of birth stated on the card, “that’s legal everywhere else, just let me have them.” The boy argued back, a thick accent in the back of his throat while he flailed his arms angrily.

“But we’re not anywhere else, we’re in the United States, it’s the law, kid.” The braid-haired boy groaned, taking back his ID and leaving behind the pack of beers, cursing under his breath in german. At that point the commotion had caught the attention of all the group. You stared as he stomped out the store, bag full of other snacks in his hands. Your brother and his friends snickered amongst eachother, you shoved his shoulder with a stern look.

“Yo, do him a solid and get them.” You muttered, your brother stared down at you, expression laid back and careless like usual, but he raised a brow.

“You gon’ pay for it o que?” (Or what) He questioned, “Cuz, I’m already payin’ for whatever you and Jandra got there, I ain’t spending my money on nothin’ more.”

You rolled your eyes, stuffing your hands into your pocket and pulling out the last bit of cash you had on you, placing it in his open palm. He smirked smugly, walking to get a pack before making his way upfront, the things got paid for, the cashier asking the same questions of did you find everything okay? as always, though his miserable tone was pitiful. As soon as you and the group stepped out the store, your brothers friend cranked up the volume on the stereo again, the song blasting from the speaker. From a distance you could see the same boy, leaned up against the ice machine, his snacks still in hand while the other held a cigarette between his fingers. His dark glasses protecting his eyes from the lowering sun.

Alejandra smiled at you, passing the pack of cold beers before cheering you on silently. You looked back at her before jogging over to the tall boy. “Yo, got these for you.” For a moment he just stared at you confusingly, cigarette burning down as the seconds ticked by. “I saw what happened in there, but don’t worry, we always got each others backs here in LA.”

You’d begun to think that maybe he didn’t understand you, he did have a thick, foreign accent while speaking earlier which made you assume that he may have a limited English vocabulary. You weren’t sure, but it made you nervous and awkwardly shuffle from side to side. But finally, he dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his shoes and lifting his sunglasses from his enchanting irises. He grabbed the pack, a smirk on forming on his pierced lips. “Thank you, beautiful, what’s your name?”

You liked his confidence, the nickname immediately making your smile and lean your head to the side flirtatiously. “Y/n, and you?”

“Tom.” He replied swiftly, eyes examining your body. The tight white tank top that hugged your skin, the baggy Dickies that belong to your brother hung low on your waist being kept up by a black belt, your ears gleaming with large silver hoops. You had a few tattoos scattered across the exposed skin he could see, your eyebrows were thinly drawn on, lips lined with a dark shade of brown. He liked you, adored your style. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” You bit your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “You fine as hell too, that’s why I wanted to ask for your number.”

“Yeah?” Tom lowly questioned, his shit-eating smirk only getting bigger. “Well you’ve got it, gorgeous.” He set down the beers, reaching for his phone in his deep pockets. You exchanged numbers, conversing a little longer, pulling all the flirty comments you could think of. You got him to chuckle a few times before he revealed that he was in town with his band.

“I like your glasses.” You hands reached forward, grabbing them from his head and placing them on your face. “Damn, these nice as fuck.”

He chuckled softly, staring at you. “Keep them.” You looked over at him, lowering the glasses to make sure that he meant it and wasn’t playing with you. “Gives me a reason to see your pretty face again.”

“Damn.” You stared at him happily before a loud horn blasted from behind you, you rolled your eyes, glancing back to see your brother looking back at you from red the low-rider car seat. “I gotta go, but call me guapo.” You smirked, waving your hand before walking towards the car. Alejandra smirked as she saw your happy express when you hopped in the open-roofed car. Tom eyes never left you as the car pulled away from the gas station and sped down the road, the whole vehicle vibrating as a rap song shrieked out the speakers.

“Who was that vato you were talkin’ to?” Manuel questioned, looking back at you from the rear-view mirror with a raised brow.

“None of ya’ business, mitotero.” You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms, head turning to stare out into the road, the harsh wind whipping through your hair. Alejandra smirked, leaning in closer to your ear.

“So, did you get it?” Your friend watched as your lips twitched, teeth coming out to bite back the grin that threatened to show. She giggled, shaking your body lightly. “Ohh, girl, you got that look of looove.”

“He fine as hell but love is a little much.” You replied, looking over at her with a mischievous smile. “He gave him his glasses, though.” You pull them from your head and passed them to her as she gawked at them.

“A la madre, this is some of that nice shit.” She examined it closely, staring at the Ray-ban logo printed on the side. Just then you felt a buzz on your thigh, you looked down at the phone as it lit up with a notification, an unknown number texted you. Immediately you opened it and smiled, Tom had texted you, a flirty greeting topped with a winky face. “I assume it your man textin’?”

“Cállate.” You turn your phone off, stuffing it in the side pocket of your pants. The text was only the first of many, Tom taking more interest in you the longer you talked, it wasn’t long till he’d taken you to his hotel room.

“Shit, fool.” You mumbled, tightening the belt around your waist as Tom chuckled, being the only audience member of your fashion show, aka you trying on his stupidly baggy clothes. “How so you wear this stuff everyday.”

He shrugged, throwing his hands up slightly. “I am a big man, I need big clothes.”

“No shit.” You scoffed, turning towards the mirror and staring at the huge shirt that looked more like a dress. “Should I wear this to the carne asada?”

“I think you should wear nothing, you’re sexier that way.” The Kaulitz boy smirked, doing that thing where he fiddled with the black piercing on his lip. You rolled your eyes and walked back into the closet, ignoring his comments as you dug through more of his clothes. In a few hours you and Tom would have to arrive at your tíos carne asada, Tom being requested to join by non other then your mother.

Tom was already dressed and splayed out on the seat, just watching as you struggled to find something, which why you ended digging through his clothes. It took an half hour before you came out satisfied, grinning widely as you put on your silver hoops.

The real problem came the moment you stepped in the backyard, your tíos home full of guest that you knew and some you didn’t. Either way a handful of them came up to with same comments how old you looked and how big you’ve gotten. Manuel came up with his little gang that constantly followed him around, it took him the longest to get sue to Tom. Though, it wasn’t long before your brother and Tom became friends.

“Wassup, ese.” Manuel he held a corona beer in his hand, using his free one to grab clap against Tom’s and bring him in for a swift chest bump. Then you ran into your mother, her expression going from a stern glare to a huge smile. Everything had went smooth so far, you were happy to be there, until a familiar voice squealed from behind you.

“Tomas! Mi Niño, mira que guapo té vez!” Your mother chanted, bringing him into a tight hug and planting her calloused hands on his cheek, he smiled shyly at her affection. The boy had grown to be a favorite, his charisma and cute looks making him popular with the tías.

“Mama, he just got here from Germany a couple days ago, está cansado, we just gonna sit and chill.” You attempted to reason with the woman, staring at your boyfriend apologetically. But you’d only made the situation worse, she gasped dramatically, looking back at the boy and ushering him to a table. She’s explained everything to all of the tías, which lead to him being taken care of for most of the night. He was constantly being checked up on, being handed plates of food, being talked to about the latest scandal of the neighborhood, it left you sitting with Alejandra, on the other side of the backyard.

“Que tienes, amiga?” The dark haired girl questioned, staring at your frowning face and squinted eyes. She could practically feel the heat of annoyance radiating of you.

“They took my fucking man!”

heheheheh, this just a short little thang I decided to write bc why not,🤷‍♀️y’all already know that Tom would have the aunties in a CHOKEHOLD!! I also had to rewrite the last half of this bc I forgot to save it so sorry if any parts of it seem rushed or short!

#tokio hotel #tom kaulitz #Tom Kaulitz x reader #chola #Tom Kaulitz x you #Latina #mexicana #Tom Kaulitz imagine #2000s #tom Kaulitz braids era

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dystopicjumpsuit · 20 days

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Double, Double Boil and Trouble - Part 5

A/N: This is part 5 my fic for the @rare-clone-fic-exchange, which I wrote for @goblininawig. The story takes place in a shared continuity with Stars Beyond Number, Martyrs and Kings, and “Do It Again,” but it stands alone and can be read independently of those fics.

