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#I made these w 2 different filters

2kmps · 2 months

Text

PERSIMMON & INK ; PT ONE OF TWO

yakuza!getō suguru x tattoo artist!reader| 1/2 | wc; 12.9k

story summary; you're a tattoo artist hidden amidst the bustle of shinjuku city and renown with tourists. due to a misstep of your shady employee, you're visited one night at closing by an eerily beautiful man in a disheveled suit and no tie requesting an intricate back piece done traditionally. the undertaking slowly begins to unthread your life piece-by-piece the closer you get to him until there is no way out.

story warnings; dark content, yakuza au!, details about tattooing, traditional tattooing (tebori), money laundering, injuries to mc, implied death of oc, manipulation, power imbalance, a bunch of cultish shit, mc doesn't fuck around and is a hardass + sort of a bully to their employee, sex w/ injury, getō smokes, mc dogging on foreigners, implied stalking, prose + detail heavy, explicit sexual content, heavily implied homicide, graphic details of violence + wounds.

read the warnings! + mdni! events within this story are not indicative of my personal viewpoints.

thank you @ceruleansol for your earlier proofreading efforts! appreciative, as always!

a/n: this is part one of two. i strongly implore that you reblog & interact with this post! it helps out authors tremendously when you do!

A silvery peal called out to the little shop stifled in past-midnight silence. During regular business hours, it was a good sound to hear; it meant that your next client had parked their feet through the threshold behind a closed door and jittered a bell hanging by a red string. In this case, you hadn't been fast enough to flick off the neon signage anchored into the building outside, nor set the deadbolt to signal the shop had retired for the night.

You were still hard at work wiping down your workspace, the last appointment of the night having taken several hours longer than intended with a squeamish foreigner who couldn't bite his knuckles long enough for you to finish linework on his ankle.

"It's past midnight. Come back some other time," you said, inflectionless, unwilling to be deterred in your task. It didn't occur to you to even give this newcomer the time of day by looking at them. "I have all my information online. Email for appointment bookings."

"Oh, really? That's too bad," replied the stranger, voice traceless of the frustration you were accustomed to when turning people away at odd hours. "I was told this would be a better time to come by for a consultation."

That made you jolt upright, swiveling toward the man standing inside your shop. Strangely, you hadn't anticipated the way he sounded when he spoke—affable, syrupy, and an elegant, fluid stroke on glazed canvas—to be so different from how he looked—tall, lean, refined with a sort of edge to him that'd intrigue anyone in a room he walked into.

Apart from his appearance, something you couldn't be sure was real with him bathed in the faint neon-red glow from flickering bulbs filtering in through the windows, you were drawn to the somewhat disheveled suit he wore. It looked like something a salaryman uniformed himself in while sitting on his ass for twelve hours in one of Tokyo's skyscrapers.

He doesn't have a tie. That stood out to you at this late hour.

"I didn't tell you that." You suspected who did and let your voice rise above the pitch of the checkered wall clock and drone of an oscillating ceiling fan directly above you. "Kōji! Get out here!"

From the depths of your little shop, tucked away in the furthest corner behind a door painted the same morose gray as the walls flanking it, there was a great ruckus—a chair tipping over, a body smashing to the floor, and feet fumbling over and over again until a weaselly fellow skittered out into the parlor.

"Ye-yeah? What's up? Time to—"

"Get this guy scheduled for a consultation for next month." Nothing prepared you for the way Kōji's color sank out of his cheeks and neck when you turned toward him. You pushed onward boldly, "I'm booked out for the next few weeks. Since you told him he could come by whenever, take responsibility and get him out."

Kōji's eyes were so much bigger, the whites of them showing, knuckles turning stark when his hand grasped your forearm, and he hinged forward at his waist, bowing so low you thought he'd fall forward.

"Thank you so much for your patience." Kōji sprung back up, feet popping into the air as he whisked you away into the back office, still repeatedly dipping his head to this man. "Please, give us a couple of minutes, and we'll be right with you."

"No worries." The suit guy smiled at you, catching your gaze before the gray door was pulled shut in your face. "Take your time."

Inside the dinky space, surrounded by unsteady towers of boxes brimming with all the things your second-floor apartment couldn't handle without making the walls burst at the seams, Kōji still had a hold on you. This time, however, both his hands gripped your arms, hot and clammy on your bare skin.

"You can't tell him to leave." Kōji hesitated to take any stance against you, any tone that could be implicated as threatening or domineering. Even through his quivering breaths, he tried to sound firm.

You looked at him incredulously, neck craning back in hopes it got the message across. It was easy enough to sweep away his hands. "The fuck, I can. It's my shop. Tell him to get out."

Kōji let his posture sag, whittling deep into himself as his fingers came together to pick at minuscule slithers of skin that left raw spots around his nails. He shook his head. "Not someone like him."

"Kōji—"

He was trying hard not to stick the underside of a fingernail between his teeth. A couple months ago, he had told you he wanted to kick the habit because he couldn't stand looking at his hands. This job and his natural disposition worked against him—long hours pouring over finances and bookkeeping, tucked away in a tiny room with a humming desk fan and no windows, would be enough to drive anyone's anxiety through the roof.

It wasn't ideal for him, you knew that, and suggested that he move his workstation around the shop or to the front-end counter as long as he didn't disturb the flow you kept going with clients. Worse than the isolation was his aversion to handling any potential customer interaction.

That's what made this so odd to you, so strange that he simply reiterated time and time again, "We can't kick him out," anytime you'd try to get anything else in word wise.

You had to back up, put some pressure against the new pulse in your temples. Kōji let his gaze flutter around the room, never steadying on your face for long enough for you to get a better read on him. His hair and neck were soaked with sweat. Beads of it dripped from his brow onto his shoes, leaving glistening, branching paths behind that never quite dried before more took their place.

It came to you then, just as a guess but one with enough certainty that dread wound itself against your spine and made you fidget.

"Is that—is he part of a gang?"

Kōji did a lot of work to keep his eyes off of you, still, lips thin and wet with sweat that he lapped away.

No confirmation was a confirmation—you launched yourself at him, wringing fistfuls of his stiff button-up until it was tight against him. You felt the heat of his body through the fabric wrapped around your hands.

He was shorter than the man in the parlor, but still taller than you. His feet stayed planted on the floor as you brought his face down to your height. "Did you fucking tell the yakuza about my shop, Kōji?! Is he here because of you?!"

"No, no! Not me! Not me!" Kōji wailed, crumbling beneath your bulbous stare. "Not on purpose! I swear! I swear! It was an accident. I was at lunch with… some friends, and I mentioned that I was working here. I guess word got around!"

"So, you're having lunch with criminals now?!" You wanted to wring his neck. It was physically impossible to bring yourself any closer to him without tasting the salty drops on his skin. "Are you insane?!"

Since the start of Kōji's employment years ago, you knew that he was a leery character, and having him on board to handle the more mundane, unsavory parts of running a business wasn't your best call to judgment. Still, he was efficiently organized in a way that made sense. He was fast and dedicated enough in doing things right that you stopped asking yourself questions about what antics he did on the side.

Up until now, he had never brought anything from the outside in to disrupt your status quo, the fine-tuned, well-oiled gears that kept your business running and clientele coming around like revolving doors. This was an entirely different ordeal, though, and you didn't know how to handle it.

You let Kōji whimper around your fists for a while longer, releasing him only once you were ready for a deep breath.

"I don't care." you said, taking a wide step away from him as your fingers scouted through all of the pockets on your person. There was one stick of gum left in your hoodie that went straight into your mouth. "I don't care. Stop being a fucking wuss and fix your mistake. Get him out of my shop."

Kōji gasped, scuttling closer to you just as his skinny, knobby knees bent inward and trembled. The weight of his body nearly toppled you when he went down to the floor, hands on your clothes. "No, no. Please. If you—if you turn him away, he'll tell the others, and who knows what'll happen to… us."

The selfish little imp actually meant himself.

It killed you to acknowledge that he wasn't wrong. You knew as much about the movements and customs of crime syndicates in Japan as anyone else, probably even less than the regular citizen, but they were still criminals with tight fists on the economy and underground.

All it would take is one bad remark and everything you had worked for would be razed to the ground.

"Who is he?" You pushed him off by the shoulders. "Who is that guy?"

You didn't like his silence, how his face warped, and his eyes fell to the white tips of your shoes. "Kōji."

Slowly, he answered, "He's the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai."

"Goddamnit."

He stayed sniveling on the floor while you scrambled around the back office, turning over boxes and water-stained folders for particular papers you needed to go forward. Once you had them, you blotted the tip of an ink pen on your tongue, ripping a piece of white printer paper out from the tray and beginning a frantic scrawl that you weren't even sure was discernible.

You weren't in that room with Kōji for more than twenty minutes, reemerging into the parlor to find him—Getō Suguru, boss of the Uzumaki-kai—still waiting for you exactly where you'd left him. Only now, the smile he greeted you with was smug, shoulders lax against the door with one foot hiked up on it.

He had heard the entire thing, all of your shouts and Kōji's perilous pleas. The walls weren't as thick as you wished they were.

"You should find a different artist who specializes in the kind of work you want." you said, spreading your array of papers out on the front counter. The pen dotted your tongue once more before touching them, a messy signature left behind on black condemning lines.

"I've looked at your portfolio online." He had come closer, eyes set on the motions of your pen flying across paper. "It's the best I've seen in Tokyo."

There was something in his words that rang sweet and untrue. With Tokyo being one of the foremost tourist magnets in the world, attracting domestic business and foreign intrigue, competition amongst tattoo shops during peak seasons was staggering. You were part of the cluster of shops preferring to bring in international clientele because they were lured with anything quick and easy and cheap.

Simply put, they were your revolving door. Kōji monitored your shop's social media presence well, eyeballing analytics, trends, and patterns in the algorithm, so you stayed a persistent pest on the front page most days. Whatever moves he pulled worked, filled the books until you were writing in last second, twenty-minute appointments against the seams in your spiral bound to keep tabs.

You'd see anywhere from eight to twelve clients on the worst of days, most of them coming from overseas to tour the city or countryside. Every one of them chose premade designs from a catalog you kept nearby, all work you had committed to muscle memory and knew so well you could do the line work without a stencil and let your mind float somewhere else.

These foreigners wanted memorability, everlasting art imbued with stories from their exotic balmy summertime getaway where they stayed in air-conditioned hotels and shops and harassed the locals because it gave them a swell of adrenaline, a sense of adventure from the belief that they were in possession of more culture now than they had been before.

They tried to talk to you about those things because when they'd first see you, stepping under the chiming little bell, there was a brightness in their eyes of knowing you weren't someone who belonged—just like them. After so many years in the business, you were conversationally fluent in several languages but pretended not to be for all of two or three.

"I'll do it, but—" You pulled yourself from that reverie, pen flipping through your fingers for him to take. "You have to sign a bunch of waivers and there are conditions."

Getō had waited for you in well-tempered silence for several minutes and maintained that even now with a neutral expression. "Can you explain them to me?"

"The waivers are pretty standard," you said, shifting your weight against the counter. "The first three are making sure you understand the risk of scarring, infection, colors bleeding together. Fourth one is a liability waiver."

When you reached the final piece of paper buried beneath all the rest, the one you had handwritten and hastily signed, his eyes were gleaming with intrigue.

"What's this?"

There wasn't much to it, really, just a single paragraph on a bleach-white background, one blank line below your signature with enough room for a timestamp after it.

You made sure it was in his hand before you spoke again. "This is a rigid waiver agreeing that if I do your tattoo, you can't tell anyone you're associated with about this shop.

Getō wore an aloof smile. "What are you implying? I never said—"

"Stop trying to make me sound fucking stupid." You winced after the fact, not intending for it to have come out so aggressive. "Either sign it or leave, please. If anyone finds out you came here, it could ruin my business."

All but the ticking wall clock, a jarring neon against a backdrop of dark walls, and the ceiling fan with its monotonous beat from spinning blades had kept your shop from catapulting into silence.

You hadn't realized it until now, not until Getō had taken many long moments to examine the papers you'd given him and wordlessly signed them, that your chest was starting to ache from how hard your heart rammed your ribs.

You couldn't believe this was happening.

A snare formed in your throat once he finished printing the date and time on your special waiver, pen aside, papers stacked together as he tapped them on the countertop so they were neat.

He held them out to you, still with a beguiling smile that betrayed everything he represented. "Could I get copies? I'd like them for myself too."

You smeared sweaty palms down the back of your sweatpants, flexing out your fingers over and over until you felt sure enough that you could handle those papers without trembling. This must've been how Kōji felt when he had walked in earlier.

"I'll be back." Your bow was stiff and slight, probably an affront, but he let you go, turning to find a home on one of your low couches in the corner and started perusing the pages of your catalog displayed crookedly on an acrylic table in front of him.

It was all you could do to not slam the office door behind you, to intentionally scare the soul straight out of Koji's ass for putting you in this hard spot. If he weren't such an integral part of keeping this place afloat, you'd have fired him ages—years ago.

"I need copies," was everything you needed to say to make Kōji rifle through his arsenal of ridiculous expressions. He shrank under your stare, sliding deeper into his seat behind his desk. "You still need to be back here at eleven."

"Yes, I know." he mumbled, handing you fresh copies after stapling them together. You let the warmth sit on your hands for a while. "Do you want me to leave?"

Truthfully, you didn't want to be alone with Getō. You wanted to yell at Kōji a little more.

"Yeah. Get out of here."

And he ran.

A part of you hoped that Getō would've gotten bored with how long this entire process had been just to sign some flimsy agreements and listen to you pitch a fit at your employee. You prayed that the fleeting glance Kōji had made to the corner of the room was to check, not to confirm.

You stepped out into your workspace, boldly expecting to see it bathed in nothingness and shadows—but he was still there.

Getō let the tip of his shoe, a pointy closed-toe, jerk with the sounds of your wall clock. His leg was crossed, your catalog still splayed across his thigh as he looked at your preset designs, work made to appease the masses and feed into their fiction of Japan. You had half the hope that he'd be turned off by them and change his mind.

"What you're offering here and what's on your website are completely different."

This guy was observant.

You didn't like that.

"I get a lot of travelers." It crossed your mind to rip the book out of his hands. "They're the ones who make up the bulk of my business. My website hosts my professional work. It's what I prefer to do."

He didn't look up, continuing to leaf through the pages with long, lithe fingers. "So, you cater to foreigners, then?"

"My shop is small. It's just me and Kōji here. This place has to stay running somehow." You weren't sure why you were explaining yourself to him. "If that's something that bothers you, I can shred these papers, and you can find another artist."

Getō let his smile return, closing the catalog to drop it back onto the table. As though to challenge your stubbornness, he took the copies from you and skimmed them one more time.

"Thank you." He moved those aside too, now wholly focused on you. "Do you have time tonight to hear out my ideas?"

You were facing the wall clock now; it was almost two in the morning. If he wanted something more complex, it would take hours to work up a sketch for him. And that was being so bold to believe he'd like it on the first try.

"Got a deposit?" you asked. "Nonrefundable, of course."

He paid you what you wanted right then and there, to your complete astonishment. The price you had given him was astronomical, an act of spontaneity that you decided you'd pose to him as a joke if he got mad or guarded with severity.

No questions.

No doubt.

Just the warm clip of folded yen from his pocket that he didn't even look over. The yakuza were historically a stingy bunch, but he didn't even do a second sweep, didn't try to double back on you, and didn't seem to care.

"Let me get my stuff." You left the cash off to the side on the acrylic table. It was your equivalent of a cat showing its belly good-naturedly.

The money was still there when you returned with a tablet stuck under the sweat of your armpit and two mugs of tea, an act of hospitality you didn't often invoke mostly because you didn't care. These were dire circumstances, though, and you couldn't put it out of your mind (or nerves) that you were walking on thin ice laden with eggshells.

"It isn't anything fancy." You put your things down before handing him his mug. "It's from some random box I grabbed at the store."

Getō gave his thanks and took it from you, first sips coming as soon as he could bring his lips to it. He made no mention about the flavor or quality, didn't look at it with any amount of suspicion. It simply rested there against his palms while he waited patiently.

He was defeating every stereotype of yakuza that you had adopted from the movies and media. If it weren't for Kōji being a scummy little rat who liked hanging around trash in his off time and believing all of his reactions from a while ago, you'd be convinced that Getō wasn't affiliated at all.

A businessman with questionable practices, maybe, but not a greater part of the underbelly of society.

"It's a sort of complicated idea." He rearranged his legs so they were spread wide, back sinking into the worn green leather. Another sip. "Tell me if I should slow down."

True to his word, the tattoo he wanted was ambitious, terrifyingly ambitious, and something better left to a specialized skill set, not someone who bounced around between commercialized brand characters and bastardized interpretations of The Great Wave by Hokusai.

"I'd like the dragon to be white." Getō was partway through his explanation, now sitting forward on the edge of the couch, an elbow pointed down on a thigh to cradle his cheek. He was invested. "The eyes, hm, yellow or gold. You can choose what'd go best for the inside of its mouth. I want the head of it in the top left—"

"Hold on." You sighed, managing a lukewarm drink from your tea. "So, to go about the white, there are a couple of options: we leave that space empty, so it'll be your skin tone. Most people get dragons that are red or green or black. It'd be better to try that if you—"

"It has to be white." He looked at you the same, but his words were razored in a way so slight yet unmistakable. "What else can be done?"

"Well"—the leather creaked against your back the deeper you dug into it—"I could do white ink. I could get it opaque, but the problem with it is that it fades drastically; you'd need it retouched every couple of years."

"I see." His smile was wider. "I like that idea. Let's go with that."

You frowned. "You do know that white ink is expensive, right? So the price is going to jack up, and there's more pain involved since I'll have to apply more pressure."

"That's fine with me."

More specifics for the work he wanted flooded in: He wanted to start with his back, covering every bit of surface from his neck down to his tailbone. Afterward, he would branch out to both arms and finish the design over his breasts. It certainly aligned with artistry you've seen done by yakuza tattooists; the entire point of them was to be seen by those who mattered, easily concealed to those who didn't.