Pairing: Clone Trooper Boil x Reader (GN, has hair; reader practices tasseomancy/reads tea leaves)

Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)

Wordcount: 3.1K

Warnings and tags: mysticism; angst; fluff; mild critique of the Jedi Order (but no Jedi hate); fade-to-black sensuality; implied oral sex; ritualistic drug use; a description of being high on hallucinogens/psychedelics

Obligatory disclaimer: Please don’t use this as a how-to guide for or endorsement of drug use, because 1. it’s inaccurate to the real world, and 2. depending on your location, ThAt WOuld Be ILlEGal. This is a Wendy’s fanfic.

Summary: Boil is willing to do what it takes to get answers about Waxer.

Suggested Listening:

“You sure this won’t make me pop positive if I get tested?” Boil asked, eyeing the tin of tea warily.

“Completely. You have two rotations left of shore leave, and this will be out of your system in twenty-four hours.”

You spoke with certainty, and Boil felt some of his doubts ease. He picked up the tin and removed the lid, giving the tea a curious sniff. It didn’t smell like much; just faintly earthy and vegetal.

“So how does it work?”

“You brew it and drink it, just like regular tea,” you replied. “After a few minutes, you start to feel the effects.”

“And what do the effects feel like?” He set the tea tin down and took a bite of his breakfast.

“Nothing much at first,” you replied. “But when it hits, you’ll know. Everything will look a little clearer and brighter. Food will taste a little better. Everyday things will start to seem really, really interesting. People will be prettier and funnier and smarter.”

“That just sounds like a couple shots of Cheedoan whiskey,” Boil observed.

“Oh, somebody’s fancy,” you teased. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of royalty.”

He laughed and tossed his crumpled napkin at you, mostly for the fun of seeing you shudder and flick it away with a revolted expression. “The general bought a round for Ghost Company one time.”

“I hope he charged it to the Jedi Order,” you laughed. “Do Jedi get paid?”

“Search me,” he shrugged. “Clones don’t.”

You grimaced. “I know. Kriffing banthashit, is what that is.”

It didn’t change a thing, but Boil still felt a little better knowing you weren’t as complacent as the rest of the galaxy seemed to be about the clone troopers’ situation.

“So what makes this tea any different from a decent buzz?” he asked.

“That would be the visual hallucinations,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

He eyed you curiously. “I take it you’ve done this before.”

“A few times,” you nodded. “It can be pretty fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve watched the Eye of Aldhani—you know what, never mind.”

He laughed. “What about the ritual part?”

“It’s a little different. The dosage is higher, so the effects are more intense.” You hesitated a moment before adding, “There’s another element to it as well.”

“What’s that?”

“Force sensitivity,” you replied bluntly. “You need to either be able to wield the Force yourself, or have a strong connection with someone who can.”

He nodded, recalling a detail you’d told him months ago. “And your grandmother taught you to wield it? Why didn’t she send you to the Jedi for training?”

“Our world isn’t part of the Republic,” you explained. “The Jedi order has no jurisdiction that far out in Wild Space, and to be frank, we prefer it that way. They mind their own business, and we mind our own.”

Boil pondered your response quietly, noticing the strained expression in your eyes, and he remembered that you tried to stay off the Jedi’s scopes. “You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not talk about it.”

You gave him a grateful look and replied, “It’s all right. It’s not a secret or anything. It’s just…” You paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “We do things our own way. And when someone is born with the Sight—the Force—we train them in our own way, too. It doesn’t happen often, and there weren’t many elders with the Sight left by the time I was born. Gran took on my training, but I was only fifteen when she passed.”

Boil gazed steadily at you, feeling a deep sense of foreboding. “What happened?”

“I came to Coruscant, hoping the Jedi could help me. I scraped together everything I had in the galaxy to pay for the trip. But when I went to the temple, they said it was too dangerous to train someone who’d been ‘corrupted.’” The word came out harshly, as though it tasted bitter on your tongue. “They sent me away. Said I would be better off knowing nothing of the Force.”

Boil was horrified. “But you were just a kid!”

“Yeah,” you replied grimly. “I grew up pretty fast after that.”

He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine most of the Jedi he’d met ever treating a child with such callousness, but he and his fellow clones knew better than anyone that the Jedi order contained all sorts of beings, ranging from those who were kind and wise like General Kenobi, all the way to monsters like that kriffing traitor, Pong Krell.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, feeling the inadequacy of his words. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right,” you replied. “I’m older and wiser now, and I realize I probably wouldn’t have been the best fit in the Order. And I’ve picked up quite a bit of knowledge since then—especially since I met Tas. There are more paths to the Force than people think.”

The conversation had strayed into territory that was wholly unfamiliar to Boil, so he was relieved when your serious expression faded and the usual glint of humor returned to your eyes. “Lucky for you, I know what I’m doing.”

He smiled, content to let you steer the topic back to the ritual. “So when you say we need a strong connection, how strong are we talkin’?”

“It requires a very high level of trust. We will have to lower our mental defenses enough to allow each other in. When I’ve done it in the past, it was with people I was very close to—people I had known for years.”

“So you don’t do this for every trooper you bewitch?” he asked.

You grinned. “Actually, yes. After tonight, I will have done this for every single trooper I’ve bewitched. One-hundred percent success rate. Hopefully.”

“So what happens if our connection isn’t strong enough?”

Your smile faltered slightly. “Nothing. We’ll have a hell of a trip, and tomorrow we can thank the Force that it wasn’t our money that got wasted on the tea.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” he said. “When should we do it?”

“We’ll need a few hours of uninterrupted privacy, so we’ll want to wait until I get off work tonight,” you replied. “It’ll be about half an hour before you start to feel the effects, and then we’ll begin the ceremony.”

“That sounds ominous,” he laughed. “Is there a blood sacrifice, or is that only on Centaxdays?”

“You know, I’m fresh out of sacrificial victims, so we’ll have to skip it this time.”

Your eyes sparkled, and he inhaled softly, stunned by how beautiful they were when you looked at him with that mischievous expression. Not that he would tell you that, obviously. What was he supposed to say?

You have the sweetest eyes in the galaxy.

I’ve never kissed anyone with such perfect lips.

The last two weeks have been the best of my life.

When I’m with you, I feel like everything is easier.

I don’t want to leave.

Please. He wasn’t a total sap.

“Cutting corners?” he asked instead, a hint of a taunt in his tone. “And here I thought I’d get special boyfriend privileges.”

He watched for your reaction out of the corner of his eye, and he didn’t miss the way you bit your lip to keep from smiling.

“Oh, you get boyfriend privileges,” you replied. “Door keycode, toothbrush, unlimited conservator access, your very own caf mug… And other things.”

He grinned, moving closer and sliding his hand around your waist, easing his fingers inside your ridiculous bathrobe to caress the bare skin of your hip.

“What other things?” he murmured in your ear, nipping the skin of your neck softly.

Kriff, you taste delicious.

“Ten percent discount on readings,” you replied.

“Ten percent?” he whispered, trailing kisses down your neck to your shoulder as he untied the sash of your robe and brushed his fingers lower on your body. “You can do better than that.”

“F—five percent,” you stammered in a gratifyingly breathy voice. “That’ll teach you not to haggle.”

“Mm,” he hummed as he worked his mouth down your torso, dropping slowly to his knees in front of you. “Maybe we could work out a barter system. I’m sure I could provide some services you might find appealing.”

Your only response was a broken whimper as he took you with his mouth, gripping your hips and then sliding his hands back to cup your ass and pull you against his face.

Maker, I could worship you forever. I don’t want to leave.

Boil would rather die than admit he was nervous. For kark’s sake, he faced off against entire divisions of battle droids on a daily basis; how intimidating could a cup of tea possibly be? Besides, you seemed perfectly comfortable as you brewed the tea and lit a stick of incense, and there was no way he’d let you see him blink. He was a soldier of the Republic, and he wasn’t afraid of anything.

Still, some of his definitely-not-nervousness must have shown on his face, because you gave his arm an encouraging little touch as you walked past him into the living area. He watched as you pulled all the throw pillows off the sofa and your bed and piled them on the floor to make a soft, chaotic nest, and then you dimmed the lights. Your flat had already taken on a strange, mystical air, and he hadn’t even tasted a sip of the tea yet.