Most of the real estate was going to the white dragon with gold eyes first, the rest of it going to freestyle characters from fiction such as kuchisake-onna and religious iconography that he pursued with quite a bit of insistence.

You sketched until four in the morning, arranging characters and wispy, dreamy clouds. Long whiskers floated away from the dragon's snout, while the teeth you gave it were more comically blunt and human-like rather than jagged and threatening, a detail he seemed particularly delighted to see.

"What's with the Buddhist symbols?" You had to bring out your laptop to research those, settling on a few he gave a nod to. "Are you some kind of priest? This is a pretty specific scene you're giving me."

"It came to me in a dream." he said.

What a weirdo. Your fingers ached and cramped by the time you finished the draft, stylus leaving deep impressions in your skin that you were sure had knocked bone a few times.

From up close, you weren't too partial to how it looked like an amalgam of things surrounding all of the labor you put into specifics of the dragon, but when you moved it away, it came together like some hazy dreamscape.

"I should tell you why I chose you in the first place," was what he said when you spun the tablet around for him.

You had the device facing you again, pen notched through your fingers to apply some simple colors to the design. "I thought it was because you were enamored with me and my online portfolio."

Getō stared at you, humoring your joke with a smile even though you didn't see it. He stayed slouched over his thighs, fist moving to the side of his head to keep him upright.

"I'm looking for this to be done traditionally."

The tablet flattened on your lap, stylus rolling off of it onto the floor. You couldn't believe you didn't think of this. If he really was part of a crime syndicate, of course he would want all of the work done traditionally.

"That's going to bring in a whole host of problems." You let your thumb hover dangerously close to the trash bin button in the top right of the screen. "First of all, the overall cost of this is going up by twice what I've already quoted you."

"No worries." Getō shrugged his shoulders. "I've done my research."

But you weren't done. "Healing time will be reduced, but some of my clients have told me it's more painful than a machine."

"I'm not 'some' of those clients." he rejoined.

You were suddenly wishing your tea wasn't cold so you could disappear into it for a while. The tablet ran hot on your thighs, dragging your eyes back down to the drawing, thoughts flitting through what it'd mean for business, expenses in versus expenses out, and how committing to this would solidify you as a yakuza artist.

It would be inescapable and follow your reputation into the ground if Getō ever spread word about it.

"This back piece is going to take me a really long time to do for you. A machine cuts that time in half." Maybe you could beg him to change his mind.

He wouldn't budge. "Yes, I'm well aware."

"So"—fine then, you'd give him something to reconsider—"you know for the sake of longevity that traditional isn't going to be the best? Machines are able to apply more force into the skin and move faster. Because you'll be relying on me instead of a machine, your line work will start to bleed within a few years and your color is going to fade pretty significantly, too."

If he was dissuaded, Getō never let on because he grinned. "You were the right choice, after all."

That ended the discussion and your night. Your eyes felt dry in their sockets, rolling them towards the wall where you read a big black number “5” on its clear plastic face. Getō didn't share that same urgency. He hadn't even checked a watch or a phone the entire time he was with you.

"Remember," you said, your tone daring, "you signed an agreement to not tell anyone about this place. I expect you to keep your word."

"Of course. I wouldn't consider breaking it in my wildest dreams." Effortless and gentle, he said this to you with fondness that felt oddly misplaced. "After all, we prefer choosing our artists. And, now, you're mine. I'll see you soon."

You locked the door after him without saying anything, losing track of his body through the window as he went somewhere under the shadows cast by taller buildings close by.

This time, you made sure to flip off the neon signage that had been glowing outside all night long.

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The Uzumaki-kai had started out under a different name in the forties, one seemingly redacted from all publications shortly after the change. It had a tumultuous history with frequent power shifts and internal disputes that had left it nearly eradicated by the seventies until Yorimitsu Asahi climbed to the peak of the hierarchy. Within ten years, membership tripled, revenue increased into the billions, and nearly all records of their exploits had dropped off the edge.

Kōji had hit a dead end in his research for you, an attempt to give you some peace of mind in what you were dealing with. The idea was to hit the ground running, so when Getō came back around, you'd have some vague notion of what to expect. But all you were able to do was skim the surface of an, allegedly, power-hungry and morally depraved bunch of men and women.

The most recent details of their movements dated back two years ago, whereas the more credible sources haven't reported anything for nearly seven. In the earlier articles by a journalist gone undercover, they had a significant hand in the economy, mainly through casinos, prostitution, and ties to religious institutions.

You had to let out a groan because Kōji hit a wall—again. All of the latest news you could find were just sensationalist reprints about how they were actively scouting people, or giving charity to orphans, and where the yakuza ranked in the world amongst other crime syndicates.

"Hey." Getō was standing in front of you, just on the other side of your counter. "Ready to get this started?"

Snapping shut your laptop had been an instinctual response. A flush of adrenaline in your veins was chased away by the cold creep of fear reaching up your spine. This wasn't the same as mom catching you watching porn or a teacher hovering close enough to see you cheat.

This was the chill of knowing you were digging into things you shouldn't be.

"Wel—welcome back." You didn't mean it but bowed your head low anyway. "I never got a chance to schedule you in. It'll take me a while to set up, if you'd want to come back another day."

Getō had his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed just like the last time, and looked around the small square footage of your shop. It was big enough to arrange a few compact pieces of furniture in the corner, give breathing space for a couple of bodies in the middle while you worked on them, and the front-end counter where you sat.

You made use of decorative shelving to display all the things that customers wanted to see: bottles of ink, strange art, little trinkets to give the place some interest so you wouldn't have to be. Everything else was shoved into the back office to clog up Kōji's space or upstairs in your apartment where you could fit it.

"No." Getō took a walk over to one of the shelves, a collection of inks you had arranged by color family. "I'd like to start today. I can wait for you to set up."

"Okay." You licked your lips. "Yup. That's fine. Kōji!"

With Kōji's help, what would've taken you close to an hour to prepare for Getō was whittled down to about thirty minutes. Just one look and the smarmy guy took on a more diminutive attitude, convincing you that if you were to walk away and come back, he'd probably be spit-shining the tops of Getō's shoes.

At least he wasn't sweating all over the floor again. You could watch the fragile flattery without completely twisting in disgust.

"One thing you didn't do last time was confirm that you were happy with the sketch." You had Kōji fetch your tablet and bring it up to show him. "Also, I refuse to start unless you have payment upfront. That was something else we didn't discuss."

"Th–that's a joke." Kōji sputtered.

You looked straight at Getō. "You're yakuza asking me for an extremely elaborate piece done traditionally with a lot of white ink. I have a right to want to protect my time and resources."

"I agree. The sketch is perfect." Getō said, fluid strides bringing him less than a couple of feet away. "Do you prefer cash or card?"

You were seeing him in the daylight, not awash in flickering neon or shrinking away into shadows, and he was absolutely breathtaking. It made you think how easy it'd be to lure someone into the Uzumaki-kai by his looks alone.

Payment had been seamless enough, a quick transaction that Kōji verified before scuttling out of the shop for the evening. You were left with this man, this dangerous, handsome man, to undress in front of you, casually peeling layers of his suit away until the first slithers of pale skin sent your gaze to the instrument in your fingers.

Getō only removed his jacket and button-up since his back piece alone would take months to complete, a damning thing to realize once you thought about it.

This just felt too real.

This was really happening, and all you wanted to do was blame Kōji for putting you in this position.

"So, what you're going to do is lie down." You slipped on a pair of disposable gloves and gestured to the massage table behind him. A white sheet had been placed over the black leather underneath. "If you need extra padding, let me know. Since we're building this entire piece around the white dragon, that's what I'm focusing on for now."

He leaned his weight against the table, hands back in his pockets. You tried keeping your eyes off his chest, off of his defined pectorals and abdomen, away from the thickness of his arms. The knowing smile inching onto his lips proved that you had failed.

"I'm going to be using a projector to position the image on your back, draw it out with a marker, and start with the needles." You could finally show him the thing in your hand. It was a long glazed stick with a metal ferrule attaching a row of sterile needles at the tip. "You'll feel me stretch your skin and start poking. It makes a weird sound because of how it needs to be angled, how it goes into the skin."

You took a breath, and he actually laughed.

"That was a mouthful." He hinged forward, bringing his face closer to the rod. "Not quite as 'traditional' as I thought it would be."

"There are modern adaptations to everything. It used to be bamboo, this is made from persimmon." you said, lowering the instrument onto a silver tray next to all the others of varying sizes. "What makes it traditional is the technique applied. I guarantee your buddies aren't going to back-alley places in Japan and having someone stab their backs with unsterilized needles tied to a piece of wood."

His dark eyes followed your path to the projector, watching you flip the switch and cast an image of the dragon on the table. "You never know. Some of them just don't know any better. They don't always have the best show of judgment. They need guidance."

You had something to say to that but thought better of all your organs and didn't. "Cool. Get on the table so we can start."

The landscape of his back was as defined and lovely as the front of him. You waited until the white dragon was scaled down to the appropriate size and positioned over him to touch his skin, letting your fingertips soak up all his warmth.

"We'll see how far I get today," you were saying, dragging a narrow marker tip across the broad sprawl of him. "It's going to take me longer than it usually does, and I don't really go longer than eight-hour appointments."

"There's plenty of time." This guy had infinite patience, it seemed.

And when the time came for the first prods with your needles, you paused to ask, "Need a break? Want some background noise?"

"I'm talking to you," he said, pulling a few straggling pieces of ebony hair over his shoulder. "That’s enough for me." It sounded ridiculous when he said it and worse when it replayed in your head. "What made you want to practice traditionally?"

You were already in several jabs, wiping down between them to keep a visual of what you were doing. "My mentor is one of the best traditional artists in Japan. I learned everything from him. He used to work in Osaka, I'm not sure about now. I lost contact with him years ago."

"That's too bad." he said. "Have you thought about looking for him?"

The last thing you were interested in was talking about finding people with yakuza, so after a few more pokes along the middle of his back, dipping into that pretty region that made his waist look so waspy, you decided to flip the script.

"What about you? Did you just dream about joining a gang, or…?"

He shifted his cheek to his arms, looking along his nose at your hunched shoulders. "Would you believe me if I gave you an answer?"

You dabbed his skin. "Probably not."

There wasn't much of a lull in conversation before he was onto the next topic, steering away from the niceties onto the real things he wanted to ask. You had been around the block a time or two; you knew the look people got when they had certain questions stewing inside their heads.

The only thing that ever stopped them was the devastatingly desperate aversion to kicking up dust and drama in public, and probably because they weren't yakuza.

Getō was the opposite in this scenario, so you lost.

"Where are you from?" There it was.

You sucked in a breath. "Gifu prefecture."

"That's not what I meant." He was still observing you with all the self-possession of a saint, but also unflinching obstinance that you couldn't get out of by hijacking the conversation again. "You weren't born in Japan, were you? Isn't it pretty bold of you to play off foreigners' lack of awareness for profit?"

As you swiped at the traces of ink and blood that coalesced into a single ugly bead, you noticed he hadn't winced once the entire time you pushed ink.

Would he if you stabbed him a little harder?

"That's a long story." Stab. Stab. Stab. His expression remained beautiful and pristine. "I don't feel like answering it."

He smiled. "Hm."

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The game of twenty questions spilled over from one session into the next, weeks apart, yet Getō always remembered where you both left off like he was troubling himself to commit all the contents of a crumpled-up list to memory. Sometimes, between a peaceful interlude that rendered conversation bare, the flawless terrain of his back stretched between your fingers as your needles sunk deep, you'd think to yourself that had he been any other man—you'd be impressed by the effort.

Unlike other scenarios that leaned in your favor, boorish foreign men left unanswered when they'd talk about your body—where were you hiding tattoos? Under your clothes? Can we see? They'd laugh with one another because they almost always traveled in groups. Questions morphed into ugliness when they translated silence to incompetence; quips turned lewd and derogatory, but you no longer existed to them because you couldn't talk back.

That luxury of feigning ignorance wasn't packaged with Getō, having had lured that nugget of trivia out of you by the end of his first session. He never said those things about you, never let his inquisitiveness or eyes roam like you already had him. It was disgusting how being beneath his stare made you feel so vulnerable, stripped down to nothing but your underwear without that ever happening, without him ever having touched you.

You told yourself you'd be relieved the second this piece was finally finished, and he'd be gone from your shop for good.

"How long have you been a tattoo artist?"

But, still, for now, this little game with him continued, and he led the way.

"About ten years." No one had asked you that before, so it took you a few seconds for you to respond. Even then, you weren't entirely certain that was right. "Yeah, probably about ten years."

"Hm." Getō was in the habit of making that sound to quite a few of your answers. "You don't look it."

You jolted upright in your chair, fingers lifting away from his back just as you gave your tongue a reproachful click. All it would take would be one hard open-palm slap right against the sorest spot on his back to put him in a world of hurt and permanently fuck up the ink under his skin. You'd absolutely have your throat slit or neck snapped at the gallows, but it would be well worth the risk at this moment.

"What the hell is that—"

Getō's mellifluous laughter made your anger whittle to heat behind the ears before any words even made it out of his mouth. He tried keeping his back still. "Haha, sorry, that came out wrong. I meant: you look too young to have been doing this for ten years."

Good recovery. Smooth man.

You weren't nearly as amicable. "Aren't you too old to be playing pretend with a bunch of other guys?"

He let air out hard through his nostrils, lips pulling his smile wide enough for you to see the wet glisten on his white teeth.

"Fair enough."

Time crept along like that for the pair of you, multiple sessions coming and going with inconsequential banter that was always more upsetting to you than it ever was to him. Somewhere along the way, you had been convinced that Getō was unflappable—impossible to rouse to anger, regardless of the times your clap-backs had taken a personal edge, aiming to bury deeper than any of your needles could reach.

It was enough when he'd frown, his pretty mouth pressed firm and drawn down. Oddly, when he'd look at you like that, it was reminiscent of something wholly unsettling, pulled from some deep recess in your memory that you couldn't quite put a finger on until it happened again one evening.

You had taken things a bit too far, reminding yourself that it was better to keep your distance from him. All it would take was one wrong comment on one bad day for this rapport to come crashing down on you with every bit of the same force as a tsunami, ruining everything you had built.

Getō had decided he needed a break, something uncharacteristic in the months you had spent with him as your client, and got up from the table. He couldn't go far without covering his back, so he stayed wedged between the inside and outside, trapped in the door and setting off the delicate, jangling bell overhead more times than you were comfortable with.

He had looked at you before walking away, though, that frown marring his visage, weighing down his beauty with cavernous shadows around his mouth. You acted like Kōji in that moment, feeble and pathetic, withering into a smaller version of yourself so maybe he'd show mercy.

Between those tense minutes, until he returned to the massage table, you figured out what made his disapproval so familiar.

It was like burdening the weight of a disappointed parent, like knowing you had failed another test in school, and your teacher was delivering results with that same sort of dissatisfaction while peeking over their glasses at you.

You felt like you were being reprimanded in the way only someone with influence on your life could have.

It really rubbed you the wrong way.

"Sorry." It was a hard word for you to say. Getō was on his stomach again, cheek pressed atop his arms so he could look at you. "Sometimes, I get carried away. Guess that's what I get for spending all my time with Kōji."

Cue a loud sneeze from the back office.

His placid smile was a relief to see. "You should get out more often and see other guys."

There was no disputing that fact. Besides your mainly male clientele, Kōji was the only man you were in any regular contact with. Life had a way of keeping people apart, widening the gaps of time from months into years, wearing away at those delicate threads of friendship until they were all but frayed and irreplaceable.

It was simply the natural progression of adulthood, and it was boring and terribly lonely. Tattooing made your life easier, numbed you to becoming just another downtrodden drunk hunched over a glass full of glowing gold, lusting after the bare minimum of affection from anyone.

This job kept your head above water, just enough so you could forget all of that and spend your time exactly how you wanted to—

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

His question hit you full throttle, stealing the breath from your lungs as though he had landed a fist into your gut. It was just a few nonchalant words, an easy way to keep the conversation flowing, yet it had set your heart aflutter. You heard the rhythm of it ricocheting in your skull. It was suddenly so much harder to hold his skin taut, fingertips slipping inside the nitrile gloves you wore.

"A boyfriend?" A word that sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar, flustering you. "I don't have the time for that."

Getō shifted on the bed, something he usually didn't do without warning you beforehand. You let him get situated, taking that moment to also change your gloves beneath the table after patting them dry on your thighs. The skin around your fingertips had swelled and indented from moisture, further augmenting agitation.

He was gazing ahead now, narrow chin cradled in a slot made by his fingers. You couldn't tell what he was looking at since you kept so much stuff mounted on the walls to detract attention from you. It could've been anything.

You did think his vision aligned with your catalog of preset designs, though, leaving you just a little more self-conscious than his question had already made you.

When he did say something, his smile didn't quite reach how despondent he sounded, "It seems like no one has the time anymore. We've all lost our way."

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Getō came by astonishingly early one day with the earthiness of a good brew wafting all around him. The shop had been open less than an hour, giving you just enough time to unlock the entrance and flip on all the signage before he walked in.

The little bell signaled him, both your eyes and nose lured by the cheery sound of it as well as the scent. You had expected to see Kōji at first; it wasn't unlike him to show up before his scheduled shift. Years of cubicle servitude had a way of battering people into automated drones. Workers like him might as well have been walking on conveyor belts their entire lives—going somewhere without actually getting anywhere.

Kōji also only survived off of his thirty-two-ounce thermos sloshing with coffee. Sometimes he'd share with you so you wouldn't need to deplete the shop's supply or climb two flights of stairs to your apartment to make some, but more often than not, he was halfway through that gigantic flask by midafternoon.

So to see that it was Getō taking languid strides up to your counter with two coffee cups, palms wrapped around slithers of cardboard to keep his skin from blistering, you had to correct a grimace.

"Getō." You used his name tentatively, always sparingly. It tasted unwelcome on your tongue, like the smoky bitterness of charred meat or the tang of vomit that burned through your nostrils and made your mouth salivate. "I didn't have you down for today. I have other clients coming in later."

"I'm sure they don't mind rescheduling." He smiled as usual, but the finality behind his words sent quakes down your spine. "I don't know how you take your coffee, so I just asked for cream and sugar. I'm more partial to tea, but sometimes it just doesn't give the kick I'm looking for."

You meticulously avoided his fingers as he handed over one of the cups. The lid was marked with your initials, an act of thoughtfulness you would've been moved by had he—once again—been anyone else.

For Getō, he simply watched you with a tired, satiated smile as though the very notion of buying you coffee was worthy of some ovation. For you, seeing those black lines smear and spear outward across the white lid as dainty wisps of steam escaped wherever they could felt damning.

"How is it?" he asked, lips caressing the lifted rim of his own beverage. "You can be honest."

He sipped at the same time as you, pacing himself so your cups tilted simultaneously, eyes locked on tight, evaluating your slightest flinch. A hot trickle reached your tongue and crawled down your throat, feeling as though it were blooming out into your lungs and veins. It was known by him as well, like sharing the same experience, tipping the same cup and tasting those faint traces of one another, emulating warmth against your lips and in your mouth, lessening whatever uneasy longing he had started to spur inside of you.

You didn't know if the shudder that rattled down along your back came from the penetrating depths of his dark eyes or the bitter drink sinking into your cheeks, making you pucker.

Time forwarded for you again after that. The wall clock continued its eternal rotation, bustling bodies passed your shop, and you had lost those few seconds as though trapped in a dream.

"Did I add too much sugar?" Getō acted the same, perfectly pleasant smile seeming more like a fastened feature to you these days. "You sort of winced."

You set the cup down, ducking away from the front counter to collect your things out of the back office.

"It was actually too bitter for me."

Kōji came through the threshold about an hour later with some semblance of urgency, nearly knocking the door wide enough for it to slam into the wall. All of the color bled out of his cheeks, leaving his face a ghostly hue once he realized he was on the receiving end of Getō's stare. You were hunkered over his back, hands at work with the long stick and needles.

"If you break something, it's coming out of your paycheck." you drawled, so thoroughly enveloped by the black tracks left behind from your ink that you didn't notice Kōji's uneasiness turn into dewy skin and a beading forehead.

"I—can I talk to you in the back for a second?" Kōji hung onto every word, testing the sound of them while gauging Getō's quiet expressions. "There's—you need to see something."

"Kōji, seriously?" You didn't think you needed to point out Getō, or the fact that you were pulling ink from a glob on your glove. "Just tell me later, dude."

His face stretched as though wounded. "It's important. I swear. I wouldn't be asking if—"

"Is there a reason why you can't say it in front of me?" Getō had his nose pointed at Kōji, arm turned red beneath his cheek as he simpered. "Nothing's stopping you from telling us both right here, right now."

The scrawny man melted into himself, fingers fiddling together in a brave attempt to keep his teeth off of his nails and open sores on his cuticles. Whatever thing he had wanted to say was abandoned in that moment, stifled in his throat by a few words from the man on your massage table.

Your fingers halted, hovering over Getō's back as you took in the tone of his remarks to your employee, contemplating with a frown to threaten to throw him out.

"Don't talk to him like that." The leather underneath you groaned as you sat up straight on your stool. "This is my shop. You're not going to disrespect my employ—Kōji!"

He had already rushed away behind the somber gray door into the back office.

"Kōji!" You swiveled away from Getō, instrument an afterthought on the silver tray at your side. Seconds later, you swung back around. "You need to leave."

Getō, who had watched the entire thing from his arms, suddenly lifted his head and shoulders up, face weighed by surprise.

"What?" His eyes were wide. "Come again?"

You didn't falter. "Get the hell out of my shop. We're done for today."

His confusion mellowed into something undefinable, an expression you couldn't read with eyes that tracked across your face as though trying to catch a bluff. Nothing familiar remained in his gaze, the cold snare he held you in for several seconds, the depths of him black as coal and empty. For those few beats, until he looked away, you had held your breath without realizing it and heard blood gushing in your ears.

"You live in the apartment above here, right? On the second floor?" Getō still had his back to you, fingers fussing with the buttons on the front of his white shirt. "You should be careful."

Every ounce of courage you had gathered just moments before was suddenly sucked dry, stolen from your bones and spine, making your posture crumble on the stool. Dread wrapped around you like freezing, creeping tendrils that made the fine hairs on your neck stick out, put a knot in your throat that might as well have been his fist.

"How—how do you know that, Getō?" You were halfway out of your seat, fingers resting against cool metal and close to your arsenal of needles mounted to persimmon dowels. "Are you watching me?"

"Mm, not quite." He turned around while finishing the last buttons, expression void of that easygoing smile and mirthful glint in his eye that you had come to rely on from him. Without it, it was like you were freefalling into the unknown without a net to catch your back. "You should fire that assistant of yours soon."

"Kōji?" You had thought that same thing many times, but hearing it from someone else was an insult. "He's been here for years. He does his job. Who do you think you are to come in here, harass my employee, and tell me to fire him? This is my shop. Before you're anyone, you're a client who I have every right to refund and turn the fuck away."

"I suppose that's true." Getō said, rounding the table, coming into such close proximity to you that you could smell faint remnants of coffee on his clothes and breath, saw the late morning glow filtering in through the windows give his eyes a golden glint. "It's only a suggestion, but you should take it. I don't want to see you take the fall for things he meddles in."

You frowned. "What does that mean?"

He showed you one of his good-tempered smiles instead of answering, an easy way to stop the conversation before it could snowball into something else, dragging you deeper into his world more than what you already are.

There was a part of you convinced that he wanted to submerge you into that gross underbelly with him all the way, steal you below the surface, take you away from everything you'd ever known. But when the light would return to his eyes, just like now, and he looked upon you with such fondness, trying to smother your inquiries with lips pressed thin and tight so as to seal all his secrets behind them, you weren't so sure what his intentions were.

Some of his weight was suddenly on your shoulder, collected in the palm of his hand cradling the roundness of it. His fingertips pushed into the fabric, pressed divots into your skin and burned where he squeezed.

"Take care of yourself." Getō said, surprising you one last time by using that same hand, the very peaks of his knuckles to skim your cheek on his way past. "I'll see you soon."

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Firing Kōji was never an option, no matter what he involved himself with after work. There would be no business for you to spin signage for in the mornings, a studio to keep tidy, leather chairs to polish and preserve, and no stuttering neon light to bask under in the late hours of silence before returning upstairs to your bed.

Long ago, you had decided it made more sense to simply not see what didn't involve you directly, what didn't benefit you, because it was easier than acknowledging that the person you'd chosen to run everything in the background probably wasn't ideal. You'd known for years that his dealings outside your shop erred on the wrong side of the law, most likely, but it didn't matter as long as you didn't have to know exactly what it was.

As long as no one found him out, traced his employment to your tattoo shop, and turned your revolving door of clientele into thin, dwindling trickles, you'd force yourself to forgive him for whatever misdeeds he committed. He came into work on time every single day with his coffee flask and messenger bag, made no complaints about his workload and worn-in swivel chair that sometimes squealed when it turned, and didn't try to usurp the business from you.

He was the perfect employee and still was, even weeks following the incident with Getō. Every attempt you had made since then to get information out of him about that day was thwarted, distracted by numbers, stock invoices, client bookings, and asking if you wanted yakisoba from the little old lady down the road for lunch.

Kōji had decided you were untrustworthy now, a fact you were well aware of and unsure of how to handle. Less because he was your only employee—and, regrettably, the closest confidant you had in your life at all—but more that the entire ordeal left you uneasy and bothered.

He was doing something he shouldn't be, and Getō already knew about it and where you lived. Things weren't adding up, and you were the only one left in the dark.

One Sunday afternoon off left you with plenty of time to mull it over while packing around armfuls of groceries. A mid-autumn breeze was fabricated by cars passing through the city, throwing your hair in disarray, catching crisp bursts of air under your collar to leave you colder than you had been seconds ago. Your body was lulled into a relaxed state from the wind rocking your body left and right, pulled by the invisible force of it.

Your eyes stuck to the crosswalk sign, waiting for it to turn green, for the cluster of scuttering bodies to trot their way across and clear the area so they weren't stranded there until the next rotation. Their idle chatter hardly registered to you while you stood there next to them—colors of clothing, small domes of umbrellas, the drone of passing car engines felt so far away and surreal to you.

Everything seemed to vanish except your heartbeat when the light finally changed, eyes drifting down toward something that had an inexplicable pull on you, first as a slither of all black that grew tall and eventually into the shape of a body. You felt like you were searching through a sea of pines for that one glimpse at something that had caught your attention.

It was then that you realized what had you so engrossed was the unfaltering stare of another. You nearly collided with a man in a beige coat two feet ahead of you when you saw that it was Getō standing at the other end of the crosswalk.

Why is he here? Is he following me? You didn't give yourself the time to ruminate before ducking low behind a group of teenagers eagerly discussing their new idol obsession. A couple of the girls were in gyaru fashion, something you'd expect on a day trip to Harajuku, not on the west side of Tokyo near Shinjuku.

They paid little mind to you lingering entirely too close to them, using the shelf of a boy's shoulder to hazard a peek out at the scene until you had reached the end of the crosswalk with them. They dispersed in all different directions, sharing casual partings before you could think of where to go next, legs suddenly snared to the concrete when Getō called out from nearby.

"Hey, what a coincidence to see you here."

"Is it, really?" You tried remembering where you were in Shinjuku.

The red-light district, Kabukichō, the typical yakuza stomping grounds, wasn't far from here. It was one of those things that was easy to forget once the novelty of living in the area wore away, but it always meant something to someone else. That group of kids flashed in your mind briefly. It might've been their first time exploring a place like Shinjuku by themselves.

Getō came closer with his hands buried deep in his pants, the other half of a black sweatsuit that was too large for his frame. You tried to keep your eyes moving around a thinning crowd, steeped in uncertainty of how different interacting with him on the streets would be to piercing his back with needles.

"Are you heading home?" He saw your discomfort before the bags on your arms, his tone softening in the same way you expected it would for a frightened animal. "Do you need help carrying—"

"Hey, Suguru!" Another man showed himself through the intermix of bountiful bodies, his shape hidden beneath similarly slouchy, loose folds of clothing. His voice carried a similar pitch as the other, albeit inelegant and insouciant, with a head that was fully white and eyes so terrifyingly blue you guessed he had to be mixed with something.

For those few seconds you spared him a glance, you were set awash in a sensation of familiarity—a distant type of it. The same sort you'd expect to have while watching a movie with the appearance of an actor that startled you because you knew you had seen him from somewhere, but you couldn't place just exactly where.

If it hadn't been for his petulant seeming disposition on arrival and slothful bearings that ruined his posture and any semblance of class based on his bizarre, exotic beauty—you would have thought he was a model or someone of status, at the very least. His voice was annoying, however, and somewhat nasally as he complained about being left behind when Getō had noticed you skulking from afar.

Getō handled him benignly, almost disinterestedly, despite all of the speaking that coalesced into something even you stopped caring about. You made up your mind to use the distraction as a way to get out of this brush in public, spun on rubber soles, and almost began away until Getō broke apart from him and took the straps on one of your bags.

"Hold on"—he didn't let go despite how your features purposefully deformed from his nearness, a brazen attempt to look ugly to him—"you're a long way from home. Let me carry a few bags to help you out. Gojō, I'll see you around."

"Whaaaaat?! Seriously?" complained the other, making a whale of a noise that didn't match his relaxed stance. His bones seemed to collapse into the heaps of fabric he had stuck his arms through that day.

You tried putting opposite pressure on your bag to reclaim it from Getō, though he got what he wanted in the end. "I don't want to trouble you. I can carry these myself."

"It's no trouble." Getō insisted, still with obscene patience that overwhelmed your dogged determination to avoid causing an awkward shift between the two men.

As it was natural in Japan, jumpers and coats and pretty umbrellas wove through your motley bunch without being too distracted by the scene. They all had somewhere to go, somewhere to be, however truly inconsequential their destination was. It would've demanded too much of their concentration and willpower to look at everyone who made a ruckus in the streets of Shinjuku, but maybe they paid a little more attention because Getō and Gojō were beautiful, and you were like the hapless protagonist in a drama.

In that moment, however, you felt equal parts unfortunate that Getō bunched his long fluid strides to shorter ones to mime the pace of yours as he walked away from Gojō alongside you, all but two of your bags on his arms, and equal parts secretly enthralled by the experience and that you had been chosen over whatever former objective the two men shared.

"What was the point of us coming to Shinjuku if you're just leaving me here?! You suck!" Gojō's voice was carried by the false autumnal breeze whirled up by cars and gas exhausts, loud and strange because the urgency behind it had dropped off long ago. Now, it just sounded like he was calling after you both in casual parting like someone would from their doorstep down the road.

On that same fake wind, somewhere farther away but still close enough to see the uneven tips of Gojō’s white hair fluttering out away from his scalp, you could've sworn you heard the shape of your name—the pronunciation of it unmistakable—with all the same inflection Getō uttered when using it with you, weaponizing it so your ears would perk and be forced to hear him.

"I'm not doing any more of your tattoo until next week. I hope you know that." You had walked most of the way with him back to the studio. Seas of somber, dark concrete crosswalks with white lines and faceless beings in sometimes nice clothes had shrunk from a hearty basin of converging intersections to a gentle downstream trickle of interweaving streets that housed residences and hidden businesses. "Sunday is my only day off. I don't make exceptions for anyone."

Getō stayed with you the entire time, his movements a little more sluggish than you were used to seeing since you didn't have the same leg reach as him. He could probably open up his arms and touch buildings on either side of the street with the blunt nails on his long fingers.

You wondered, briefly, to your shame, if he could wrap himself around you twice if you were to do it first.

"I know," he said, an affable smile in his eyes and curved onto his lips. The look of him grew even brighter when he noticed you were staring, your face blemished by creases and lines and uneasy, fluttering eyeballs that conveyed your distrust and intrigue all at once. "What? You don't believe me? My back is still healing from the last session. I think you went deeper with the needles than previous times. It's taking longer."

You probably did bury ink deeper into the pretty flesh on his back because he upset your employee—your only employee, your safeguard to a successful business.

"Remember, you signed a waiver about infection. If there's too much redness and swelling, you should get it looked at." It wasn't often any interest to you to give unsolicited advice outside the shop, but Getō was your special exception. "I'm not going to touch your back again until that's completely ruled out. Besides, the dragon is done, so now we're just adding all your weird folklore and buddhist iconography."

"Hard to believe we've made it all these months." he said, now standing with you outside the building you rented for your studio and second-floor apartment. Despite the nylon straps on his arms digging cavernous divots into his black sleeves, he didn't act as though he were carrying around bags of lead like you felt you with yours. "I couldn't have chosen a better artist. I wasn't lying when I said your online portfolio was one of the best I'd seen in Tokyo, by the way."

What he said still sounded so sweetly untrue, but you unlocked the old door with a grimy brass key and let him inside to take his shoes off in the entryway and climb the stairs behind you to the second floor.

"I never have guests, so I don't really have anything for you. Coffee? Tea? Water? I may have some orange juice left." Every inch of tiny countertop and kitchen floor was swallowed by plastic totes and your bodies. It didn't occur to you at that moment to try putting some things away first to make more room, so you stumbled through the mess for your one-cup coffee machine that doubled as your tea kettle. "Sorry for the mess, I guess. I spend most of my time working, so I don't get the chance to clean up very often."

Getō betrayed no emotion, didn't seem afflicted in the slightest by the state of your apartment, and kept the curl of his smile fastened all the time. "Tea is fine. I'll just take whatever is easiest for you."

Minutes later, he politely sipped from the rim of your favorite mug, one hip implanted into the edge of the counter, staved off from helping you unload your groceries because you told him it'd be weird for a yakuza boss to do that. He still tried to take some boxes of stuff and stick them in your cabinets when you weren't looking, though.

“Did you tell that guy about me?” The sound of your voice, sudden and suspicious, was enough to startle Getō into a wide-eyed stare. He asked you what you meant, so you told him, “That guy back at the intersection you were with. Who was he? He knew my name. I saw him. Is he one of your gang friends?”

The alarm sank out of his expression, tension in his shoulders along with it. Despite the severity of your questions, he barely seemed to register them seriously and resumed stacking things on shelves to clear the countertops.

“Getō.” you pressed.

“No.” He closed the cabinet once he finished and came to you, undaunted by the obstacles spaced out on the floor. “I didn't tell him about you. I've kept my word. He's an annoying shit who likes snooping around my business.”

“Then, how did he…”

You receded into your thoughts, now trying harder than before to recall who that man was. His identity was tilted there on the edge of your memory, one word or phrase or image away from awestruck revelation. When it finally happened, seconds later, Getō was in front of you, heavy hands on your upper arms as though keeping you upright, and face bright with intrigue.

“Wait. Wait. Wait!” You cried out. “Gojō as in financial Gojō? As in one of the richest families in Japan, Gojō? Gold spoon baby Gojō?”

Getō gave a jubilant laugh as though delighted by you figuring it out on your own. His hands rose higher on your arms, capping your shoulders in warm weight that felt as refreshing as it did unusual. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you like that.

“He's my best friend—my only one. I'm not surprised he was able to figure out I was getting work done at your shop.” He said lightly, but doing nothing to assuage your doubt. “I know you don't believe it, but he's good to know if you need help. I'll give you his number so you—”

“I don't want it.” you said with feeble resolve. “It’s already a pain in the ass enough to have yakuza hanging around all the time. I don't need some trust fund baby to know where I live, too.”

Your heart wasn't in those words, finding that all you could concentrate on was the space of his palms encapsulating your shoulders, deft fingers leaving marks in your clothes as though trying to feel your skin through fabric. He didn't allow himself to roam you, but the taut muscles in his hands revealed a sort of composed restraint that was close to snapping.

He said your name once; a low, raspy sound in his throat that seemed so much like him yet unlike anything you had heard leave his mouth before. His eyes were darkened by his lashes, mesmerizing you in some dreamlike haze that only intensified when he stooped his head to kiss you.

His lips found rhythm with yours; slow, at first, to test the feeling and how much either of you actually wanted this. You responded with quiet sounds, a sigh and a moan, followed by the spread of your arms reaching around his neck to bring him closer, feel him more.