He watched curiously as you placed colorful stones in all the windowsills and doorways of your flat.

“What are those for?” he asked.

“Just making sure the only spirits that show up are the ones we want,” you replied with a lopsided grin, but the look in your eyes made him think you were deadly serious. “Nothing to worry about.”

He blinked. So I guess that’s definitely something to worry about.

“I’m not gonna get haunted by this, am I?” he asked, aiming for a casual tone and not quite nailing it.

“Definitely not!” you replied, before adding under your breath, “... probably.”

“Probably?”

“I’m ninety percent sure,” you reassured him. “Eighty-three percent sure.”

“Are you kriffing with me, or are you serious?” he demanded.

You laughed. “I’m kriffing with you. You definitely, probably won’t get haunted, and even if you do, Tas has a banishing spell that’ll get rid of anything.”

“You know you’re not exactly inspiring confidence, right?”

Your only response was a playful smile that made him want to kiss you until you forgot your own name, so he did. He caught you by the hand and hauled you into his arms, threading his fingers through your hair as he kissed you again and again.

“Could you be serious for ten seconds?” he murmured between kisses.

“No promises.” You flicked your tongue against the corner of his lips, and he nearly called off the entire operation and tossed you onto the bed on the spot.

With a rather impressive display of self control—if he did say so himself—he pulled away slightly and asked, “Are the walls of the Venator going to start weeping blood if I do this?”

“Oh, almost certainly not,” you replied. “Maybe just a droplet or two on the refresher mirrors…”

He stared into your eyes for a moment, then let out a reluctant laugh, dropping his forehead to rest against your shoulder. You wrapped your hand around the back of his head and pressed your lips against his temple.

“We don’t have to do any of this if you don’t want to,” you said quietly.

His arms tightened around you as he inhaled deeply, trying to memorize your exact scent. “No. I want to know. I need to know.”

You held him silently for a moment, and then you nodded. “If you’re sure, then everything is ready.”

“I’m sure,” he said, pulling back just far enough to look into your eyes. “Let’s do this.”

“Okay.” You held him tightly for another moment, then broke away to retrieve the two mugs of tea from the kitchen. You passed one to him, then tapped your own against it. “Bottoms up, Buttercup.”

Boil was expecting the concoction to taste awful: bitter and sinister, maybe with a hint of brimstone. In reality, it was actually pretty good. It was smooth, a little spicy, and sweetened with honey, and he drained the cup without complaint. He waited expectantly, but nothing happened.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now we watch an episode of It’s Always Sunny on Abafar and wait for it to kick in,” you replied, glancing down into the mug to quickly scan the leaves the way he’d noticed you do every time you finished a cup of tea.

Whatever you saw must not have been too terrible, given that you didn’t immediately cancel the evening’s activities. He shrugged and moved to the sofa, pulling you down with him as you turned on the holoscreen. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the luxury of being able to watch whatever he wanted, any time he pleased. Not to mention that your sofa, shabby as it was, was quite possibly the most comfortable piece of furniture in the galaxy—particularly with your head resting on his shoulder and your body tucked in close to his own as he curled around you.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” you warned, nudging him with your elbow.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he lied.

The episode failed to hold his attention, and his mind and hands began to wander. He traced his fingertips over your shoulder and down your bare arm, around your wrist and back up again, enjoying the smooth warmth of your skin. He’d never touched shimmersilk in his life, but he would have bet a month of rations that your skin was softer. Eventually, he draped his arm around your waist and began to play with the hem of your shirt, tugging it up to expose your abdomen.

“Don’t even think about it,” you said, resting your hand over his. “There’s no way in hell I’m going there on your first trip.”

“Even if I want to?” he murmured, kissing the back of your neck.

“Nope. Besides, we’re not just doing this for fun, remember?” You rolled over to face him.

“Fine. Maybe next time.” He rested his forehead against yours, stroking your cheek softly as he gazed into your eyes. “Your pupils are huge.”

You snorted a laugh. “Seems like the tea is working. Shall we get started?”

He nodded. “What do we do?”

“I have bad news,” you said gravely. “We’re going to have to break the cuddle.”

“Not the cuddle!” he gasped in horror.

“I’m afraid so.”

He grumbled, but begrudgingly disentangled his limbs from yours. As he sat up, the room seemed to sway slightly, almost as if the entire building were floating in water. He didn’t want to alarm you, so he didn’t mention that the pattern on your wallpaper was definitely, absolutely, one-hundred percent coming to life. The designs gyrated and churned in a nauseating swirl, and he tore his eyes away from it, determined not to abort the mission for a reason as pitiful as tea-induced motion sickness.

He followed you silently to the nest of cushions you’d arranged on the floor, sitting opposite you with his legs crisscrossed. You scooted forward until your knees touched his, and you took his hands, holding them in a loose grip. He stroked his thumb over your palm, and the smile you gave him in return made him forget all about the wallpaper.

“Close your eyes,” you said softly, “and take a slow breath, all the way down to the bottom of your lungs.”

He did as you said, and as he exhaled gradually, he felt his stomach settle and the tension drain out of his shoulders. The pair of you repeated the exercise a few times, and then you asked him to focus on keeping his breath smooth and even. He was starting to feel incredibly relaxed and drowsy, and only his promise not to fall asleep kept him from drifting off.

“Think of somewhere you felt safe and happy,” you said in a low voice. “Picture it in your mind.”

Here. With you.

“Do you see it?” you asked.

“Yes,” he whispered, envisioning your cozy, colorful little flat as clearly as though he had opened his eyes.

He was alone in his mental version of the flat, and he took a moment to look around. It was tidier in his mind, with the nest of cushions all put back where they belonged, and no telltale pastry crumbs on the kitchen counter. But aside from that, it was the same, filled with signs of you—the eclectic jumble of teacups on your kitchen shelf; the colorful array of robes hanging on hooks on the wall; the vibrant collection of thrifted art hanging on the walls. It even smelled like your scent. The only thing missing was—

Knock knock.

He turned toward the door in his mind, and then he was standing in front of it without ever having moved his feet. He leaned in to look through the peephole—wait, your door has a holoscreen. The image in his mind warped, and suddenly the holoscreen appeared. You stood outside in the hallway, waiting.

“Will you let me in?” you asked quietly.

Your lips didn’t move in the vision of you he saw within his mind, and he realized you’d spoken the words aloud.

“Yes,” he replied, opening the door.

As you stepped inside, your gaze flicked around the flat, and your breath caught. Too late, Boil realized he’d revealed far more than he intended. He swallowed nervously, bracing himself for your mockery now that you had witnessed the true depth of his feelings for you.

When you looked at him, though, there was no trace of ridicule in your eyes. You stepped closer and took his hand in yours, and as you did, he felt the soft pressure of a gentle, reassuring squeeze on his physical hands. To his relief, that was the only acknowledgment, though he had a feeling the two of you would be having a long conversation once the effects of the tea had worn off.

“Are you ready?” you asked, and somehow, he knew you’d asked the question directly to his mind.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied without speaking.

You smiled. “In that case, I’d like you to meet someone.”

Your gaze shifted to a point over his shoulder, and he turned slowly. A stranger stood behind him, ancient and wrinkled, with eyes that somehow seemed very familiar and very, very kind. A faint blue glow emanated from her, and though she seemed solid enough, Boil had the distinct feeling that if he were to open his eyes, he’d see nothing but you, sitting across from him in a nest of cushions.

“Is this the boy you told me about?” she asked, inspecting him closely.

“Yes,” you replied. “Gran, I’d like you to meet Boil.”

#clone trooper boil #clone trooper boil x reader #boil x reader #gn reader #star wars #the clone wars #star wars fanfic #tcw fanfic #dystopicjumpsuit writes

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illarian-rambling · 2 months

Text

Character Introduction: Mashal, lucky number six

For a moment, Mashal wondered if a brief spring rain had passed overhead, turning the leaf litter glistening and wet. It wasn’t until the light from his eyes hit the shimmering ground that he realized all the moisture was red.

Strewn about in a fiendish halo were the remains of the two bandits. A hand here, a face there—less than mincemeat, really. He could see a leg crushed in the exact approximation of his jointed grip. Mashal felt as if vomit should have been flooding his mouth, but his only reaction was the faint whir of gears. Guts dripped from the trees…. Iron in his mouth….

“Mashal!”

The robot whirled toward the sound of Astra’s voice, heady and rich even when strained by terror. There was a prickling pressure around his eyes, though he didn’t know why.

“I–” He paused, trying to wipe the dirt from where it clogged his vocal output, but the joints of his hands were caked in a slurry of bone and gristle, trapping them in closed fists. That cold was back now, trapping him in its suffocating embrace. “I’m over here!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mashal regretted them. He was dangerous! He could still feel that icy voice slavering away in the back of his mind. Kill her, run, hide, anything, do whatever it takes!

Yet, words could not be unsaid. Faint it might have been, but Astra picked up on his voice and soon the witch pushed her way into the glade-turned-abattoir. Her piebald face was shadowed with fear and speckled with a bloody constellation of its own. It was her eyes though, that made Mashal take a step back, that made his excuse for a heart crumple in like tin foil. Because reflected in them was a shining devil, bathed in gore. Riveted and rusting, like some mechanical horror that had torn its way out of a man’s skin.

The sensation crept back in—the ice, the pain. I shouldn’t be feeling pain. The acid-needle ache in his arms and legs, his everything. It wasn’t a malfunction. Nothing ever is, ever was. Mashal felt sick as he looked down at his trapped hand. Hands that couldn’t be his.

No, no, the sensation was worse, so much worse. It was a memory.

So, I'm going to do this introduction a little backwards. Mashal's backstory contains some pretty big spoilers for the whole of Mystery of the Mortal God. Feel free to keep reading if you don't mind things like that, but you've been warned. The backstory will be at the very end.

I'll start with his personality. Mashal has no memories beyond waking up in Astra's wagon, so many of his quirks and habits are a mystery to him. He's a kindly, honorable man, with a strong sense of what's right and wrong, and a desire to protect people. Yet, he's not brash in the slightest. He's soft-spoken and appreciates even the smallest beauties in life. Probably, this is connected to his stellar artistic abilities. He enjoys listening to stories, hoping to one day be able to tell stories of his own.

Darker things lurk in his mind as well. It frightens him, how paranoid he can sometimes be around magic and its practitioners. It can also be alarming how certain he is in his morality. Mashal makes decisions based on what he knows to be right, sometimes to the detriment of those around him, especially when he doesn't understand the whole situation.

As for what he looks like, Mashal is a human-shaped robot standing at a towering 6'10". His face has some basic mobility (he can move his eyebrows, eyelids, and the corners of his mouth) but nothing special. His plating is bronze with steel underneath, and his eyes glow white. He wears loose-fitting, highly concealing clothes and a bandana over his head. These are usually patched, because he tears clothes easily. He covers as much bronze as he can due to a strange sort of robotic body dysmorphia.

Fun facts now!:

He's great with animals, especially horses, though no horse could support his weight for riding.

Graphite is his preferred medium, and landscapes are his preferred subject for art.

Despite his anxiety around it, Mashal is actually getting pretty good at picking up runes and mechanics.

He speaks Skysheerian Elvish and has no idea why.

He hates the rain because he's scared of rust and frightened of the sea because he knows he'll sink to the bottom with no way to get back up.

He has a bit of a stutter when he's nervous and his voice tends to go a little static-filled.

He's very curious about Unitian-made robots who were raised around other robots.

His hypothetical favorite food is honey. He just likes the way it looks.

He once scratched the paint job on Astra's wagon, painted it back in the night, and never told her. This is the one time he's ever lied to her and he feels terrible about it.

He teaches Mercher's Day (a fat tortoiseshell cat) tricks when Astra is asleep.

Now's where we get into the meat of things. Spoilers will follow.

Sir Mashal Darezsho was born in the Sulu'Okan city of Bouerco as the second son of the noble Darezsho line. With his older brother taking care of the whole heir thing, young Sir Darezsho was allowed to do as he pleased. Most thought he would go the path of the scholar due to his modest sorcerous talent, however, the young man was enraptured by the sword from the moment he was allowed to hold one. When he was sixteen, he enrolled in officer training for the Sulu'Okan army, the fiercest fighting force within the Republic's grander military. When he was twenty, he was knighted by High Lady Zuli N'Jogu herself.

Sir Darezsho served his people by protecting the roads between Sulu'Oku and Skolan with both sword and sorcery. The borderlands is a crime-ridden area, so he had his work cut out for him between bandits and selkie raiders. Thanks to the efforts of him and his company of fellow knights though, the borderlands became a marginally safer place to travel through. He ensured that they all upheld the Sulu'Okan military code of honor to the utmost degree.

Things changed with Sir Darezsho when he accepted a small assignment in the border town of Bekridge. An alchemical distillery had been experiencing a string of thefts and wanted someone to investigate. Thinking the job would involve scaring off a petty thief at most, Sir Darezsho went to stake the place out alone. This mistake would cost him his life.

That night, a door appeared from thin air and a figure stepped out, a half-moon grin glowing from under a shadowed cowl. Sir Darezsho tried to fight, but he was no match for the powerful sorcerer. Vermir spirited him away into her demiplane. And there was where Sir Darezsho died.

Mashal wakes up some time after this. All he knows is his name and that he is lost. And that his metal body feels so terrible cold. He just wishes he knew why....

Hope you all enjoy my sweetheart robot! Lmk if you have any questions. Next up will be blueboy, Ivander Montane!

@amandacanwrite @elsie-writes @riveriafalll @kosmic-kore @kaylinalexanderbooks @bard-coded @carrotsinnovember @patternwelded-quill @somethingclevermahogony @whatwewrotepodcast @goldxdarkness @the-angriest-author @mk-writes-stuff

#writing #writerscommunity #writblr #my ocs #author

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bunny-extract · 11 months

Note

If you do end up writing that fic based on the “let me drive line” some of us (me in particular) would be very interested in reading it 👉🏻👈🏻

"Let me drive."

It's not a request, the underlying growl a fair enough warning of how any protest will play out. Frustration makes you want to test it, loosening your already sharp tongue.

König takes a step forward even before you show it, eyes tightening beneath the mask. The defiance is clear on your face, and he has none of the patience to play into your games.

"I know the way," you shoot back, hoping you don't sound as petulant as you feel. König nods once without concession. The rear door swings open, a giant hand threatening to crumple the aluminum. "Then you will be the navigator. Get in."

There's a beat where you think, This fucks never been told 'no'. A second where your chest puffs, excitement coursing through you as the word is primed behind your smirking mouth.

Then, the millisecond it takes for König's massive paw to shoot out and grab you.

“Jesus, are you — HEY!”

Your head barely misses being bounced off the roof of the car, shoved down in time before you’re thrown bodily onto the back bench. Just as you catch yourself the door slams, rocking the Humvee like it’s on water. A boot redirects its suspension when König sandwiches himself behind the wheel. You have to pull your legs up to avoid being crushed as his seat rolls back, clicking loudly into place at the furthest distance allowed.

His knees are bracketing the wheel, the span of one hand more than half the diameter when he adjusts even that. You want to quip something smart, tell him there’s plenty of leg room where you are, but your words are left behind with half your spirit when the clutch releases and the engine tries to skip a whole gear.

He's got no intention of lowering gears, that much is obvious, but when he locks the wheel all the way to the left and spins the car in donuts you genuinely find yourself fearing a death worse than capture. At least there was some nobility in torture. If this tin can Tarzans into a tree you wouldn't even get a metal for it.

König turns his head, his deadpan expression inches from your horror-stricken countenance.

"Which way, Fräulein?"

#asks #könig #it turned into crack idek what to say dfss #bunnywriting

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butterfilledpockets · 9 months

Note

Could you please, explain the inspiration behind the robots Robin just obliterated?

It’s a pretty curious design, the head specially, reminds me of Pyramid head in that part but also, in some way, to the spaghetti robots in infinity train? Idk how my brain works.

They don’t seem to be like, fighter robots? More like just normal crew robots. Also, why do they sound British? They have a British accent in my head, why.

AND WHY IS THERE A CAFETERIA FOR ROBOTS? They don’t have mouths.

kajebkjbegkjbgr

you wanna know about my robots???