Getō backed your body against the countertop and leaned forward on his hands behind you to press down harder into the kiss. The blunt edges of your fingernails dove through black downy hairs on the back of his neck, trailing further down the ridges of his spine, molding to the ridges of his vertebrae that pushed up below the surface of his skin.

Goose flesh marked him all over, breath stuttering in your mouth like he was stifling pleasurable sounds of his own. You expected more self-control from a man of his status, yet there he was melting into you and sucking the air from your lungs while tasting your tongue with the roughness of his.

There was an ache between your legs, unabated heat which you had forgotten could be stimulated by another person. You weren't ashamed to take care of yourself when the need arose, although even those instances were far and few between and lacked this same urgency—this need to have another person wrapped up in you, touching you, devouring you.

You thought about how bad of an idea this was, how Kōji would react if he knew how weak your willpower truly was. It made sense to expect someone like Getō to exert his influence over you like this, for him to give into his every impulse without fear of consequence because there simply was none for him. He was above needing to restrain his inhibitions if that's what he wanted in the end.

“I can make you feel good.” He said apart from your lips, now pressed into the underside of your jaw after stretching out the neckline of your shirt. “Tell me what you want. I'll do it. I've wanted you since the beginning.”

What would happen if you told him to strip off your pants and get on his knees? Would the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai obey someone lesser and bow and swallow the nectar from your body? Would he laugh at your brazen attempt, call you a wretch and drag you away for trying to make a mockery of him?

“Just… touch me.” Those words were not your own.

“Where?” Getō’s hands left the countertop to pile underneath your shirt, hands a light caress against the skin on your lower back. The heat of them made you flinch. “Here? Tell me where you want me.”

Something about this was too surreal, stirred unease in your chest and hundreds of quivering butterflies in your gut. It had come on as suddenly and dimmed the lust in your groin, lifted the fog from your eyes and cotton in your brain. It left you pliant in his arms, yet far away in mind as you searched those deeper recesses of yourself for an answer.

Getō noticed the disconnect and passionless kiss, your lips barely taking shape against his, and lifted his hands off of you.

“What's wrong?” He asked.

“I—” Something about you. “I don't know. This is just unprofessional. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it.”

There was still darkness in his eyes, emotions shimmering through them despite an effortless smile he secured on his face. It was an eerie mask this time around, but your vulnerability and reddened, bruised neck kept you from saying anything on it.

“I should be the one apologizing.” Getō said with that unshakable calmness of his. “I didn't have the intention to push myself on you. I just thought…” He tilted his head a little left, tempting you to lean with him. “I thought we wanted the same thing.”

You couldn't answer that truthfully because then this would never end and he'd wind up in your bed. Had he been any other man, you'd have stripped him down to nothing and let him ravage you as he said he would.

But, you couldn't because he was your client.

You couldn't because of who he was.

You couldn't because he liked to keep his secrets close to his chest, and while you had your neck exposed—warm, sucking lips at your jaw and on the small swells in your throat when you'd swallow—you realized you couldn't trust him not to sink his teeth in and rip out gore and stringy sinew and let you bleed out on the floor.

He knew that distrust, had probably seen in everyone he’d ever known, yet he kept that smile which had grown stiff.

“It's not a good idea, Getō.” Because there's something off about you. You're a wolf masquerading as a shepherd. “Of all people, you should know that.”

Getō said nothing else as he was led downstairs and let out into the brisk evening air. Briefly, you worried he would feel the chill through this baggy sweatshirt and had to think better of fetching him a scarf for the trip back to wherever he belonged.

You stayed behind the door near the stairs, leaning through it far enough for him to reach out and stroke your face with the peaks of his knuckles. It was a fleeting touch, perhaps an attempt to not overstep as he had before.

And then, just before he pulled away, he said something familiar, “I'll see you soon.”

━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━

a/n: so i started this project late last year, i think. i put it aside after i started working on my original android x reader oneshot (which is posted and y'all should read it *hint**hint*) but i'm picking this back up to finish it.

originally, i was going to post this in its entirety once it was finished (est. 20k-22k), but decided just to get this out of my face and do the other half separately. if y'all wanna see the second half and conclusion to this please reblog and interact with this!! if i don't really gauge any interest in it, i don't really see the point in putting my time into finishing it.

the second half has the sex scene and all the drama and stuff.

anyway, deuces!

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javiscigarette · 9 months

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In the Middle of the Night

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: In the middle of the night, Joel is wide awake and you're moaning in your sleep

Warnings: no use of y/n, established relationship, pwp, fingering, (consensual) somnophilia, Joel’s pov, him talking you through it ofc, filthy but so much fluff, Joel is just so in love ugh

w/c: 4.4k

a/n: not sure what came over me with this one but omg I had fun with it and I’m now obsessed with writing from his pov. As always, I'm so greatful for everyone who reads and interacts with this, plsss let me know if you like it and if I should write a part 2 hehehe

my masterlist

Joel has never been good at falling asleep at a reasonable time. But he doesn’t really mind staying up when you’re sleeping so peacefully next to him.

He’s lying on his back on the left side of your bed, one arm bent and resting on the pillow above his head with the other one draped over your shoulders. You’re curled into his side, your cheek smushed against his chest, small, warm puffs of air diffusing across his bare skin with each deep and steady breath you take.

He tried to fall asleep when you did a few hours ago, but the scenes from earlier that night played on a constant loop in his head keeping him wide awake. Visions of you across from him at the dinner table, head tilted back leaving your neck exposed for his viewing as you laughed at his stupid joke. The fresh memory of him pinning you against your front door as soon as the two of you stumbled inside, kissing you hard and tasting the wine on your tongue as you moaned into his mouth. He keeps coming back to the specific image of being buried deep inside of you, your heels digging into his back and his large palm pressed over your mouth in a feeble attempt to stop at least some of the noise from traveling through the thin walls to your neighbor’s apartment. But the dents and scrapes in the paint on the wall behind your headboard are clear evidence of those failed attempts.

After spilling inside of you and sending you over the edge for a third time that night, he had barely managed to get you in the shower. Once there, your soft moans echoed in the steamy bathroom as he took his sweet time pulling one more orgasm from you with two fingers sliding languidly in and our of your sore and swollen pussy.

“Need lotion” you had mumbled as he dried you off with a fluffy towel. He chuckled and intercepted your reach for the bottle of lotion, picking it up himself instead. He had to practically carry you out to the bed, where he smoothed his warm hands all over your body, rubbing the lavender lotion into nearly every inch of your skin. You were already snoring softly by the time he finished.

And now he’s here, watching your curtains flow gently in the breeze from the open window as you sleep peacefully right next to him, the smell of lavender and the cool autumn air relaxing both his mind and body.

You always kept your bedroom cool, especially when Joel was with you. Joel always radiates heat, but he was a human furnace in the bed next to you. And It wouldn’t be as bad if he didn’t insist on cuddling throughout the night, subconsciously reaching out in his sleep and pulling you in closer every time you started to stray away until you woke up sticky with sweat. Joel doesn’t care, though. He doesn’t mind the press of your tacky skin against his and in fact, he craves it when you’re not with him.

The streetlight right outside your bedroom window filters in through the curtains that are rustling in the breeze, slivers of pale light briefly illuminating different areas of your room. He tries to commit it all to memory: the makeup and jewelry cluttered on your vanity, the same vanity that he bent you over two weeks ago and made you watch as he fucked you until your legs were jelly and you could barely stand, the tight dress that he practically tore off your body earlier that evening now bunched up in a small heap on the floor in the corner, the various knickknacks and trinkets on the small bookshelf in the corner of the room, the seemingly ever growing collection of candles on your dresser.

He’s only been in here a handful of times. The two of you usually end up at his house where you can take advantage of being as loud as you want. But your apartment in the city had some practical advantages. Like tonight, where after a little too much red wine at dinner, neither of you were in any condition to drive back to his house. So, the only option was to walk the few blocks back to your apartment, both you giggling like idiots with his arm wrapped protectively around your waist and his jacket draped over your shoulders.

He studies the pictures on your wall too. There’s the framed photos from the trips you’ve told him about, pictures from the mountains in Colorado where you nearly passed out from the reduced oxygen levels, and the picture of the Amalfi coast taken from the boat on which you unfortunately discovered for the first time just how prone you are to seasickness. His gaze lingers on the pictures of you with your friends and family, your infectious smile making you the center of attention in all of them.

Then his mind starts to wander, maybe a bit too far, but he doesn’t exactly want to stop thinking about how everything would fit in his house. He thinks about your candles on top of his dresser, how he would move around the furniture in his room so that he could fit your vanity in a spot that catches the most natural lighting. He imagines your framed pictures hanging in his hallway or propped up on the shelves in his living room. A subtle smile spreads on his lips when he envisions your soft blankets spread over his bed, and his heart beats just a little faster at the thought of the two of you sharing a closet, your clothes mixing with his. He wonders if his room would smell like your lavender lotion too.

He's pulled back to reality when you make a small, soft noise. He looks down at you, worried that he somehow woke you up. But your breathing is still steady and your face is peaceful and relaxed. He figures that you’re probably in the middle of a dream and he wonders what it’s about. A small, maybe selfish, part of him hopes that it’s about him. Then you start to shift, and he lifts his arm from your shoulders, giving you just enough room to roll over onto your other side until your back is pressed against his side instead.

He fixes your eyes now on your side profile, the shadows and light from outside dancing across your face. He trails his gaze from your hairline to the slope of your nose to the perfect curve of your slightly parted lips. He tries to memorize all of that too, though most of it is already ingrained deep in his brain.

He stares shamelessly for another minute or two until you make another small sound, another signal that you’re dreaming. Except this time he doesn’t have to wonder too much what it’s about, not with the way that you push your hips back against him with another small sound that sounds all too familiar following in quick succession.

Joel’s entire body tenses as he looks at you, his cock already twitching underneath your linen sheets. He stays completely still, watching you and waiting to see if you’ll move again. After a few painstakingly long seconds later, you make another sound. And he’s not sure if it’s all in his head but it sounds almost like his name.

Logically, he knows that he should probably just let you sleep. You get just as grumpy as he does if you don’t get your full 8 hours. But after a few more seconds, another sound slips out of you, a desperate garble of “Joel” much clearer this time but still thick with sleep.

And that’s his greenlight.

A soft smile tugs at his lips as he starts to scoot down the bed, movements slow and calculated as not to rouse you. He carefully moves his arm from where it’s draped over your shoulders and slides it under your neck instead before rolling over onto his side. He closes the centimeter gap between your bare bodies until your soft skin is pressed against his under the safety and warmth of your sheets and blanket.

He snakes his other arm around your waist, pulling you even closer so that your ass is pressed firmly into the cradle of his pelvis. He buries his face in your hair that’s cascading down the side of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. He skates his fingers mindlessly over your stomach, his own skin heating up just at the sensation of your soft skin under his fingertips. He tries to resist the urge to roll his hips up against you. He wants to stay in this calm peacefulness for as long as possible and he’s fully aware that once he starts, there’s a very slim chance that he’ll be able to stop.

But his efforts are thwarted when you push your hips back again, unconsciously grinding your ass against his half-hard cock with another sweet sound slipping from your lips. He sighs quietly against your neck but stays still, exerting the last ounce of his self-control.

As if moving on their own accord, his fingertips slide further down until they’re ghosting over the crease of your thigh. He’s eternally grateful that you refused to put on any clothes before falling asleep, which, now in hindsight, was clear foreshadowing of what’s currently happening.

He moves his whole hand between your thighs to cup your sex and dips two fingertips between your folds and mouths a silent “fuck” at the copious amount of slick that quickly coats them. Still in the grips of deep sleep, you shift your legs to give him better access. He smiles. Your body is always so receptive to his touch.

With a soft groan, he gently prods at your dripping entrance, taking his time to feel how swollen you still are from when you were stretched so perfectly around him just a few hours ago. But you interrupt him with a soft whimper, your hips moving against him once again and he chuckles silently. Still so needy and impatient as ever, even in your sleep.

But he can’t deny you, he never really can. He’s wrapped so tightly around your finger that he’d do anything you’d ask of him in a heartbeat without a single second thought. It’s almost worrisome, how easily he caves into you, how you wipe every rational thought clean out of his mind, how in just a matter of a few days you so easily managed to knock down the walls around his heart that he spent decades building. But all those thoughts just fade into noise when he’s with you. Especially with you like this.

So, he gathers a generous amount of your wetness on his fingers and drags them up to your clit. Your body immediately reacts with a jolt of your hips and a louder moan. Joel curses under his breath when you back your ass up against him even further, his length now fully hard pressing against your bare ass, precum starting to slowly seep from his tip and smear against your soft, supple skin.

He trails his fingers back to your entrance. Forehead pressed against the nape of your neck With a long sigh, his breath warm and humid on the back of your neck, he slowly sinks one in finger. His eyes slip closed and his eyebrows draw together as he slowly drags his finger in and out of your dripping hole. He nearly whimpers when he adds a second finger, your walls fluttering and slick leaking down his fingers to his knuckles. “Fuuuck, baby” Joel whispers his lips just barely brushing your skin as your walls clench around him.

He works you open on his two thick fingers – not that you really need it after taking his cock like that earlier. But he’s obsessed with the sleepy sighs and soft moans you’re making. And he’s barely aware of the fact that he’s now moving his hips, gently rolling them against your ass in a subconscious attempt to relieve the pressure in his groin. He pants against your neck, already feeling so delirious and drunk on you and your body like a horned up teenager. He’s never felt this way with anyone else, so affected by you. He can hardly control himself when he’s with you, it’s like he’s a raw, exposed wire and you’re the spark that sets him ablaze in an instant.

He curls his fingertips and the way your hips immediately rock back lets him know he’s there. Your moans are more frequent and just a bit louder as he strokes your spot, a fresh wave of your wetness gushing around his fingers and dripping down to his palm. But he doesn’t want to wake you up yet, not when he has every intention of waking you up when he’s buried balls deep inside of you.

So he exercises his last bit of self-control, sliding his fingers out and dragging them back up to your clit again, tracing a few more lazily circles before pulling his hand away completely.

With his fingers and palm soaked in your slick, he tilts his hips back just enough to make enough room to wrap his hand around his cock. He hisses quietly through clenched teeth at the contact, and he can’t resist a few strokes, spreading your arousal up and down his length. After a few passes, he moves his hand from his cock to your top leg, cupping the back of your knee and pushing it up til it’s bent at a 90 degree angle. Now with unobstructed access, he fists himself again and lines himself up with your dripping entrance.

He sinks in nice and slow, letting out a deep groan from the back of his throat. He drapes his arm around your middle, pulling you in close to him as he moves his hips with shallow thrusts and noses along your neck, pressing kisses along the underside of your jaw and sighing heavily once he’s nestled all the way inside you.

The thought of staying still just like this, falling asleep to the feeling of your slippery walls squeezing him so tight like this crosses his mind for a brief moment. But you soon start to stir in his hold and the sound of your sudden, sharp inhale signals that you’re regaining consciousness.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck while he patiently waits for you to come to your senses. It takes a couple seconds for you to regain control of your limbs, and when you do, you reflexively try to move from his grasp, but he tightens his arm around your middle and holds you in place. “Shh, baby” Joel whispers in your ear. “I’ve gotcha”

You immediately surrender, relaxing in his hold with a quiet hum. His chest is pressed against your back, heat radiating off of him and putting you on the verge of sweating. But it feels so safe the broad expanse nearly completely encompasses you like he’s shielding you from the rest of the world. But you don’t have much time to focus on that, the feeling of the tip of his cock nudging at your cervix creating much more pressing needs.

“Dreamin’ of me, weren’t you?” Joel asks, his voice a barely audible whisper. You answer with a sleepy whine as you move to grind your hips down, nudging his cock half an inch deeper. “Sound so sweet moanin’ in your sleep” he continues, his hand slides up from your stomach to your chest, cupping one breast and gently rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “moanin’ my name.”

You whimper and wiggle your hips as he presses a kiss just behind your ear. “Joel” you mumble, pushing your hips back in an attempt to get him to move. “Yeah, sounded just like that” Joel grunts as he starts to slowly pull out, his warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear, undoubtedly sending tingles rushing down your spine.

He keeps his arm under your neck, your head resting on his bicep while his forearm crosses your chest, his hand gripping your shoulder. He has you in a loose headlock, grunting softly near your ear as he fills you up again and groaning when he bottoms out once again.

“Always so fuckin’ tight and wet no matter how many times I stretch you out, huh? Always so ready for me.”

All you can manage is a pathetic whimper while you bring a hand up to hold onto his forearm across your chest. He keeps a slow pace, his breath hitching in your ear every time he bottoms out. You feel unbelievable wrapped around him like this, white-hot tingles shooting all the way up his spine at the sensation of his cockhead dragging along your warm, wet walls as you clamp down around him like a vice.

He wants to savor it, wants to relax into this moment for as long as possible. But you’re needy, he can feel it now with the way you're squeezing him and practically sucking him back in every time he pulls out. And his own heady desperation is starting to cloud his vision as he slowly fucks you, your tired body loose and pliant under his touch. He needs to make you come again, needs to feel you shake and squirm, needs you to make him come.

With a soft groan, he allows himself to start moving faster. His lips easily find the junction of your neck and collarbone where he immediately starts nibbling and gently sucking at the thin skin, claiming what’s rightfully his and shivering when you tighten around him.

He tries his best to keep a gentle pace, not wanting to jostle you around too much. Except your breathy whimpers are so sweet and your sleepy whines sound so angelic that he can hardly keep it together.

He tightens his grip on your shoulder, the muscles in his arm flexing gently under your palm as he locks you in place and starts to really fuck you. He moves his hand from your beast, smoothing his calloused palm down your side to your ass then palms at your cheek, grabbing a few greedy handfuls before pushing it up to give himself more space to move.

Goosebumps break out across his skin when you let out a long, drawn out moan and dig your nails into his forearm, leaving crescent-shaped dents in his skin. A not-so-small part of him hopes that you break the skin so he can admire the small purple and red marks in the morning.