(this ask has made me unfathomably happy)

I am gonna reveal as much as I can, the spaceship is based off an old western wheel and has a horseshoe, so these guys are shaped like robo cowboys (the fringe, the stirups whattnot)

The triangle was yes, inspired by piramid head actually! And are you reading my sketchbok post its??? Cause the wires were entirely based on the wire bot from infinity train (fucking love that thing)

The triangle thingy at its core is a cowboy hat, I wanted to have its tilt be how the design can express different things

oh oh oh you are onto something my good friend, they are not designed for combat, but CAN fight. That is why Ronin was able to crumple one with his bare hands, they are tin cans

I tried to convey a sort of southern cowboy accent, but actually? British is fucking hilarious, imagine a fucking sowboy robot comming up to you like "tea my good sir? Some bickies for your troubles?"

would also match the inspiration for the entire setting of this comic (red dwarf ->fucked up dudes in space sci-fi sitcom)

they just want their robo snacks, that or they like having tea parties, or maybe someone on board just doesn't like eating alone :)

#ask butter #b.e.n.t ask #thank you for letting me rant about my robots truly a gift #sorry for the long ramble but I take my chances where I can #got some silly ideas for these guys

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eldritcmor · 9 months

Text

Jason Todd Their Ass part 2

The little plane landed with a heavy thump on the cracked tarmac. 941,741,132 or Entrance to The KIngsmouth Reserve. Laswell had pulled through for the team, digging into the coordinates as she did. Apparently it used to be a decently sized coastal town. That was until a few years ago. Something happened and the town was quickly taken off the map. Soap Glanced out the window as the plane taxied for a second before pulling to a stop. The place was clearly abandoned to the elements of the sea. A single rusted out hangar and a decent sized tin shed was all that lined the tarmac. The pilot ushered the team off the plane. Something about how staying could ground him permanently. Soap hummed as the plane took off immediately as the last man touched the ground. Looks like they would be their own exit strategy. “Might as well get started. Soap, Ghost you two take the shed. Gaz and I will take the hangar.” Price’s voice cut through the steady drum of rain. “Report anything that can Lead to our target.” With a nod, 141 split towards their assignments. The shed was a rusted out shell that looked halfway to falling over. The windows were broken in and the door was barely hanging on by a single hinge. Soap pressed to the right of the door and Ghost to the left. Soap counted on his fingers. One...Two...Three. Ghost swung and the door crumpled in with a swift kick from the Lieutenant’s boot. Soap followed close behind the man as he rushed into the shed. The place was empty. Quiet. Incredibly dusty. The only foot prints were his and Ghost’s. Soap slowly relaxed his hold on his rifle as Ghost dubbed the room all clear. The place was cluttered with what looked to be scrap parts of planes and was that radio equipment? Soap dragged his finger gently across the face of the radio, rubbing the dust away. It looked old but well cared for. He fiddled with the knobs on the front till the radio clicked on with a harsh hiss of static. Soap raised an eyebrow as he dialed through the channels, at a rapid pace trying to find anything. He swear he could hear something just under the static. It took a minute before he narrowed down the channels on the radio. There! He heard it! A dot of sound, just under the static. It took him a minute to slowly puzzle out the sound. A consistent rhythm of dots and dashes of one solid note of sound. Soaps eye’s widened. Morse code. “L.T. , I got something.” Ghost turned from poking around in what looked to be some old tool boxes. “What is it, sergeant?” “Listen.” Soap twisted one of the knobs on the radio til the one note sound of dots and dashes filled the shed.

“-.. .-. --- .--. -....- .--. --- .. -. - / --... .---- ..--- ..... ...-- -.... .-.-.-” “And, this is what soap?” Soap hummed, “Morse code, sir.” Soap could tell Ghost was giving him some serious side eye underneath his balaclava, waiting on an explanation. Soap gestured to the radio. “This is a short range radio. The only incoming traffic for the island was our plane. So whoever is putting out a Morse code signal is still on the island. It could lead us to our missing sergeant.” Ghost nodded. “Get translating, Johnny.” Soap nodded as Ghost reached for his radio. “Bravo Six, This is Bravo Seven. We found something.” Price’s voice filtered through Soap’s radio. “Copy Bravo Seven. We’ll meet you in two.” Soap hummed under his breath as he puzzled out the meaning behind the dots and dashes of one note sound. Ghost had laughed at him picking Morse code up as something to occupy his mind but look where it got them. He had just finished when Price and Gaz came rolling into the shed. “what do you got for me, boys?” Soap stepped up. “Morse code on a short range radio. Really short range too. Anyway whatever is it, it’s broadcasting to the island.” Price raised an eyebrow, “And this helps us, how?” Soap grabbed the scribbled down translation. “The code translates to Drop Point 712536. They’re coordinates, sir and I bet they are somewhere on this island.” taglist: @fruitymoonbeams-blog @tapioca-marzipan

#call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #141 x reader #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #taskforce 141 #simon ghost riley #eld writes #captain john price #the secret world

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susiephone · 1 year

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ok here’s my pitch for a Neverafter version of Dorothy Gale, because the part of my brain that likes to make Ever After High-style OCs will never die

Dorothy blew in from some world unknown to most of the Neverafter, to the region of Oz, when she was about 12. in some loops she’s returned home, but in others, she’s stayed. sometimes by choice, sometimes not.

in this loop, Dorothy is now in her late twenties

she’s an oathbreaker paladin, formerly in the service of Glinda the Good

as a girl, Dorothy was guided on her journey by the two good witches, and was promised that if she found the Wizard who ruled Oz, she could go home. she traveled through Oz, facing much danger, but found friends along the way - a Scarecrow who wanted a brain, a Tin Man who wanted a heart, and a lion who wanted some courage

of course, the Wizard of Oz turned out to be a charlatan, an ordinary man from Dorothy’s home, with no real power, ruling Oz with nice-sounding lies and parlor tricks

in kinder versions of the story, everyone got what they wanted anyway.

not this time. this time, they were just stuck with what they had.

Dorothy’s friends promised to shelter her, and they did. the four retreated back into the unruly and wild world they’d traveled through, resolving to carve out a life for themselves.

when she discovered the Wizard’s lies, Dorothy’s love of the Neverafter was tarnished, and her trust in what she’d been told began to decay

Glinda the Good Witch of the South, possibly out of pity, kindness, or ulterior motives of her own, took Dorothy under her wing, teaching her magic and combat. Dorothy took an Oath of the Ancients and became a paladin under Glinda

as she grew up, Dorothy tangled more and more with cruel and even violent witches and fairies, and began to turn her back on the “good” witches of the North and South.

eventually, Dorothy met Ozma, a young woman who was the true ruler of Oz, kidnapped at birth and raised by a witch named Mombi (possibly with influence from the Stepmother)

quickly becoming friends, Ozma and Dorothy vowed to take the world back from the oppressive forces controlling it

staging a coup in the Emerald City, they killed the Wizard and officially cut ties with the witches, with Ozma taking her throne back and Dorothy taking on the role of the Wizard, officially going oathbreaker

as the new Great and Powerful Oz (she feels weird when people insist on calling her that), Dorothy works to grant the wishes of her and Ozma’s subjects, learning all the magic and alchemy she can to try and protect them and make them happy

eventually, she and Ozma fell in love and got married, technically making Dorothy queen consort of Oz. just “Dorothy” is fine, though. “the wizard,” if you insist on being formal.

Dorothy and Ozma now rule an increasingly-crumbling Oz together as a power couple, with the Scarecrow as Ozma’s advisor and The Tin Man and Cowardly Lion leading their army. Ozma’s own companions, Jack Pumpkinhead and Tik-Tok, are in her own royal court.

Ozma is an artificer, with Jack and Tik-Tok both being warforged

Dorothy prefers to wear simple clothes that harken back to the clothes she wore on the farm of her childhood, but for special occasions, can be spotted in somewhat masculine emerald green formalwear (she leaves the dresses and jewels to Ozma). the only exception is her choice in footwear - heeled silver boots, which provide her protection from most magic.

she still has a small scar on one of her cheeks, from where one of the good witches kissed her. if she gets too close to anything too dangerous, the mark burns.

she has a broomstick (taken from the Witch of the West - rumor has it she picked it off the crumpled remains of her body) and an alliance with the flying monkeys

Toto, due to the magic of the Neverafter, is still alive. he’s the spoiled, happy little lap dog he always was, always at Dorothy’s heels. however, he’s also a useful familiar, as Dorothy will sometimes use him as a spy, looking through his eyes and using Speak With Animals to talkto him about what he’s heard and seen

meanwhile, Glinda and the other witches are starting to want their kingdom back...