“Goddamnit, baby” Joel pants as he snaps his hips, filling you to the brim. “You feel so fuckin’ good. So perfect like this.” Every few thrusts he pauses when he’s all the way inside and grinds against you, his eyes rolling back his skull when you push your hips back at the same time, multiplying the intended effect. .

“S’this what you were dreamin’ of?” Joel rasps, his lips ghosting over your jaw. “Huh, baby? S’your little pussy so needy that you can’t help but dream about me fillin’ it up?” You answer in the form of a moan with your walls pulsating around him. He keeps his steady pace, the slick sounds of him sliding in and out of you floating around in your quiet bedroom.

“Attagirl” Joel sighs when your moans start to get louder. Your hips are starting to buck and swivel, and your chest heaves with every ragged breath you take. He places hot, open-mouthed kisses on every inch of skin he can access until he reaches the nape of your neck again. You whine his name, sleepy and desperate, and he shudders at the sound.

“Just keep takin’ it, baby, just like that. Doin’ such a good job.” he whispers. “My good girl…always takes everything I give her. Even in her fuckin’ sleep”

Then suddenly your hand is on top of his where it’s resting on your ass. You grip his palm and move his hand to where it was a couple of minutes ago between your thighs, only letting go when he presses two fingers to your clit and starts tracing those lazy circles again. His cock twitches inside of you, the thought of you knowing exactly what you want and demanding it, even when you’re still half asleep, drives him crazy.

With his eyes still closed and eyebrows drawn together, he sucks a sharp breath through clenched teeth and focuses on both the feeling of effortlessly gliding in and out of your sweet pussy combined with the feeling of your clit pulsing under his fingertips.

He fucking loves it. There’s not a single scenario that he could possibly conjure up in his head where he would ever be tired of this. He takes pride in it too, knowing exactly how to reduce you to a squirming mess in less than five minutes, or how to take his time, slowly breaking you down until every thought in your brain is replaced with just JoelJoelJoel. He knows your body better than his own: the way you arch your back when he tweaks your nipples just right, how you melt when he kisses that one spot on your neck, the exact patterns he needs to trace on your clit to get you to come in nearly 30 seconds.

That is all committed to memory. All of it’s burned to his brain and plastered underneath his eyelids. And just like clockwork, after a few seconds of his fingers pressed against your clit, your thighs start to shake around his hand.

“Ohh there you go, sweetheart” Joel groans, both his fingers and his hips moving faster. “C’mon, baby” he urges, voice strained and tight in his throat as he tries to keep himself together. “Cum on my cock, need to f-fuck oh god need to feel it, baby. Know you’re close, angel just give it to me.”

That’s all it takes to send you flying over the edge. He holds you impossibly tight against him as you tremble and shake, his pace not faltering even once. He’s on cloud fucking nine with you whimpering and moaning his name while your walls pulsate and choke his cock. His breath is hot and humid against your sweaty skin, panting as he tries to stave off his own release for as long as possible.

“Fuckin christ, babygirl” he growls, as he fucks you through it, not giving you a single chance to catch your breath. “That’s it, such a good fuckin girl. Just like that. Keep squeezin’ me just like that, angel”

Even with the way you're milking his cock, squeezing him for all that he’s worth, he thinks he could last for at least another minute or two. That is until you snake an arm up and reach blindly behind you, your hand immediately finding his hair, fingers locking around the tousled strains and pulling. He chokes out a gasp, the tingling sensation traveling from his scalp all the way down to the base of his spine. His hips stutter and he can only handle a couple more uneven thrusts before he pulls out. His cock twitches where it’s pressed against your lower back as he spills hot ropes of cum onto your skin with shameless, breathy whimpers. He keeps rocking his hips with small movements, grinding his cock into the wet mess on the small of your back, extending the euphoria until his limbs are jerking from the sensitivity.

His forehead is pressed against your neck once again, his warm breath diffusing down your back as he pants a breathless “Jesus christ.”

You hum weakly next to him, melting in his arms as you sleep starts to creep back into your body once again. He keeps holding you tight against him as you both catch your breath.

“Were you awake that whole time?” you ask quietly after a moment of silence. Joel chuckles and squeezes you even tighter in his arms.

“Mhmm. Told you you were moanin’ in your sleep”

Even with his eyes closed in the dark room, he can see the frown you’re sporting clear as day in his head. You try to turn over to look at him, but he keeps you in place.

“You have work in the morning, why didn’t you say anything?” you ask. “Could’ve made things more comfortable for you, I know your old-man back doesn’t like my mattress.”

Joel rolls his eyes and pinches your thigh, making you yelp and giggle.

“Couldn’t be more comfortable than this even if I tried, sweetheart” he whispers. “Now go back to sleep.”

“Can’t sleep with the human fireplace glued to me” you whisper back. “And I’d love if I didn’t have cum stains on my sheet in the morning”

Joel rolls his eyes again but can’t suppress the stupid grin creeping up on his face. He reluctantly lets you go, sliding his arm out from under your neck and letting you roll over onto your stomach. He takes extra care to lift the blanket and pushes it down to your thighs, trying his hardest to not stain your precious sheets. You turn your head to face him, but your eyes are still closed, your face so sleepy where it’s squished against the pillow, your lips curved in a gentle, sated smile. His heart feels like it could burst right out of his chest.

He leans over to place a sweet kiss to your hairline before carefully crawling out of the bed. He hisses at the cool air swirling around his hot skin as he pads to the bathroom. He comes back with a damp washcloth and cleans you up and then himself before crawling back into the bed.

He pulls the blankets back up and makes sure you’re all tucked in before settling on his side, facing you. He doesn’t take you back in his arms, not yet. He’ll find you in his sleep. But he does hook one of his ankles around yours, the small amount of touch that you’ll always allow. Exhaustion is finally starting to settle into his bones as he studies your features like he’s going to be tested on them in his dreams. His eyelids finally feel heavy and he lets them close, his breathing quickly falling into a deep, steady pace.

He’s nearly fully asleep when he hears the soft sound of you whispering again.

“Oh and we’re gonna have to reenact the dream I was having when we wake up. Was really nice.”

Joel grunts, his cock already starting to stir once again. Who needs sleep anyway?

Thank you for reading :)) hope you enjoyed it!!

#Joel miller smut #Joel miller x f!reader #Joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #Joel miller #pedro pascal characters

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thewulf · 2 months

Text

Whispers in the Night || Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Summary: Request - Can i request a jake x reader where they're partners/married and she's pregnant (maybe like 6 months) and he has to go on a mission. when he gets back she's just super clingy because 1) she was worried and scared and 2) she just missed him. and maybe he snaps at her

A/N: TY for the request. Love Jake sm!! Enjoy!

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Word Count: 2.4k +

T/W : Angsty in the beginning

The house felt different without Jake. His absence echoed through the rooms leaving a void that seemed impossible to fill. As you sat on the couch the silence of the house felt deafening in Jake's absence. Your fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on your swollen belly seeking comfort in the life growing inside you. But despite the reassuring kicks and movements from your unborn child there was an undeniable sense of unease that settled deep within your heart.

Each day without Jake felt like an eternity. The minutes dragging on as you counted down the moments until his return. You tried to distract yourself with mundane tasks, but the worry and anticipation gnawed at your insides like a relentless tide. Jake made sure you weren’t completely alone though. His mom came to stay with you for a few weeks. Your mom popped over as she could as she lived a few hours away. Even friends would come over keeping you busy, and mind occupied when he wasn’t there. But the nights were always hard. Always when you craved his touch and sweet whispers. Six weeks was a long time for him to be away in the middle of your pregnancy, but you knew what you signed up for when you married him a few years ago.

Being accustomed to Jake's dangerous line of work did little to ease your anxiety this time around. If anything, the realization that you were six months pregnant only amplified your fears. Every news report, every phone call filled you with dread. You mind always seemed to imagine the worst-case scenarios playing out. To add insult to injury you couldn’t even call him or write him. They were on a no contact mission. Your least favorite.

You longed for his presence, his reassuring touch, his calming voice. But as the days turned into weeks, the void left by his absence only seemed to grow larger, consuming you with a sense of longing for the man you called your husband.

Perhaps it was just your maternal instinct kicking in, but the fear of the unknown loomed over you like a dark cloud. It cast a shadow over even the brightest moments. You tried to stay strong for yourself and for your unborn child, but deep down the uncertainty gnawed at your heart with every passing moment. Fortunately for you it was coming up on six weeks and thankfully it had been radio silent. That was the best-case scenario for these types of missions.

The familiar sound of the front door opening stirred you from your slumber though you remained in that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness. As you shifted slightly in bed you felt a pair of strong arms enveloping you pulling you into a warm embrace. Startled by the touch your eyes fluttered open. Y you were met with the sight of Jake, his beautiful face illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the window.

"Jake?" you murmured, your voice heavy with sleep and confusion.

He smiled over at you with his eyes filled with tenderness. "Hey, sweetheart. It's just me. Go back to sleep love." he reassured you. His voice a soothing melody in the quiet of the night.

You blinked trying to process the sudden appearance of your husband. "You're home early though," you observed, your heart fluttering with a mixture of surprise and joy. You were supposed to pick him up from the base in a few days’ time. This was a wonderful surprise though.

Jake nodded as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "The mission ended earlier than expected. Everyone was eager to get back home. We all voted on coming back. I just couldn’t wait to see my beautiful wife." he explained. His voice tinged with relief as he watched you with the utmost love in his eyes.

You melted into his embrace. Feeling the warmth of his body against yours, the familiar scent of his cologne enveloping you like a comforting blanket. Despite the initial shock of being awakened from your sleep there was no place you'd rather be than in Jake's arms. As you nestled closer to him you became acutely aware of the changes in your body since he had left. The baby had grown significantly in the six weeks of his absence. Evidence of the new life growing inside you.

He shifted slightly in bed his hand finding its way to your larger belly now. With a tender touch, he traced gentle circles on your skin, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "The little one has grown a lot," he whispered, his voice filled with wonder and awe as he held you close to him revealing in your heartbeat. It was always a silent comfort he craved and missed so dearly while deployed.

You smiled feeling a surge of affection for the man lying beside you. "Growing big and strong just like his or her daddy," you teased while running a hand through his now shaggy hair. The two of you opted to keep the gender a surprise.

He chuckled softly as he pressed another kiss to your forehead. "I missed you, angel" he murmured. His words a silent promise of his unwavering devotion. And as you lay entwined in each other's arms the worries and uncertainties of the world faded away leaving behind only the overwhelming love and warmth that bound you together.

As the next day wore on, Jake couldn't shake off the feeling of being overwhelmed by your presence. Not that it was your intention. But the sheer intensity of your need for him seemed to permeate the very air around them. You craved him, your every move mirroring his own as if you couldn't bear to let him out of your sight for even a moment.

At first Jake found your clinginess endearing. It was a testament to the depth of your love and longing. A quiet declaration of your desire to be close to him after his long absence. He welcomed your affection. Your constant need for his presence filling a void he hadn't even realized existed.

But as the hours stretched on your constant proximity began to grate on his nerves. Every time he turned around you were there watching him with worried eyes. Your need for him palpable in every touch, every word. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate your affection – far from it. But the intensity of your clinginess seemed to smother him leaving him gasping for air in the suffocating embrace of your love.

Jake's time on the carrier had left him overstimulated. He was constantly surrounded by noise and activity. Now back in the familiar confines of home the silence seemed deafening, yet your presence felt like an onslaught of sensory overload. He longed for solitude, for a moment of peace to collect his thoughts and decompress after the chaos of his mission.

Your concern for him only heightened the pressure he felt. The weight of your worry pressing down on him. He knew you meant well, that your clinginess was a manifestation of your love and longing for him. But right now, he just needed space. With every touch, every word, he felt the walls closing in around him. The need for air becoming more desperate with each passing moment. He tried to push down the rising tide of frustration. To swallow the bitter taste of guilt that lingered on his tongue. But it was a losing battle.

As he retreated into himself seeking solace in the quiet recesses of his mind, he couldn't help but feel a pang of remorse at the hurt he knew his words would cause you. But in that moment he couldn't bear to think about anything except the overwhelming need to be alone. To find respite from the constant barrage of emotions threatening to engulf him.

No sooner had he settled on the couch trying to catch up on some much-needed rest. He felt your presence hovering nearby. You stood at the edge of the room. Your eyes never leaving him. Your need for his attention a silent plea that echoed in the silence of the house.

"Y/N, can't you find something else to do?" Jake finally asked. Unable to contain his frustration any longer.

Your heart sank at the sharpness of his tone, the hurt evident in your eyes as you took a step back. A tear welled up in the corner of your eye showing him the hurt you felt inside at the words he just spoke.

"I'm so sorry, Jake," you whispered. Your voice trembling with emotion. "I think it's the hormones."

Jake's heart sank at the sound of your voice. The weight of your words hitting him like a ton of bricks. He could see the hurt etched on your face. The vulnerability in your eyes tugging at his heartstrings.

His expression softened at realization of the pain he had caused evident in his eyes. "No, angel, it's not your fault," he murmured. His voice filled with regret. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I was just... overwhelmed."

He reached out to touch your hand, but you pulled away feeling self-conscious over your sudden clinginess to him. With a heavy heart you turned away walking out of the room despite his profuse apologies. Jake watched helplessly as you retreated into yourself. The distance between you growing with each passing moment.

Jake felt a heavy sense of regret weighing on his chest as he watched you retreat away. Despite his apologies he couldn't shake the feeling that he had let you down. That he had failed to provide the comfort and reassurance you needed in that moment of vulnerability. He wanted nothing more than to reach out to you. To wrap you in his arms and soothe away the hurt he had caused, but he knew that he had to give you the space you needed.

As the hours passed Jake found himself pacing the empty rooms of the house. The silence you had grown accustomed to weighing heavily on his shoulders. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand to distract himself from the gnawing sense of unease that lingered in the back of his mind. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that seemed to permeate every corner of the house. Was this how you felt when he was gone?

Meanwhile, you lay curled up on the bed. Your thoughts consumed by the events of the day. Despite your best efforts to push them away the hurtful words and the sharpness of Jake's tone echoed in your mind. You couldn't help but feel self-conscious of your actions, second-guessing every word you had spoken and every tear you had shed. Even when Jake checked in on you with his concern evident in every word and gesture you couldn't bring yourself to face him. Your need for solitude outweighing the comfort of his presence. You were embarrassed. How could you not pick up on the signs? Of course, he needed space. Missions were a drag. You knew that better than anyone.

And so, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the darkness of night descended upon the house you remained cocooned in your own thoughts. The distance between you and Jake stretching on indefinitely.

But as night fell and the quiet of the house enveloped them, Jake couldn't bear it any longer. He found you in the bedroom where you’d been all day, curled up on the bed. Your tears staining the pillow beneath your head. Without a word he crossed the room and pulled you into his arms holding you close as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

As Jake held you in his embrace he felt the tension in your body slowly begin to melt away, replaced by a sense of warmth and comfort that washed over him like a gentle tide. He knew that you were pretending to be asleep, your breathing steady and even, but he also knew you too well to be fooled by the facade.

"I know you're awake, angel," he murmured, his voice a soft whisper in the darkness of the room.

You remained silent. Your eyes closed as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The warmth of his body enveloping you like a protective shield. Despite the hurt and the distance that had grown between you, you couldn't deny the overwhelming sense of relief that flooded through you at his touch. The knowledge that he was there by your side, ready to mend the cracks in your fragile heart.

"I'm so sorry, angel," Jake whispered, his voice filled with sincerity. "I never should have snapped at you. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you."

You opened your eyes meeting his gaze with a mixture of sadness and longing. "I'm sorry too," you replied. Your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to be so clingy. I don’t know what’s going on with me." And with that you felt more tears falling.

Jake shook his head. His expression softening as he cupped your face in his hands. "No, baby, you have nothing to apologize for," he insisted, his voice gentle but firm. "I love how much you care, how much you need me. It's what makes us work. I let my own stress get the better of me rather than talking about it with you. I should have leaned on you instead of pushing you away."

As his words washed over you, a sense of relief flooded through you, the weight of guilt lifting from your shoulders. You realized that despite the challenges you faced, the love and understanding between you were stronger than ever before.

Jake's thumb gently brushed away the tears that still lingered on your cheeks. His touch tender and reassuring. Pulling you close, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you as if he never wanted to let go. His hands drifted down to cup your growing belly, whispering sweet nothings to the baby growing inside. The sensation sent your heart into overdrive with a surge of warmth spreading through you at the sight of Jake's adoration for your little one.

And as Jake leaned in to capture your lips in a tender kiss, you felt the steady emotion of love wash over you. The barriers that had kept you apart crumbling away in the face of your shared love and forgiveness.

Jake Seresin/Top Gun: Permanent Taglist (If you'd like to be added to any or all works please fill out the form here: Taglist Sign Up) @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @mamachasesmayhem @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @illisea @jessicab1991 @guacam011y @dempy @mrsevans90 @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff @missxmav @kajjaka

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homestuckreplay · 6 days

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Violin Concerto in the Key of Meteor Strike: Who Is Rose Lalonde?

Character Deep Dive 2 - 6/2/2009

Homestuck’s narrator formally introduced us to John Egbert right as the comic opened, but our getting to know Rose Lalonde has been slower and more natural. From her earliest conversation with John on p.63, to her becoming a ‘playable character’ of the comic on p.139 when she and John begin playing Sburb, to our switch to following her in person actions on p.214, we already knew a lot about Rose before we had her name and list of interests. She’s just as weird as John but with a spooky gray filter applied, she’s a regular kid who will probably summon a demon, she’s an absolute control freak who’s still kind of a failure at video games, and she is our second Main Character, set up as a contrast to John as well as a friend.

Much like with John, I’ve used Rose’s list of interests to group the information we know about her, and to discuss her relationship with the other characters and with some themes of the comic so far.

Essay below the cut - about 3.6k words.

Quiz here - 13 multiple choice questions.

1. You have a passion for RATHER OBSCURE LITERATURE.

If this was the first thing we learned about Rose, I might see her very differently. I’d definitely take her more seriously. But I saw her destroy the plumbing and put the bunny back in the box, so learning this now comes off very differently.