#dorothy gale #the wizard of oz #the wonderful wizard of oz #oz #neverafter #d20: neverafter #dimension 20: neverafter #neverafter oc #dimension 20

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whumpasaurus101 · 2 years

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*quiet chanting* sidekick whump sidekick whump sidekick whump si-

-your favorite anon <3

HUJHIUKJBKDJGBDDKJHDH WHY HELLO THERE MY BEAUTIFUL FAVOURITE ANON!!!! *Gives blankies and tea and hugs* here you go :3 Cw: Uhhh, head forced under water, lil bit of power exauhstion, some punchy punch and sidkeick is reffered to as kid but is older than 18

---

“Again.”

Sidekick squeezed their eyes shut with a whimper as they slowly raised their palm and pointed it to the tin can which perched on the wooden fence. They opened their eyes before watching it rise in the air.

“Hold…hold…hold…”

Sidekick’s arm began to shake as black dots slowly crept into their vision. They tried to take even breaths but struggled, “V-Villain please…I ca-cant… I can’t…”

Villain crossed their arms, slowly taking a few steps forward before whispering in Sidekick's ear, “Hold.”

A whimper escaped Sidekick’s lips before it was all too much. Black practically engulfed their vision as their knees buckled and Sidekick crumpled to the ground with a cry. They didn't know what was worse, hearing the sound of the metal crash against the wooden fence or the sound of Villain’s sigh of disappointment.

Sidekick curled in on themself, hugging their knees to their chest as their ears rung. Their head felt on fire. The feeling of a pinprick against their neck was then followed by a nirvana sensation. Their head instantly calmed, their ears slowly died down to a gentle hum before Sidekick felt their body ache a little less.

“Tha-thank you,” Sidekick gasped. They could practically cry from relief. That was until they heard Villain begin to cackle, “Oh my, you must be quite dumb for thinking I’d let you get away with that, little one.”

Sidekick froze, “Wh-what…?”

Villain kicked Sidekick hard, sending them onto their stomach before they grabbed a fistful of Sidekick’s hair and forced them to their feet, “Let’s have a nice little swim, hm?” Sidekick’s eyebrows furrowed but before they could question Villain, Villain was dragging them into the base by their hair.

A strong headache bloomed in Sidekick’s head, making it hard for them to identify any coherent thoughts as they squeezed their eyes shut, trying to wait for the pain to subside.

They entered a plain bathroom before Villain shoved Sidekick hard to the ground. Sidekick cried out as their head hit against the stone tiles. Villain only smirked before walking over to the bath and turning the taps on, “Hang in tight, baths are always a bitch to fill up, don't you agree?”

Sidekick whimpered, wiping a trail of blood with the back of their hand with a sniffle, “Wh-wh’t are y’ doin…” Their words were slurred slightly as their half-closed eyes looked up at Villain. Villain gently took Sidekick’s chin in their hand with a false pout of sympathy, “Oh my dear, you look so tired…I have just the thing that will wake you up!!!” As soon as Villain let go of Sidekick’s chin, Sidekick went from sitting up to slouching against the wall, trying to keep himself awake.

But Villain didn't care, they were simply turning off the tap which had warm water and turned on the cold water tap to full. Sidekick didn’t notice. The dazed figure had no clue what in the hell was going on.

They didn't mean to be bad. It was all their fault. After they let their powers take control in their last fight, Villain was doing non stop training with them. They had been out there for six hours but Sidekick could only handle so much time - especially on such a low amount of sleep.

The sound of the water stopping brought Sidekick back to present, they slowly looked up to Villain who was smiling at them before they quickly grabbed a fistful of Sidekick’s training uniform and hauled them up close.

“Now, I know I should check the water temperature and make sure it's okay but, why don't you test that out for me.”

Before Sidekick could say a word, Villain forced their head under the water, feeling the other trash against them, trying to lift their head up. Villain only tightened their grip in Sidekick’s hair, watching as bubbles quickly came up to the surface of the water and the sound of Sidekick’s cries was heard. Muffled, but still heard.

When they were satisfied, Villain roughly yanked Sidekick’s head up. They wheezed in air, coughing and spluttering as their lungs ached, “‘M SO-SORRY PLEASE I-” They gasped for air, panic was not a good mixture with this situation.

Villain hummed, studying Sidekick before shaking their head, “You see, you just don't seem very sorry!” And with that, they forced Sidekick’s head back under, cutting off their begging.

Sidekick’s hands flew up to grab onto Villain’s, trying to pry them away but nothing was working. They coughed, accidentally inhaling water. Their eyes widened and they fucking lost it. Their body thrashed under the water, their legs kicked out, trying to get Villain but that only resulted in Villain’s heavy boot being placed against their ankle and ever so slowly pressed down.

Sidekick’s muffled screams sounded from the water as they tried to shake their head fast, their body jolting, making Villain laugh.

It was unbearable. They were going to pass out any second, they knew it.

Villain then lifted their boot off of Sidekick’s ankle before lifting their head out of water and throwing them to the floor.

Sidekick’s head spun, their ears ringing as they wheezed in gasps, their hands grasping at their own throat as they heaved in oxygen, sorries spilling from their mouth as they sobbed. Villain slowly stepped up to them, taking them by the chin and lifting their head up so they were face to face.

“What did you do wrong?”

Sidekick could barely keep their eyes open as they whimpered, trying to turn their head away from Villain who simply sighed, drawing back their fist and punching them hard across the face. If Villain wasn't holding them, Sidekick would have crashed to the ground, but instead, they felt blood run down from their nose as they screamed, their body too weak to do anything else.

“What. Did. You. DO.” Villain yelled.

Sidekick sobbed. Everything and everywhere was just immense pain. Nothing else but pain. But that was the thing of being Villain’s sidekick. You had to be perfect. And if perfect wasn’t enough for Villain, you had to be more than perfect.

“I…I disobeyed y-y’”

Sidekick’s throat was hoarse, their body almost limp as the hand which held their chin was the only thing holding them up.

“And what happens when you disobey me?”

“P’n-p’nsh…p’n’sh’men’”

Villain growled, digging their nails into Sidekicks skin, “Speak.Up.”

Hero had told Sidekick once that Villain shouldn’t be treating them like this. They told them how a mentor should be training their right hand with respect and kindness. But that's the thing about Heros. They think everything is sunshine and rainbows and that nothing comes with a cost.

Villain was only doing all of this because they cared about Sidekick!!! They cared about Sidekick being perfect in fight. Like come on, imagine them going into battle with their powers out of hand!!!!!

A kick to the stomach brought Sidekick back. Their body jolted as they wheezed. They took a moment to take a small breath, looking up to Villain with tears streaming down their face, “A Pun-punishmen-ment…”

Villain only nodded, “Good. And why do I punish you?”

Sidekick thought for a moment. They considered Hero’s words for a moment.

“Sidekick, you’ve got to listen to me! Villain is a sadist bastard who only cares about seeing others in pain. They’ll manipulate you so much that your thoughts will no longer be yours but tehy’ll be thoughts Villain has carved inside your brain. You’ll think their a great person but…Sidekick… I need you to believe me. I'm worried about you.. Just… call me when you're ready. I believe in you. I know you can see through their lies, kid.”

Sidekick shook their head. Hero was only trying to manipulate them That's what Villain had told them. And why?

“B’cause y’ ca-care about m-me…”

Villain smiled, their other hand cupping Sidekick’s cheek, “Precisely, dear. And have you learnt your lesson?” Sidekick nodded fast, but winced from the pain, “Yeah-yes… please..no mo-more….”

Villain smiled, “No more. You did so good for me. Now, drain the bath, clean up the blood from these tiles and get some sleep, we have a lot of training to do for you tomorrow!” And with that, Villain left.

That night, Sidekick was curled up in their bed. They took out their phone and opened up Hero’s contact, pressing messages.