With John’s ‘passion for REALLY TERRIBLE MOVIES’, we were given posters to illustrate his taste, and based just on critical reception, ‘really terrible’ is a huge oversimplification. So we know that the narration isn't completely objective, and we know from other clues that Rose's interests in psychoanalysis and games are fairly surface level, which makes it an easy leap to ‘Rose reads a lot of HP Lovecraft and thinks of that as way more obscure than it is because she’s 13 and gets book recommendations from forums’.

There are two posters on the left of Rose’s wall that could be book characters - they look like amateur art of regular, non-tentacled people. I wonder if they were birthday presents from one of her friends, whether it’s John or TG sending her original concept art made by the author of a book she likes, or fanart if one of her friends is a visual artist (GG, perhaps?)

John not only loves movies, but imagines himself in their stories (for example, p.223) and the things that happen to him reflect his movies in response. Without any specific titles, it’s hard to say if the same is true for Rose - but if so, it raises questions of genre. John’s story has been lighthearted action-comedy with darker themes below the surface, light fantasy and countdowns leading to an explosion that’s almost comically absurd even while it has our hearts racing. Rose’s story is already darker both in literal color and in tone. Her inventory system is still terrible but she uses it more pragmatically and she’s far more skillful about skulking around her own house. This, the design of her house, and the sudden flashes of lightning illuminating the sky red or revealing a shadowed figure give her story a survival horror feel. If that’s her taste in literature, it would make sense that she’d imagine herself in that type of story.

2. You enjoy creative writing and are SOMEWHAT SECRETIVE ABOUT IT.

Where a normal person might say ‘hey I heard you got the sburb beta’, Rose Lalonde says ‘I understand you have recently come into possession of the beta release of "The Game of the Year", as featured in respectable periodicals such as GameBro Magazine’ (p.63). It’s the first thing we hear from her, so we learn immediately that she likes the sound of her own voice. She’s the only kid in her friend group who uses perfect capitalization and grammar in her messages, and she criticizes game walkthroughs as ‘horrendously written’, suggesting a focus on the technical aspects of writing.

Her creative interest is seen in ‘I think I will write my own walkthrough’ (p.204) where she moves beyond criticism and at least believes she could make something better, and ‘It’s not especially practical. But I think they are elegant’ (p.154) which shows an interest in the style and aesthetics of things. We also get great glimpses of her prose in lines like ‘Its lurid glare has moved on to younger timezones’ (p.174) - I can imagine Rose writing fanciful mood and setting pieces that focus on description over dialog.

In her eccentric verbosity, Rose’s character voice is more similar to the narrator’s than any other character’s is. The narrative text on p.82, for example, feels more comfortable in itself than Rose’s messages do, but it’s not a million miles away. I’ll come back to Rose as a narrator figure in the section on knitting, somehow.

Rose is not only secretive about her creative writing, she’s secretive in general. On page 164, she tells John not to investigate after she rips out his toilet. She asks him for ‘space’ to fix it and sends him away, and clearly prefers to work unobserved especially when she’s uncertain. She also shuffles her purple package into the closet (p.218) and her writing journals under her bed (p.220) when she feels the narration’s scrutiny. The narrator states ‘You would only resort to such an embarrassing activity while no one was watching’. Rose is clearly ashamed of some of her interests and personality, and hides a lot of herself from observers to make herself seem cooler and more mysterious than she is.

(I have to note that this does not work, at least not where her friends are concerned. Before we hear from Rose directly, we learn about her from TG, who says ‘maybe you can play with TT shes been pestering me all day about it. shes mackin on me so hard all the time i start to feel embarrassed for her’. Definitely not the way she’d want to be introduced to a mass audience).

3. You have a fondness for the BESTIALLY STRANGE AND FICTITIOUS, [...]

The 'bestially strange and fictitious' is what's being referenced in the tentacle of tentacleTherapist, not an innocuous interest in marine life. This is one of her shared interests with John, who apparently liked paranormal lore. It's interesting that these beasts are 'fictitious' according to the narration, but Rose's grimoire is specifically for 'summoning' the zoologically dubious, not just learning about them. This positions Rose as a more active character than John (summoning instead of learning lore) and as someone who has grand designs and fringe beliefs - kind of an Ellie Arroway in Contact figure.

I've talked about Rose and John as scientists based on their chumhandles, versus TG and GG as religious. We now know that Rose lives next door to an impressive sized lab broadcasting from an antenna. Depending on how good their security systems are, she might have explored here, or at least peered through the windows at the strange, unethical science experiments they're surely doing (aka the extremely routine lab work that she's interpreting as mad science). Growing up with scientists as her only neighbors might have inspired this interest and got her started on weird experimentation of her own. As it's unlikely she has formal training beyond middle school, it makes sense she'd be into weird tentacles in jars instead of a more academically accepted field.

I've been wondering how many of Rose's interests are from childhood and how many go further back. The cuddly Cthulhu plush and the very cartoonish monster on her shirt suggest this was a childhood interest, even if the specific monsters she likes have changed over time - some of her more unsettling posters might be recent additions. We don't know enough about her mom's parenting style to guess if she was mostly unsupervised on the internet and able to look at horror from a young age, or if she was held back from something she had an interest in until her mom felt like she was old enough, and how that might have impacted her either way.

4. [...] and sometimes dabble in PSYCHOANALYSIS.

This is the 'therapist' half of Rose's chumhandle, and the easiest interest to guess based on her early appearances. Psychoanalysis, to Rose, appears to be the idea of knowing people better than they know themselves and guessing their underlying motivations and thought processes - therapy through telling people what's going on in their head instead of talking it through with someone. From what we've seen so far, the vibe is 'she's read Freud's Wikipedia page and cares more about putting her basic knowledge into action than reading more theory'.

In Rose's first chatlog on p.63, she accuses John, 'You're wearing one of your disguises now, aren't you? You are typing to me right now while wearing something ridiculous.' She says this right after John mentions going to get the Sburb beta from his dad - 'mom' and 'dad' are activation words to someone with an amateur interest in Freud, and she's immediately putting herself in John's head and making assumptions about his life. (She's right, but probably only because they're already good friends).

On p.160 she tries to pull a similar move, saying 'Is this how your pent-up frustration with your father manifests itself?' and John shuts her down. But in her efforts to analyze other people, she tells on herself more than she wants to - her previous message was 'I am not sensing a lot of regard for the personal property of others' and considering this message comes as she throws John's personal property around his house, leaving his things on the roof and in the backyard, I'm going to call this one projection.

Rose's only direct statement about her mom is on p.174 - 'I'd rather not risk an encounter with my mother. I battled through her cloud of gin and derision once already this evening.' In this same pesterlog she compares her situation to John's, suggesting that she thinks John's situation of 'cake, jesters, unfaltering love and support' isn't really that bad. While she's not wrong, it's a very unproductive thing for a so-called therapist to say, and it shows a lack of self awareness - Rose seems like she would hate being coddled with cake and having a business clown cramping her goth style.

I really think Rose is more of a lab scientist than a therapist, but being able to perfectly understand and predict people is such a helpful skill for someone who is insecure and wants to project an image - if you can understand how someone thinks, you can influence what they think. She definitely wants to control how she's perceived, and likes to have information in general (see: immediately looking up GameFAQs when she couldn't figure out Sburb right away). Psychoanalysis is also used in literary criticism, so it's also possible that she uses this to advance her creative writing, if she's open to any kind of self reflection.

5. You also like to KNIT, [...]

Knitting stands out from Rose's more esoteric and highbrow hobbies. It's not something we've seen her mention, but her sweaters, scarves, socks and hats scattered on her floor look finished, so she has skill and commitment (but lacks a good storage space). I bet she knits while listening to audiobooks. It's a hobby that needs some perfectionism and attention to detail, which seem like traits Rose prizes even if she doesn't possess them (see p.170 where Rose reveals that she placed the Cruxtruder without rotating the room to check if she was in the way of the door).

Rose calls her shot about Sburb's punch card alchemy on p.157, and doesn't confess to reading walkthroughs until p.178. While it's possible she was reading them sooner, it's also possible that she's familiar with punch card knitting, maybe even has a knitting machine somewhere in the house. Knitting is fundamentally the same principle as (punch card) alchemy - taking an abstract image or code laid out on a 2D card, and using it to generate a physical object. The totem lathe and alchemiter could function similarly to a knitting machine, using build grist or cruxite instead of wool, but creating patterns in similar ways.

Following this logic, knitting is a generative hobby, as is creative writing. Rose makes things in a way that John really doesn't (he's clearly never finished coding anything) and has been doing so before playing Sburb. It's interesting to associate her with creation in light of her underlying god complex. Frankenstein is another 'obscure' book Rose has probably read and loved. She is a Dr Frankenstein type of scientist, she is going to knit Fluthlu and bring them to life. The Sburb server player is such a godlike role, and she slides into it so naturally, immediately taking full control and giving orders.

When she's the player character but we haven't seen her yet (p.139-201), she feels like an invisible but omnipresent narrator one layer below the actual narrator, a watchful presence that John can't escape. On p.145 she tries to select John with the Sburb cursor. It doesn't work, but what the hell was she going to do if it did? Drop him outside? I keep coming back to how she seems aware she's being watched by the narrator on p.218 and p.220, in the same way that John knows he's being watched by Rose (but doesn't seem aware of the narrator, despite reacting to their commands). Is it possible, even, that she's (consciously or unconsciously) trying to emulate the narrative voice with her messages in her efforts to take on a similar role?

Her conversation with John on p.204 is fascinating. John tells her there's a meteor heading for his house, and her response is 'I see'. She stays cool and collected and completely unattached throughout the conversation, trying to solve the problem through citing GameFAQs, talking about how much smarter she is than other people, and refusing to compromise on her incessant use of inconveniently elongated words. She fits the stereotype of the Objective Intellectual scientist so well, too concerned with what's possible to care about its fallout, taking notes on John's reactions in her lab notebook while feeling no emotions about the whole thing. It sure is interesting that a video game might be able to cause a meteor strike. Sure would be an intellectual exercise to figure out how to stop that. She is so perfectly above it all.

6. [...] and your room is a BIT OF A MESS.

I never realized John was neat until we had Rose, who definitely isn't. On p.160, she says she's 'tempted' to clean up the mess in John's toilet for him, but everything she does actually makes his bathroom worse. We've actually seen John clean (p.67) and the only out of place things in his room on p.4 are things his dad left there, if we assume that Dad left the hammer and nails for John to hang the painting. All his mess comes from accidental sylladex misuse - he even makes his bed. Rose will simply leave an expensive violin balanced precariously against the wall, drop a pre-punched card on the living room floor instead of placing it on the coffee table, and fail to return John's magic chest to his room even after she's 'got a feel for the controls' (although this last one could be her being silly on purpose). I can't decide if Rose is being an asshole by leaving John's house in a complete state or if she's just Like That and doesn't even notice.

Rose has an inventory system that she knows how to use, so it's easier for someone to be clean if they want to be. Maybe she just doesn't. The rest of Rose's house is empty besides dope ass wizards - on p.230-235 we see that Rose's house is filled with long, expansive corridors, has at least three floors, and is large and modernist with strange towers and extensions and bubbles. If Rose's mom is minimalist and Rose feels like her house is missing something, of course she would expand to fill that space, with her physical possessions as well as her personality.

7. And on occasion, if just the right one strikes your fancy, you like to play VIDEO GAMES with your friends.

John has a poster of the Problem Sleuth heroes on his bedroom wall, as well as a copy of the game, and Rose has a poster of the Problem Sleuth beasts and demons. It would be cute as hell if they played it together. Rose playing a video game has been most of what we've seen of her so far, so I've kind of covered that in other points - I want to talk about the 'with your friends' part, and specifically, how she and John met.

They seem so different, and based on Rose's strong reaction to the intelligence of GameFAQs writers, if she just encountered John on a forum she would not give him the time of day. John definitely isn't stupid, but I think he can come off that way in a first interaction, and I think Rose makes quick judgements about people. John can definitely banter with Rose - my favorite early interaction of theirs is 'TT: Can a disorder also be a complex? EB: in your case, probably!' (p.160) - so all it would take is getting over the initial hurdle of starting a conversation. So I have three theories.

The first is that they did meet on a forum, and John was just so charming in his silliness that Rose eventually warmed on him. Maybe John got stuck on the loading screen of a game and couldn't figure out how to press start and Rose helped him out and John just kept liveblogging his game in the thread. Maybe John asked a question about Slimer from Ghostbusters on a cryptozoology forum and Rose gave him a weirdly anatomically detailed answer that referenced a worrying home use of concentrated sulfuric acid. Maybe Rose posted some of her writing online and John left a glowing comment.

The second is that they met through TG. He seems to have a fair bit in common with both of them - on the surface, more than they do with each other. He could have noticed one of their shared interests and put them in contact, or he could have been trying to fuck with them by setting them up to hate each other and it backfired. Either feels plausible from what we've seen of him so far.

The third is that Rose just used to be different. John has the childlike spirit of the clown and I get the sense that he's always been the same, whimsical on the outside with a malaise hovering within. But Rose is trying to put on such a sophisticated affect, which could be recent. Rose could have been bubbly, accepting and open to talking to anyone a few years ago. She's changed as a person, but stays loyal enough to her friends to brave the evil red storm for them.

Final Thoughts

I find Rose easier to analyze than John - she's not less complex, but her complexities are made more obvious in the text. We also don't get the luxury of sitting with Rose and learning about her organically like we did with John. The meteor countdown is flashing in my mind even when it isn't on screen, and the text needs to take shortcuts, telling us about Rose instead of just showing her. As such, I don't have as many questions hanging as I usually do, but there's still a few.

What's up with both John and Rose being really talented at music, but this not being listed in their interests or directly acknowledged by the narrator? Does the narrator fucking hate music? The narrator of a webcomic which has so far included five original music tracks??

Is Rose consciously aware of the narration? Is it something that just began for her when we saw her, or has that been part of her life before? Is this why her personality is so cultivated, because she feels like she's always being watched?

What exactly is Rose's relationship with her mom? Is her mom a mean alcoholic who mocks Rose's grief over her cat, or is this a story Rose is telling herself about her very average mom?

Is Rose a weird kid who actually has a pretty normal life, like John, or is her life weird for real? Does she live in a massive haunted house or are we getting her exaggerated perspective?

More broadly, what sources of information in Homestuck are reliable? The narration and chatlogs are both biased perspectives, but what about the images? Are we seeing the characters' worlds as they actually are, or are we seeing things as the point of view character perceives them?

I love Rose. She and John have both been really easy to connect to, are extremely likeable, and feel like real people I could run into on the internet. I love how average they seem and how they really have more flaws than strengths - it adds to the realism, and sets them up with a lot of cool options for story arcs. A Rose who's a loser and kind of sucks is so much better to me than a Rose who's actually good at the things she claims to be, and my only hope is that we solve the imminent crisis and see more of her being truly silly.

#AFFECTIONATE. if i dunk on her here its because i love her and i think shes a good character #tho i did struggle not to refer to her as the sheldon cooper of her generation #homestuck #analysis #rose lalonde

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nikathingz · 2 years

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Witch's Dreams

Morpheus x Immortal!Witch!Reader

I couldn't wait to make a part 2! i hope you enjoy it! and don't forget to like and follow for more!

Part 1 here

Masterlist

( These people wanted to be tagged : @mona-has-friends @jesllianaquilesrolon @true-queen-of-mischief @deniixlovezelda @aurorarevenclaw1927 @thecrazytealady @22carolina08 )

Word Count: 1585

You took your peaceful dreams as a sign that Dream wasn’t mad at you for being hired to seal him in a basement for as long as the foundation of the house stood. While out and about doing work, you started to notice a raven just about every time you left your house. Every time you did you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, it's not like you didn’t like ravens, you believed they brought good fortune. Yet, whenever you saw them recently you couldn’t help the way your gut twisted in nervousness when you noticed them perched around your apartment.

It was a few months after your debacle at the Burgess manor when you had sleeping trouble. You had awoken early that morning to start a long busy day of work and were up later than usual. But when you finally did try to enter the land of dreams, you could not.

You’d laid in bed in silence and darkness for about an hour and a half before you got up and decided to make a cup of tea, in hopes it would help you sleep. But even as you sat on your couch sipping at the warm drink, your eyelids did not droop, and your muscles did not tingle. You had felt more awake than ever actually.

After staring at the wall for several long and boring moments you looked out the window where rain had started to patter outside. Your body went ridged as a pair of yellow glowering eyes stared back at you from the fire escape. As you shifted off the couch and toward the window. The cat had stood and started trotting out of view of the window, toward where the fire escape reached your bedroom.

You rushed through your tiny apartment and crossed the threshold of your dark room, to be met with a pair of sparkling eyes in the blackness, except instead of being on the floor, at the head level of a cat. They stood taller than you, not by much, but certainly more than a feline.

Your breath hitched as thunder boomed through the city, your first instinct was to grab something to defend yourself with, but you stood frozen as the eyes approached you. You gawked as he stepped from the shadows into the beam of light coming in from your now cracked open window. It was him, Dream of the Endless.

Excitement and nerves bubbled in your throat, what did he want? Why was he here? Your eyes examined his form, he wore a black T-shirt and jeans, with the same colored pair of boots and had his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a trench coat, also black. His hair was in the same disarray as when he was trapped, you figured it was the way he liked it.

His face was hard, brows furrowed and lips pursed like he had been sucking on a lemon. Yet a sparkle in his eyes carried curiosity.

“W-what do you want?” your voice was weary as you shrunk into yourself, you watched as his features softened and he gave you a smile of gratitude.

“Fear not mage, I have no resentment toward you” His voice was different than you had expected it to be. The type of voice that would make millions in the audiobook department, one that soothed the knots in your shoulders and made your head fuzzy with fatigue. “How could I?” He stepped closer to you, so close that if he stepped to you again he would be chest to chest with you. He lifted his hand out of his pocket but hesitated and dropped it to his side.

“Then why have you come?” You asked and shifted on the balls of your feet, looking up at him with childish awe. He was breathtaking like this, his glassy skin shone in the filtered moonlight, and you could pick up on every slight micro expression on his face.