Hey hero, it's Sidekick…

Sidekick’s eyes watched as the line flashed beside the last letter they wrote, awaiting the next words. They took a steady breath, thinking of what they were doing. What would Villain say to them right now?!?!!?! They would be dead!!!! They hurried to delete their text before turning off their phone and placing it back on their bedside locker.

This was why they needed Villain, they were so gullible by themself!!! They sighed and stared up at the ceiling. They couldn't believe they were about to believe Hero.

The sound of their bedroom door unlocking was followed by Villain walking in. They gently ruffled Sidekick’s hair with a smile, “Good night, kid.”

“Goodnight!”

Villain fully turned off the light before leaving and locking the door behind them, their smile soon fading.

#sidekick whumpee #villain whumper #waterboarding #whump #whump drabble #sidekick #villain #sidekick whump #whump community #whumblr #lee wrote something :o #THANKIEEEEEE #cola 💜#whumpee #whumper

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mack-anthology-mp3 · 8 months

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amnesiac

YES THIS IS I THINK MY FAVOURITE RADIOHEAD ALBUM HEHEH

best song - Pyramid Song and Knives Out Are Equally as good, like they are both some of the best songs in their respective styles for radiohead does this make sense? like Pyramid Song is one of their best doom-laden haunting piano with strings and soaring vocals and really poetic songs, knives out is one of their best multiple-guitars wow life sucks people are terrible songs.

favourite song - Packt Like Sardines In a Crushd Tin Box. from the first time i heard this i just loved it - 'after years of waiting nothing came / and you realize you're looking in / looking in the wrong place / i'm a reasonable man get off my case' like DAMN, also i love the way it sounds - i did once hear a car go over a metal drain cover that sounded EXACTKY like the opening metallic noises it was cool, i just love the way it sounds it's super cool it's my favourite yes.

least favourite song - i think this one's pretty common, but pull/pulk revolving doors just doesn't have it, HOWEVER the pull/pulk true love waits version from kid a mnesiac is actually so so cool and i really love that. personally think they should have released it like that, but just my opinion. i didn't like dollars and cents for a while but i do like it now.

overrated song - knives out gets all the hype for amnesiac, and it is really really good i'm just sad it overshadows the rest of the album. also my soul crumples a bit every time i properly consider how it took them to record it.

underrated song - honestly, i think the second half just doesn't get enough love in general, but Like Spinning Plates is actually so cool, and the first time i heard Life in a Glasshouse i had to listen to it like nine times in a row because it's just that good.

banger of all bangers - I Might Be Wrong is kind of a banger, i mean amnesiac sort of doesn't quite have the 'banger' energy to it though. I can play pyramid song badly on piano so imo that's a banger just cos of that, every time i see a piano it's like 'okay guys pyramid song time' hehe.

out of ten - like a nine? it's weird cos even though it has pull pulk (which is one of the few radiohead songs i actually don't like) and dollars and cents which is just kind of mid, the songs i do really like on amnesiac (pyramid song, packt like sardines, i might be wrong, life in a glass house) i Really Really Really Like. who i am kidding i love them so much. like even though it has a not very good one the amazingness of the others outweigh it. it's my favourite radiohead album, probably, such vibes, such atmosphere, fricken love amnesiac

#thank you so much for the ask!#i love this album so much hehe #if anyone wants me to do this for other radiohead albums i will happily do that :D #also this was such a mysterious looking ask #just an anon saying 'amnesiac' with no context #hehe very cool #amnesiac

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enchanted-lightning-aes · 1 year

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Crash a Bash

A/N: a story of a human, who dares to join a party hosted by monsters. it’s set in halloween.^^ 🎃🎃

Word Count: 714

TW: None

***

At a house, people hooted and hollered across from the foyer. They occupied most rooms, immersed in what to do. Multi-colored lights flicked around from a ceiling, leaving some shadows revealed.

Most of them wearing costumes of varying types. Ranging from garish to understated. Highly detailed to totally simple. Either they showed up as creatures from folklore or characters from a media, they all attended the party in an ensemble.

The guest gasped, their attention roaming to what they saw. They steered from other people's lane in an attempt to maintain a low profile.

In honesty, they shouldn't be here. A regular human in a frat house of other creatures. They had been warned of potential harm if they did go. They didn't listen because well. . . they couldn't pass this up.

Not when they could experience what it could be like.

A monster mash, eh? Sounded like their type of party.

Sure, they probably shouldn't take part in supernatural events. But come on? They would be a fool to not join this one. They could pretend to be someone they were not for one night.

What could possibly go wrong?

Thankfully, they didn't need to enter with an invitation. They only discovered this party from a flyer, obtaining the address. They had prepared right then and there, exhilarated by such a fascinating prospect.

Although, they probably should have dressed up as a scarier creature than an alien. They covered most of themself with a tin foil-looking suit. It was based on those sci-fi movies, where most aliens wore

Two partygoers, a harpy and a vampire, pulled up and looked at them. They refused to crumple. They didn't need to fear these people. They probably didn't intend to scare any random guest.

"Yo, sick costume!" the harpy screeched, beaming.

"Thank you," they replied, grinning.

The vampire bared her fangs, pointing at an empty sofa. "Why don't you get over here?"

"No thanks." They waved their hands dismissively. "I can't afford to fail taking advantage of the buffet table."

They both nodded and moved past them. They proceeded to a living room, where music blared from a high quality stereo. Guests crowded a dance floor, their limbs grooving along to it's buoyant tune. Some other guests surrounded a table, chattering and eating food.

As their eyes landed on the buffet table, their jaw dropped.

Score! They must have won a lottery because damn. . . so much food to eat.

So, they plucked a disposable plate and served themself. With some dark chocolate cake, spaghetti, and a bowl of chips. They also poured a glass of punch for themself.

They started digging in, standing near an empty corner. Just paying attention to their food, savoring it's taste.

People gathered around a pool table, calculating on what moves to take.

As they discarded their plate in a trash can, the group let out noises of discontent. They snickered and shook their head.

Compared to humans, they also get riled up during eager competitions.

Someone ran towards them, pulling them towards a group sitting on the floor.

"Bruh, you've got to try this!" the werewolf said, clapping them at the back. "This barrel's awesome! It's got a load of pineapple juice!"

They arched a brow.

"Pineapple juice, huh?"

"Yup! It's gonna taste so good!"

Fine then. If they politely insisted.

As they picked up a cup, they filled it with pineapple juice. People chanted 'chug, chug, chug,' and they complied to their request. They guzzled most of it and they cheered, providing a round of applause.

They crushed the cup against their forehead. The other guests' turned louder, laughing and guffawing. They grinned, propping their hands at their sides.

Damn, they did good. Best of all, they didn't see a human in their midst. Just another partygoer, who got here for some fun.

And it should be that way for tonight. They didn't have much intentions other than to party.

Technically, they didn't fit in then again, they didn't need to. That was what the Halloween spirit was all about, right? Being someone who they weren't for an entire day? Disguising their true selves from anyone, who wouldn't think twice?

Yeah, so they were alright.

Surrounded by several people, music, and good food, they indulged in doing what they could.

***

#writeblr #creative writing #flash fiction friday #fff174 #enchant: original works

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goddealt · 2 years

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@guiltskate gets a plotted thing!

max cringes at the sound of the knock on the door. she could have sworn they had enough money for pizza, but now as she looks in the tin, there’s no way she can cover this pie. shame, cold and heavy claws up into her throat and she sets her jaw. the delivery person knocks again. “one second!” she calls, grabbing what few crumpled bills are in the stockpile. digging under the couch gets her nothing but crumbs wedged beneath her fingernails, and all she finds in the pockets of her and her mother’s coats are a few crumpled receipts and a quarter. max steels her jaw and opens the door, prepared to be scoffed at or worse.

“listen,” she says, not looking up, “when i called, i thought i was gonna be able to afford the pizza but i guess my mom didn’t have time to cash her paycheck so i don’t.” her cheeks burn red. “i’m sorry, okay?” max finally lifts her gaze, preemptively defiant, but her expression softens when she recognizes who it is. “oh. carter, hi. sorry you came all the way out here.”

#guiltskate #; threads #eeeeEEEE!!!!