The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly as his eyelids fell shut and he dropped gracefully to kneel before you. Morpheus was a prideful being, but being imprisoned for over a century was truly humbling to him, he owed you eternally for what you did for him.

You could have left him there, worse, bound him there for creator knows how long. When he heard Alex’s demands, he damn near expected you too. And yet, you hadn’t hesitated to come to his aid once the house fell asleep, and you hadn’t asked anything in return.

You were truly remarkable, it had taken all of his willpower to not come and see you immediately after he had recovered his tools to properly thank you. Matthew was his next best option, and eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore, he had to see you in the waking world and pay his respects.

Now standing here before you in your moonlit bedroom, he was like a worshipper to the ancient gods.

Your face flushed as you watched him kneel before you and hang his head like a child caught in the cookie jar. “I- what are you d-doing?” your heart pounded in your ears as the godlike being in your home looked up at you with a face filled with gratitude.

“Thanking the witch who freed me from my prison, as I should have many months ago,” he said regretfully, and you watched as his lips pursed in shame. This caused you to hesitantly grip his shoulders and try and get him to stand with you again, but he stayed firm on the floor.

“No, lord Dream please don’t, you didn’t-” you said as you tugged on his coat, but he placed a chilly hand on his shoulder, over yours, and shook his head slightly.

“Morpheus, my name is Morpheus, I will not have you address me as superior when I owe you an eternities debt” He spoke firmly, but not in a manner to upset you.

“Okay okay! But please Morpheus stand up, you don’t owe me anything really” You said and watched as he looked up at you with novelty, but slowly rose to stand within a mere foot from you.

“You misunderstand mage, I do owe you-” He tried to reason but you didn’t let him, by gripping his sleeve and smiling up at him.

“No Morpheus you don’t, the lovely dreams the past few months have been payment enough, I was simply doing what any right minded person would do. There’s no need for any ‘eternal debt’ or whatever, just knowing you’re okay, and that humanity doesn’t have to suffer anymore sleepy sickness is enough for me” You spoke softly and watched as he gently gripped the wrist that had a hold on his sleeve, turning it over carefully in his calloused hands.

Morpheus examined every inch of your face, he wondered what kind of deal with the fates he made long ago that might have brought you through his path, but he didn’t care.

You infatuated him, you weren’t like humans, you didn’t use your powers as a witch against people, you didn’t exploit your immortality, and you freed an Endless being, simply out of the kindness of your heart.

“Even centuries of sweet dreams could not convey my gratitude to you” His voice was calm and peaceful, pulling a yawn from your throat, which caused Morpheus’s jaw to clench momentarily.

He felt a bit guilty for being the cause of your inability to sleep tonight, he had intended to speak with you much earlier in the evening, but he was caught up watching as you did mundane tasks around your house, and the small projects you’d put off, he just lost track of time.

He cleared his throat and released your hand, trying to compose himself, your eyes closed as you gave him a genuine smile. “As I said, you don’t need to give me anything because I don’t want anything” you tried to assure him, but his face was set in a state of immense concentration.

He tried to think of what Lucienne might advise him to do, he understood that he’s not very good at expressing himself the way he intends to. He simply looked over your face watching the tiredness overtake your features.

“How about this hm? I go to bed, and we can talk more tomorrow yeah?” You said drowsily and swayed in your spot, feeling the sounds of pattering rain and the presence of Morpheus finally lull your exhausted mind towards sleep.

This prompted Morpheus to place his steady hands onto your biceps and gently tug you toward your messy bed. He gently laid your finally tired form into the comforts of your bedding and watched as you snuggled into your plush pillow.

He hovered by your nightstand as you adjusted and got comfortable, before looking up at him and smiling softly “goodnight Morpheus” you mumbled as your eyes fell closed.

A soft smile graced his features as he stared at your stilled form. “Goodnight mage…” he uttered quietly and pulled a soft sheet over you.

“It’s Y/n…” you muttered so quietly that he almost didn’t hear, but his smile widened in acknowledgment. As he let out a breath of a laugh.

“Goodnight then… Y/n” he said and left you to your dreams, assuring that they were especially wonderful as you snoozed away that night, it’s safe to say he was properly infatuated with you.

•••

Part three?

#the dreaming #the dream king #dream of the endless #the sandman fanfic #morpheus #morpheus x reader #prideful morpheus #soft morpheus #greatful morpheus #immortal!reader #witch!reader #self indulgence at its finest

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dopamineeymineymoo · 1 year

Text

suspension bridges || ghost x f!medic!reader

synopsis: you are an army doctor, callsign salvi, who had been on the field for even before you'd gotten that title. you'd been reassigned into task force 1-4-1 after your own taskforce had dissolved when it'd fulfilled its duty. you're a familiar face to multiple operators within the taskforce. one of them knows you for far longer than the rest.

warnings: medical inaccuracies, army inaccuracies, some medical jargon, some gore, implied medical procedures, inexperienced writer, more tags to be added as we go

author's note before we begin: I’m writing this to destress from the gruelling pressure of academics– i'm not a professional, but i do study some of the stuff i mention, specifically on the health-allied colleges; there is also the fact that I’m not from the west side of the world so I know jack shit on the actual mode of operations (except in theory, because that’s what I’m learning ATM). This isn’t meant to be accurate, these are just dumbed-down versions of stuff I already know– i might learn more stuff later on so I might add it onto the thing later on]

[this is part 1], [part 2], [part 3 to be posted]

2022

When your Task Force dissolved, with multiple members having dispersed to different tasks and duties, the different offices within the old base had been dispersed into various different locations. You had been given privilege. It wasn’t really within the higher-up’s control to assign you to a different base.

Overall, it had been awfully easy to convince you. Price knew his cards, knew the people he was pulling. It made sense that the task force he’d organized would have good chemistry.

It was amusing. Familiar faces are always a fun thing.

There's no rest for the wicked, is what you often hear. It always applies to people in your line of work, being both a savior of lives and its taker.

Of course, there's no better ice-breaker or introduction into the field than an emergency evac. The first time you'd been called into your new base had been when duty calls. There were some familiar faces on the team of medics you'd been assigned with, brief introductions and ranks were exchanged, and it's off to work.

Squeaks is one. A familiar face, one you'd worked with before albeit very briefly.

"Give 'em hell, doc." she'd said when you'd stepped into the ramp of the aircraft.

And hell you did give. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence with your line of work where you had to be pulled out of your station to hop onto an aircraft to retrieve injured soldiers.

It’s been less than a week, about three days since you’d been reunited with some of your old patients, until your new patients ended up becoming recent.

“Reports as of ten minutes ago state that seven alert out of twelve, four obtunded, one is stuporous.” You take note, knowing that the rest of your team are listening in. Transcriptions of comms had been sent to you with data having already been filtered out appropriately. Need-to-know, is what it meant.

You eye two people, and in order call them out by their surnames. “Squeaks and Trinity, you’re on triage.”

“Yes Captain.”

“Reyes, Smith, Aisling, you deal with the seven. Make sure they don’t bleed out and add to the less pleasant numbers.” You move past them as they move to their station on the aircraft. “Body transfers to the cots are on Jones and Brown. Take them off the soldiers’ hands– keep them off too if there are any with cold feet.”

“The rest of us– two people require immediate intervention. One of them is in shock.” She hums, looking down at transcripts. “There were originally sixteen soldiers.” They knew what that meant. Two were KIA.

When the aircraft arrives in the landing zone, you and your team get into motion immediately. You help Jones and Brown in transferring the soldiers who can’t walk. Two soldiers that you don’t know personally help with setting the rest of the ones who need help walking inside the cot.

The one who was stuporous had fallen into a coma, but with a working pulse, and the four had varying levels of prognosis at the current assessment.

You’re used to this. The speed, the quickness in thinking and the steadiness while you work under these less-than-favorable circumstances. You’ve worked through worse, but that’s not a mindset you should get used to. Makes you complacent. There’s no room for complacency in this place.

“Captain Salvi!” Squeaks calls, “Five out of sixteen aren’t on the vehicle.” You hear.

You curse under your breath, “Squeaks, take over.” You wait for them to shuffle over and take over with keeping the soldier alive, before pulling back to walk towards the seven who were sat at the sides. From Squeaks, you take the tablet and swipe through the updated charts.

They’d reported the four missing names, reported well but unable to make it to exfil for whatever reason.

They all stand in attention– all who can, that is. “At ease.” You tell them. “Where are your superiors.”

One steps forward, “Ma’am, they’ve told us to head to exfil ahead of them.” He tells you. “They’re moving to another base, picked up by allies in Mexico.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Mexico?”

“That’s all we’re aware of as of now, ma’am.”

You breathe. Something's up, then. Your attention is called by the pilot in front. "Laswell's on comms." He'd said.

"Patch me in?"

“Watcher 1 to Echo 1-6, do you copy?”

“Solid copy, Watcher-1.” You retort, and look back at the soldiers before you. “Heal well, boys.” You say before backing off and walking back to the front of the plane.

There’s a crackle on Laswell’s end, before she proceeds. “Price needs you ASAP, but there’s no time for RTB. You clear for an impromptu mission?”

You curse under your breath. Not so much as an introduction. Is this how it's going to be? “Always.” You tell her. You're no stranger to these emergencies. “Not as much as a debrief, huh?”

“I’d say sorry, but you know how it is.”

“No rest for the wicked.” You say. “Think I can join them before they get picked up by Mexican Special Forces?”

“I’ll tell the pilot in advance to drop you off for RV.” Laswell tells you. “Watcher-1 out.”

You walk over to the cockpit, placing a hand on the seat. The other hand reaches for your ear piece to switch channels so you can speak with the pilot. “You got the coordinates?” You ask, and with the confirmation, you continue. “Don’t land. I’ll prep for HALO.” You tell him. “Three of them need immediate attention. I don’t want them dead on arrival.”

“Copy.” The pilot replies. You back away, and head towards the hamper where you check your kit twice for anything you’d need. While you were in charge of MedEvac, you knew the risks. As long as you were beyond the line of fire, there’s still always that chance of attack.

In this case, you were the attacker.

“Approaching RV point.” You hear in your ear. “Prepare for HALO.” High Altitude, Low Opening. You’re hoping that it’s dark enough that no one will notice the parachute– then again, this isn’t the first time you’ve done this.

Trinity walks over to you. “Captain–”

“Report to Brown. I’m headed off.” You shrug on the pack, and head towards the ramp. Before that, though, you turn to your team. Most of which are paying attention to you as you walk.

“Scott, Hudson, support with transfers.” You call, and the two of them nod. Their physique will help Brown and Jones with transferring the patients into gurneys with both haste and cautiousness.

Squeaks and Trinity approach you as you all move out of the aircraft, handing you their digitally inputted evaluations. You read through them as you move, swiping through the tablet as you read through the list. “That’s about it. Are we clear?” They all affirm.

You get a signal from the pilots. That’s all you need before you approach the ramp and drop in.

***

2001

It was a Saturday when Sergeant Simon Riley had first been forced on Medical Leave of Absence. This was on the insistence of the base’s, refusing to give him clearance until he’s deemed better, where he’d been assigned to a rehabilitation clinic not too far from his current place of stay– fortunately not too far from base.

The previous mission was bad– certainly not the worst that has happened, especially not the worst to come, but it was bad.

When the paperwork for the leave was undergoing process and Simon had been forced to confine himself to med within base, the perpetrator as to why he’d gotten hurt had been very accommodating to his whims– not that Simon had many of them, but the one who was supposed to receive the bullets (plural) that took Simon down. Doesn’t matter anymore– no man left behind, and all that.

You know what they say about people torn into bad situations– you should have seen the other guy is what he would have said if he had been in a lighter mood.

Except he’d damaged his peroneal nerve in the process.

Fortunately it’s something easy to get back from, but that’s with rehabilitation. Hence, where he’d first met you.

“Hello, Sergeant Riley.” You say, eyes twinkling with mirth and without that jaded look that he’d grown so used to witnessing in people within this line of work. You introduce yourself, first with your name. “I’m the one assigned to looking after your progression with your injuries– ultimately, medical clearance isn’t up to me, but anything I report goes into consideration. Anything you want to ask?”

“How long ‘til I’d get this off?”

“According to your chart–” you look through his charts. “Some weeks.” You hum, impressed at the prognosis. “Medical will clear you then– higher ups seem insistent in getting you back, huh?”

“I’m a good shot.” He tells you. “Some weeks, then– you any good in cuttin’ it down, Lieutenant?”

You laugh, waving in front of him. “Well, if you don’t fuck up your own injuries. Sure. Got a good prognosis anyway, considering the shit you’ve been through.” Then you remind him again to call you by your name. “And fortunately for you, your ass landed in my expert care.” There was a grin on your face as you told him that.

Overwhelming confidence in this. Infallible.

He’d been told that his injury hadn’t been so severe that it’d take him out of commission any time soon, but he’d been uncertain about that. It had been near damned frustrating to be so vulnerable. The injury is no scratch–that’s a huge chunk of his lateral knee fractured by the bullet, taking the nerve with it. While the medics had said otherwise, he just didn’t think someone could just regain proper function out of it again.

So when that stubborn pessimism is met with that near-blinding optimism–

It was hard not to believe in your confidence, and that was considering that Simon knew not to believe in good things.

The first day was for initial evaluation. You’d told him that you wouldn’t begin with all the exercises and stretching just yet. He’d been compliant.

For the first day, that is.

***

2022

Upon landing, you waste no time in moving towards RV. You made sure that there’d be no one following you, putting on the nightvision equipment you’d taken from the team that was pulled out for medevac. With a rifle in your hand, you traverse to the agreed upon location.

Only, you don’t exactly find them there.

“Bravo 0-6, this is Salvi, how copy?” You say into your comm, listening for the radio for any response. “Echo 1-6 to Bravo Team, how copy?” You wait about two seconds before your mouth opens to ask again, once more before you radio Laswell.

“Bravo-06 to Salvi, solid copy.” Price’s voice cracks on the radio, and you breathe out a sigh of relief. “Just got… held back a bit.”

“Give me a sitrep, Price.” You question, continuing to move around so that you aren’t a sitting duck at the RV point. “There’s no one in RV.”

There’s a chuckle on the other line. “We’re on the way, got held back for first aid. Someone decided to be stubborn and skip on the medevac.”

“Damn.” You hiss under your breath, word caught by the comm. “Based on the data I’ve got, there’s only the four of you– Captain Price, Lieutenant Riley, Sergeant Mactavish and Sergeant Garrick. Is that correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“Price, you aren’t injured are you?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I have a lot of choice words, then.” You say into the comms, knowing that the rest of them are listening. You were of a higher rank than the rest of them, which means that you can easily berate whoever got himself hurt and didn’t jump on medevac.

“Hell Runneth Loose.” Gaz utters under his breath, joining on the comms.

“That’s what I’m here for, Garrick.” You say. “Give me a location, set the RV at a midpoint so I can get a look at it.”

“Exfil would be further out.” Price points out.

“I have two working legs, Captain. I can use them.” You retort. “Details.” It was less of a request and more of a demand.

He tells you, and you move quick and silently towards the agreed upon location. It’s an abandoned building with a lot of debris, but standing strong enough for it to serve as a good and safe temporary camp.

You arrive first, so you scout the area for any hostiles that might be at site. There are none, fortunately, so it seems that whatever they had to deal with further West of the area hasn’t reached this place. Has to be one hell of a trip, if that’s the case.

“Echo 1-6 to Bravo Team, no sign of hostiles in the area.” You say with finality into the comm. “We’re clear.”

“Copy that Echo 1-6.”

You keep watch, keeping an eye on the perimeter in case the situation changes. Fortunately, it doesn’t, and it remains to be clear. “Approaching RV.” You hear a familiar voice on the comms.

But there’s the distinct sound of something that whizzes fast, piercing through air. You immediately duck, lowering yourself so that the wall could hide you from wherever the attack comes from. “Bravo Team coming in hot!”

“Couldn’t fucking warn me you’d had tangos comin’ over?” You hiss, raising your gun towards the perimeter, at the general direction from where you know they’d be coming from.

“A very recent development, in my defense.” Price hisses. “There’s not many, it’s manageable. You in a position to snipe, lass?”

“Affirm.” You tell him. “Get in the building, Cap, I’ve got overwatch.” You set up quick, shooting from the top of the building. You pray to whatever’s still left up there that they’ve got no RPGs– this building is doomed to fall in on itself and that’s just with the bullets encasing on already fragile wall.

And it wasn't likely, anyway. On foot, having gear like that is unlikely.

You take down as many assailants as you can, registering in your head who are friendlies by attire alone. Not usual protocol, given that you can’t be certain how positive your i.d. is of the people trailing so close to one group, but you can be certain at least that the one with the bucket hat is price and the rest that he’s allowing within his proximity are friendlies.

They come up the building, taking position and securing the area.

A hulking figure is placed beside you, heavy with a thump against the wall. You look up, seeing that it was Sergeant Mactavish who’d placed the patient on your side.

You turn your head towards Sergeant Mactavish, whose eyes shift between yourself, Ghost, and the battlefield. “Sergeant Mactavish-- pleasure to meet ya." You smile. "Hell of a first meeting, huh?"

"I'd say." Soap grins. "Need any help?"

"You take overwatch while I patch him up.”

Soap nods, shifting to take your position. “Roger that, Doc Sal.”

You didn’t need to look twice to be certain who it was that he’d dropped into your hands.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure seeing you again, Ghost,” You start with a smile. “But I believe that these are less than pleasant circumstances.”

The man leaned against the wall, debris falling between you both. He eyes you for a moment, before looking away and back to the battlefield. He huffs, not that you can hear it, and tilts his head forward in a nod. “Gotta stop meetin’ like this, y’reckon?”

You nod, “Line of fire seems to love you out there.” There’s a joke in there, a reference to a mission together once before. “Where are you hit, Lieutenant?”

“Left lumbar– just a graze.”

“Nice of you to be specific this time.” You quip, opening your pack to get the materials you need.

“Learned my lesson.”

“Whoever taught you must have ripped you a new one, huh?” There's amusement in your voice. "Hold still."

"I'd say." Soap grins. "Need any help?"

"You take overwatch while I patch him up.”