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clinicallyinvisible · 2 months

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I am so tired of J.

Every time I ask him to do something it's like it's such a burden. It's like I have asked such an enormous thing of him.

Asked him yesterday to check the mail. Did he? No. He said he forgot. Fine, I forget things sometimes too, especially if it's not something I usually do. I get it. But when I asked him to do it he sighed and sounded so irritated that I asked him to do something. I don't have time this week and I forgot last week when I did have time. I ended up doing it this morning anyway. Just was a couple minutes late to work, which is not a huge deal, but I try not to make a habit of it.

He insists we share blankets at night like we used to. We stopped for a while because he didn't like the way the blankets would get all crumpled from the way I sleep. But that's how I like it. It's cozy. So we started having separate ones. Then he got insecure and made the decision that we are sharing again and then what does he do? He complains about the way I like the blankets when I sleep.

He bitched and moaned about chores for ages. So I made us a chore list of things equally divided, upon which he begrudgingly agreed. I work a full time job, too. I don't have the energy or time to do ALL the chores like he thinks I should. Anyway, he has been neglecting half of his chores half the time and a few of them all the time. He hasn't touched our stupid robot vacuum for MONTHS. It's his job to empty and run it every day. But if I leave a few dishes in the sink or an empty tin can I rinsed, it's apparently a huge inconvenience for him and he's upset. And not just upset, but mean.

I am so fucking sick and tired of it all. I am so fucking fed up.

And let's say I try to compromise with him on something. He has this idea in his head that its either his way or my way and my trying to compromise is STILL my way somehow. He refuses to compromise.

For a while I was beginning to think maybe I'm being unreasonable or maybe I'm being a jerk, but I'm snapping out of that and realizing that no, I'm not asking too much of him. He's the one that is unreasonable. He's the one that is expecting me to bend over backwards for him and go out of my way to make everything perfect for him, but he won't do shit for me unless I throw a tantrum about it.

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cottoncandybitchfuck · 5 months

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Rant that is not related to my blog.

I work at a museum. We currently have an exhibit on Leon Polk Smith (Look up his work it's amazing what he did with so little) Some of his work is paper he painted, then tore and glued back together. Sounds simple, the pieces look dope though. This old couple just came in and complained about the pieces being in an art museum cause it's torn paper so it's trash.

THAT'S THE POINT!!!! You take the thing people think is trash and make it art!!!! Like holy crap things are reusable. Do you know how many times I have crumpled up paper and did a brown wash over it just to make a cool looking scroll for dnd? DO you know how fun it is to take something no one wants and turn it into something so cool? Making chains out of pop can tabs, using torn paper and making art, melting down pop cans to make tin sculptures, SPENCER FROM ICARLY'S WATER BOTTLE ROBOT???? hello!!!!! WAKE UP IF IT CAN BE TURNED INTO ART IT WILL AND I WILL PRAISE IT ALWAYS

also just a reminder that going into an art museum and saying "Oh I could do that" is not a flex. You can do that, so go do it! and maybe one day it will be in a museum! if you don't want to, don't complain about it being praised as art by others.

#art museum #rant #learn about him #it was the great depression #he used what he had #wild concept!!

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00towns · 8 months

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one night in a strange city

Among the most frivolous things I carried by hand to Tokyo is a University of Virginia mug, my NCT lightstick, and a huge bag of saltwater taffy, black licorice flavor removed. Among the things that get left behind that I regret the quickest are my photocard binder, my Doc Martens, and my polka-dot neoprene lunch bag. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I miss the photocard binder the most. I have so many things I want to put in it. I like that Japan has a lot of papers. There’s a sticky-note culture in offices; a note left on someone’s desk is probably more effective than an email. I keep the tiny slip of paper I get in every gacha, the sticker that the gas company man leaves with the emergency number on it, the dual-language name tag that is supposed to help us if we get lost in the train station. I tuck them into the back pocket of my bullet journal to keep them from crumpling. Without my storage binders and tins, there’s nowhere good to put them. A pile of paper memories accumulates on the low table in my apartment, and blow away every time I turn on the fan.

During class change at the senior high school I teach at, there are two identifying noises. The first is the familiar bell, ringing both at 10:49 and 10:50, the minute in between the briefest, slightest, shiniest thing. The second is the sound of dozens of chairs scraping cruelly across worn floors who wear decades of scrapes and scratches. The sound echoes across the building, including through the floor into the teacher’s room that my desk is located in, and is bizarrely the most nostalgic part of my day. They creak rhythmically over my head, and I feel like I’m missing out on something. The sound in the classroom itself, I will later learn, is deafening. In my first class after my self introduction, all the students stand up to formally say goodbye to me, but they’re not used to doing it in English, so my coworker has to prompt me. I have to say something that they can repeat after me, but really, I’m less concerned about what I will say than trying to figure out what I want to hear back.

It’s odd to be working in a high school as a recent graduate, despite the miles and miles of cultural difference between my high school experience and the experience of my students. They can tell I’m young, although I try my best not to disclose my actual age. Some things are familiar: the rush to buy snacks during break that I’ve seen in anime, the hardworking nature of Japanese employees I’ve heard about from my parent’s most irritating friends, the mountains and mountains of stacked papers they talk about in earthquake preparedness videos. Even more are universal; I watch my students fight demons to stay awake in last period, forget their gym shoes and have to do PE in socks, and excuse myself from my desk to get a cold drink when I feel my own eyes getting heavy in dragging hours of deskwarming.

There are differences, too, almost embarrassingly obvious to admit. How culturally-sensitive educator’s professional development always harps on about how Japanese kids clean the classroom every single day so there’s no need for janitors, and isn’t that amazing, their culture is just so dedicated and hardworking, but my school is surprisingly still pretty dirty. I was invited to take a nap during my lunch break if I needed one and spent the rest of the day anxious if I had looked especially haggard or sleepy. I’m embarrassed to admit that yesterday I was walking home from my local grocery store lugging a few kilos of rice uphill and caught myself dreaming that I had a car.

A coworker whose name I have failed to ask leaves a tiny mountain of individually wrapped senbei and other snacks I have yet to be able to identify or read the labels for on my desk. I have to be helped through the smallest interactions. My coworker, who I like very much, has to walk with me as I get my blood drawn and my waist measured at the school’s health checkup, takes me through the excruciating process of setting up my phone and wifi, helps me make a bank account. It’s like being a hamfisted toddler, biologically designed to only grab and hold on, wondering when I will develop the physiological ability to give and let go. I take, and take, and take.

There are always a few different inside jokes happening at once. I Google the names of different American household cleaners, followed by ‘japanese’; ‘barkeepers friend japanese’, ‘goo gone japanese’ ‘. Nothing ever turns up outside of blog posts written by white guys married to Japanese women trying to be the next big gaijin humor blog and end up just being racist. I think about writing about my time here. I think about writing about Japan. I think about writing that I’ve read about Japan. I want to stop writing about Japan. There are more than a thousand JETs across the country doing exactly what I am right now. I’m not like them, for sure, but I’m not sure I can tell you why.

The students think I’m cool because I’m an American, heads taller than most and dressed miles outside of their tight dress code. I smile, and try to talk enthusiastically about a city that I’ve never called home. I keep jokingly calling things that I have yet to get used to about Japanese culture that I have my ‘one, terrible, American idiosyncrasy’, but it’s not really one, it’s probably five, and they are starting to grate on my heart instead of my nerves in a way that I think is homesickness but I haven’t called by that name in seven other international moves, so why would I start now? My body feels like it’s all awkward angles, misshapen joints, shapes that make a soft crunching sound when pressured. Maybe the last thing I feel is cool. A teacher at the school I visit twice a week cracks a joke about how none of my students can tell that I’m not Japanese by looking at me, but he can’t tell if that would make them more or less willing to try to talk to me. I laugh, genuinely, because I can’t tell either. I’m trying my best.

The familiar has a way of making itself clear. I have one beer too many at an izakaya with a friend and fall asleep on the couch on a Tuesday without packing lunch for the next day. I’m slightly terrified I might be much less worldly than I’d like to think I am. It’s only ever one night in a strange city.

Eldar Kedem -- Walking Around

Turtle Island -- Psychic Basement

No Party for Cao Dong -- Bed

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