Soap nods, shifting to take your position. “Roger that, Doc Sal.”

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stuckinapril · 5 months

Note

Curly hair care routine tips?

My biggest tip is to genuinely know what your hair characteristics are before trying techniques out. Is your hair low porosity or high porosity? What’s your curl type? Is it damaged from years of excessive heat or dye? Is it too long? A lot of popular methods didn’t work for me bc they were built for high porosity curls, but mine were low porosity. I think just knowing these basics saves you so much time in terms of what would be helpful to start experimenting with.

Once you know what you’re working with, follow people whose curls are similar to yours. Start with very basic products (leave-in conditioner and gel/mousse) and work your way up if need be. For low porosity hair, less is generally more. Deep-condition your hair. Do hair masks that complement your hair needs (does it need more protein? More moisture?). Get a heat cap so your curls can absorb the product better. Trim your hair every 3 months. If you wrap your hair in a towel after a shower, don’t do it w a standard towel—do it w either a microfiber towel or a t-shirt. Do not touch your hair while it’s airdrying. Getting a diffuser has been a game changer for me; my curls look so much bouncier whenever I diffuse. Learn different gel (or mousse) techniques to achieve different looks (gel placement matters). Get a Denman brush for extra definition & learn how to use it. Don’t forget to scrunch the crunch to break the gel cast once your hair is mostly dry. Get a silk pillowcase (this is also good for keeping your pm skincare products on btw).

A spray bottle is so necessary. Never style without a spray bottle on hand. If your curls are dry while you’re defining them w the Denman brush, for example, chances are they will come out frizzy. You want your hair soaking wet while you’re scrunching/defining.

Check the hardness of water in your city !! A lot of frizz could be owed to that. If possible, filter your bathroom water. If not, buy a hardness of water shampoo/conditioner (I like the Malibu C brand). You’ll hear a lot of advice saying that sulfate-free shampoos are the way to go—which is mostly accurate, but every now and then you’ll need to clean product buildup. For that it’s good to have a clarifying shampoo on hand.

Figure out what wash times are best for you. For me, I wash my hair every 2-3 days max. For others it’s best to do it weekly. It really depends on your curl type.

Experiment always !! I’m always trying out new things to see what’ll work best for my curls. I made a lot of progress, but there’s def more to go and I’m determined to reach the ultimate definition. Good luck <3

#ask

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ellafushiguro · 2 months

Text

“Not bad…” Chapter 1

(Links to: Prologue & Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5)

Your morning routine consists of waking up at 4:00am, laying in bed just staring at the wall for 30 minutes trying to wake up, contemplating your life and all the choices you’ve ever made that led you to here and now, then finally getting up to take a shower and getting yourself ready for work. By 6:00am, you finish zipping the back of your skirt up, giving yourself one last look in the mirror making sure your ponytail is perfectly slicked back and checking for any wrinkles you might’ve missed on your white blouse, before grabbing your Scouts jacket and brown leather work satchel as you walk out the door of your room.

You reach the hallway to the mess hall after going down a few flights of stairs, only to bump into Section Commander Hange. “Oh! Goodmorning Y/N! You’re looking lovely this morning as always! Are you off to have breakfast?” Hange chirps. You often wonder how she can be in such a cheerful mood every single morning. It’s been about 3 months now since you transferred to the Survey Corps, and you haven’t seen her in any other mood. Most of the Scouts are surprisingly alot friendlier than any of the MP’s you’ve ever worked with. This is gonna take a while to get used to, you thought to yourself. “Goodmorning Hange, yes I am. Would you care to join me?” You ask. “Great minds think alike! I heard they’re serving something called pancakes? It’s new. Apparently they’re kinda sweet!” She says as she hooks her right arm into your left one, practically dragging your short legs to your destination. You two have gotten quite close in the 3 months you’ve been here. As extroverted as she is, you don’t mind her company at all.

You and Hange find open seats next to a group of young familiar faces:

Armin: the smart blonde.

Eren: the kid who always throws rage fits, and is apparently a titan.

Mikasa: the chill, but can still kick your ass, girl.

Connie: nice kid but a little random sometimes.

Jean: you don’t see why everyone calls him “horse-face”, he’s actually quite handsome.

Bertoldt: the shy tall guy.

Reiner: the group's big brother. He reminds you of a giant teddy bear.

Krista: the group's sweet little sister.

Ymir: kinda like Mikasa, except the only difference is Mikasa actually has a filter.

And lastly, Sasha: Girl eats like it’s her last day on earth… which you don’t blame her for… being in this job field and all.

“Goodmorning Section Commander, Lt (Lieutenant)!” The whole table greets you both with sleepy smiles & a salute. You both nod & everyone sits back down.

“Hey Lt! You never updated us on what happened when you served Captain Levi tea on your first day!” Eren says. “Ohh righttt, totally forgot you pulled that.. a little daredevil aren’t ya Lt hah!” Reiner says with a smirk, nudging you with his elbow. They all look at you with wide eyes, waiting for your response. “Right, sorry! You guys have been so busy lately, I didn’t want to bother you all. I completely forgot about it. But umm.. it wasn’t what I was expecting. I thought you guys said he was an asshole? You guys made it seem like he was gonna throw a tea cup at me or something.” The group looks at each other confused. “So… he didn’t?…” Jean asks with one eyebrow raised. “…No?” You responded, raising an eyebrow back at him. “Well what did he say?!” Sasha exclaims, mouth full of pancake. “W-well at first nothing. He drank the tea and went on with his work. The next day, I brought his lunch to his office, and he offered me some tea that HE brewed. It was pretty good but I prefer my tea with a little bit of honey and- “ You were cut off by Krista, “HE WHAAAAAT!?” Jolting from her seat and slamming her hands on the table, excitement in her eyes. You jump a little in surprise, and a bit in confusion. “Maybe it’s cuz of your uniform. You got the whole sexy secretary look to ya.” Hange chimes in, wiggling her eyebrows. “M-my skirt?” You look down at your outfit. “Yes ma’am. And your shirt seems kinda tight. Or maybe you just have some nice melons on ya? The buttons look like they’re going to pop off any second. Must be nice.” Ymir winks, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. You look around the table, all the boys had deep red cheeks, trying not to make eye contact with you. Awkward. You pull your Scouts jacket a little tighter around your front, “O-oh well I- “ Again getting cut off by Krista, “You guys! He made her a cup of HIS tea. HIS tea!!!” They all burst into debate, trying to top the other about why the Captain didn’t react the way they thought he normally would, completely ignoring Krista. “I guess this is our queue to leave now, once you get these kids goin it’ll never end.” Hange whispers. It’s almost 7:00am anyway, time to bring Captain his morning tea.

“You finally decided to show up, eh.” Levi says while scribbling on a document. His voice as emotionless as ever, so you can’t really tell whether he’s being sarcastic or if he’s actually serious. You continue walking towards his desk, holding a tray with his favorite tea set. So much confusion this morning. This is the usual time you would come in, you thought. Now that you think about it, maybe the reason he hasn’t said anything mean to you so far is because you don’t question him or talk back? You do every thing he asks. You do it all perfectly and in a timely, organized matter. You don’t give him any problems, instead you take his problems off his shoulders. I mean you ARE his assistant after all, you’re just doing your job. You decide to test the waters, “what ever do you mean, this is the usual time I always come in, sir” you say sarcastically with a tiny hint of attitude, not wanting to take it too far… yet. You look at him with a smirk. Already regretting it. Setting down the tray on his desk in front of him, handing him a cup. You pour tea in it, waiting for his response. He’s quiet for a minute, just two steel gray eyes glaring into your soul. Ah crap here it comes. You’re face-palming yourself over and over in your head. You turn your back to him, moving the tea tray to the mid-sized coffee table that’s placed in the middle of his office, squeezing your eyes shut. He sighs, “guess I lost track of the time again.” You open your eyes, again confused. You turn to look at him, “sir?” He rubs his temples, “I haven’t slept” he admits. You see it now, the dark circles around his eyes. You hear it in his voice. “Would you like to take a nap sir? I can handle the paperwork” you offer, feeling slightly guilty for trying to challenge his tired self a few seconds ago. “No I’ll be fi-“ he starts, but you cut him off, “it’s really not a problem sir, I’m happy to do it for you! As long as you get some rest, I’m happy to take the load. That’s what you have me for.” He looks at you with his usual stoic expression but to your surprise, he doesn’t put up a fight, “fine.” He accepts defeat. “Make sure these all get to Erwin’s office by noon. I’m counting on you.” He says as he makes his way to his connected bedroom. “Yes sir of course.” You say, taking a seat in his chair. Your morning mission has begun.

A couple hours later, you’ve finished all the paperwork that Captain Levi left to you and had already sent them all to Commander Erwin’s office. Your stomach grumbles just in time for lunch. As you start walking towards the door to leave Levi’s office, you were stopped dead in your tracks. Bumping into a hard surface, you look up to see a rested, but still not rested enough, Captain Levi coming out of his room. “Sorry Captain, I wasn't expecting you to be up just yet. Did the few hours of sleep help?” You ask, slight concern in your voice. “I’m fine. Did you finish?” He asks, looking over at his now empty desk. “Yes sir, I actually just got back from dropping them off. I’m about to go get some lunch now. Do you want me to bring you anything?” You offer. “It’s fine. I’ll go with you. Maybe you can show me how you prepare our tea.” He says, following behind you out of his office. Our tea?

You both walk into the mess hall and go to stand in line. Levi puts one hand on your lower back and sticks out his other hand, gesturing ‘ladies first’. Yeah, I definitely don’t understand what those kids were talking about. Him? Cold? He seems perfectly normal to me. A bit stern and serious, but that’s with all military officers… except for Hange. “Did you see that?” You hear from somewhere in the crowd of faces. Instead of turning around to face them, you look up at Levi who’s already looking at you. You wonder if he heard the same thing. “Something the matter Y/N?” He asks. You shudder, no one but Hange has called you by your first name in years. Caught off guard, you avert your gaze somewhere straight ahead, “no sir”. You can feel your cheeks getting hot. You can still feel his eyes on you. You didn’t think he even knew your name, or even cared to remember it for that matter. It’s not like you were out on the field risking your life, you were in the safety of his office. And so you thought, because of that, he always just called you Lt. So why are you blushing? All he said was your damn name!

You both make your way to an unoccupied table, Levi still following close behind you. “Here, I got you one of those Snickerdoodle cookies or whatever. They’re your favorite right.” He says, more of a statement than a question. He sits down across from you, placing the cookie on your plate. You were so distracted that you walked right past the dessert table. “Oh thank you Captain! But you didn’t have to- “ He cuts you off, people seem to do that to you alot, “you can drop the formalities while we’re not working. And it’s nothing, I just figured they’d run out of them quickly and you wouldn’t get to have any, is all.” He says. You smile as you both dig into your lunch. Wait, how does he know those are your favorite?

Levi wasn’t too thrilled the day he found out Commander Erwin had assigned him a new assistant/Lieutenant without his knowledge. Just another idiot to worry about. But the second you walked into his office that morning, bringing him the most delicious cup of tea he’s ever had with such an innocent smile on your face, something in him shifted right then and there. Two things he loved: a perfectly brewed cup of tea… and sunshine. The day he came up from the Underground and felt the warmth of the sun on his skin for the very first time.. oh man, he felt like he was living it all over again. “..not bad, brat..” complimenting the tea… and secretly Erwin. Is this what they call “love at first sight” ?

“You can add some honey or lemon for extra sweetness and flavor. It also helps when you’re sick as well!” You say excitedly, getting carried away with your tea tutorial, bouncing all over the kitchen. You finished all the paperwork this morning, so after lunch you and Levi went to the now empty Officers lounge to use the mini kitchen. He has you all to himself. You haven’t looked up at him once since you’ve started, it’s the perfect chance for him to finally get to examine you, memorize your features, watch how you move, see your different facial expressions, listen to your voice, hear your laugh, learn your body language… if she could just jump up one more time… maybe the buttons on her shirt will actually pop off… he dozes off. “Captain?” You snap him back to reality. What the hell is wrong with me?! He thought to himself. “I’ve lost you haven’t I?” You ask, while actually face-palming yourself for real this time. “I’m listening brat, go on.” He urges, waving his hand. You roll your eyes as you continue your lecture. Normally if anyone else did that, he’d be making them run laps around the Scouts compound until sundown. But it kind of… looked good coming from you. The corner of his mouth slightly twitched. When he snaps back to his senses, he realizes you’ve stopped talking a long time ago and is now replicating the way he has his chin resting in the palm of his hand, staring back at him. Shit, her face is so close. “Your tea is gonna get cold Levi” you warn him, looking down at the cup you placed in front of him, then moving your eyes slowly back up looking into his gray orbs once again. Damnit! Now he’s the one mentally face-palming himself. “I-I know, I’m just waiting for it to cool down a bit more. Quit nagging me.” He says, lying through his teeth, but you didn’t need to know that. Finally he takes a sip, “you added some lemon innit this time you say?” You watch as he licks his bottom lip. Sighhh, those beautiful lips…

“Not bad, Y/N.”

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average-hua-cheng-fan · 1 year

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evidence for my hua cheng adhd headcanon:

gets bored easily. irritable and restless when bored

HATES calligraphy (task he finds boring and pointless)

fidgets with his clothes/ the pearl/ the string or via e-ming

no filter

tons of random knowledge and skills. he spent 800 years hyperfixating on every subject possible

enjoys working with his hands (he made a door, likes working in the fields w/ xl, sculpting and painting, etc)

bad temper (ie xl needing to help calm him down in book 2 when he's caving qi rong's skull in)

impulsivity, but that doesn't really matter when you're an unbelievably rich and powerful ghost king (careless with money, likes to go places unexpectedly like banyue/ breaking xl out of house arrest/ qi rong's lair)

especially so when xl is concerned (quick to give him things like the armory and the ring, go places)

novelty seeking (the above, plus paradise manor is filled with unique knick-knacks and weapons)

very into gambling (could be executive function or, again, could just be Very Rich)

the butterflies. the ability to magically switch perspectives and see potentially hundreds of places isn't a symptom (lol) but i think it might be comparable to having adhd (like constantly having fifty different trains of thought all going on at once)

i've just finished book 2 on my reread so i may come back and edit this with more :)

#tgcf #hua cheng #heaven official's blessing #adhd #adhd headcanon #hualian #xie lian #i speak #hua cheng has adhd 2k23 #headcanon #maybe its projection maybe it isnt. eming and the pearl and the butterflies and the calligraphy and the door just speak to me

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strljaem · 1 month

Text

twilight pt.2

jaemin cullen, again.

note : this plot i wrote is EXACTLY like in the movie, so it’s a little cringe.

(I’M OBSESSED W THE TWILIGHT SERIES)

The first time I saw Jaemin, it was in the cafeteria. He stood out even in a crowded room. His skin was impossibly pale, with an otherworldly beauty that drew every gaze. Yet he seemed indifferent to all the attention, his eyes fixed on his tray, uninterested in the lively conversations around him. I couldn't help but watch him. His presence was like a magnet, irresistible and slightly unsettling.

The next time I saw him, we were in Biology class. He sat as far away from me as possible, his expression tense. It was as if he couldn't stand to be near me. His posture was rigid, his eyes fixed on the wall, and he seemed to be holding his breath. I was hurt, but also intrigued. What had I done to make him react this way? Then, he disappeared for a while, and I couldn't help but wonder where he'd gone. The days stretched into weeks, and his absence left an odd void in my life.

When Jaemin returned, he seemed different. There was an intensity in his eyes, but it wasn't hostile—it was curious, almost tender. We started having conversations, slowly at first, then with more ease. He had a way of speaking that was captivating, his voice smooth and melodic. He talked about the beauty of the forest, the way the light filtered through the trees. He asked me about my family, and I told him my parents were away on business, leaving me to live with relatives in Forks. He listened intently, his gaze never leaving mine.

One evening, he invited me into the woods. I was hesitant at first, but he assured me it would be safe. And then, with a swift motion, he lifted me onto his back and leapt into the air. We flew through the trees, the wind whipping past us. I could feel the power in his movements, the raw energy that coursed through him. It was exhilarating, unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

Later that night, I was in my room, sitting against the headboard of my bed. My room was cozy, with soft pastel walls and a small desk by the window. I had a few books scattered around, and my laptop sat on the desk, its screen dark. I was on the phone with my mother, catching up on the latest news from abroad. She was asking if I was doing fine, if I needed anything, and I was reassuring her that I was okay, that the relatives were kind and gave me plenty of space.

Suddenly, the window burst open, and Jaemin appeared out of nowhere. He stood there, his skin gleaming in the dim light, his eyes a deep shade of gold. I was so shocked that I nearly dropped my phone. He just stared at me, his gaze intense, as if he was seeing straight through me.

"I need to call you back," I told my mom, my voice shaky. "Someone just... I'll call you later." I hung up, my heart racing, and looked at Jaemin. "How did you get in here?" I asked, trying to sound calm.

"The window," he said casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Do you do that a lot?" I asked, a nervous smile playing on my lips.

"Just a couple of months," he replied, his own lips curling into a small smile. The humor in his voice made my pulse quicken.

"I like watching you sleep," he added, and I was caught off guard by the intimacy of his words.

He took a step closer, his eyes locked onto mine. "I want to try one thing. Stay very still." His voice was soft but commanding, and I couldn't look away. I nodded, my heart thumping loudly in my chest. He leaned in closer, very slowly, the tension building with each inch. I moved slightly, nervous and unsure, and he whispered, "Don't move."

His lips met mine, and the world seemed to stop. The kiss was passionate and deep, filled with a mix of thirst, love, and raw lust. It was overwhelming, the intensity of his embrace. I felt his hands on my waist, his grip strong yet gentle, and he pushed me softly onto the bed, never breaking the kiss. My mind spun, lost in the heat and the connection between us.

Then, suddenly, he pulled away, his eyes wide with alarm. "Stop," he yelled, and he flew back to the wall, leaving me on the bed, stunned and breathless. He stood there, looking guilty and worried, as if he’d crossed a line. I sat up, my hands trembling. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"It's fine," he replied, but the tension in his body was palpable. He crawled back onto the bed, his movements cautious, and reached over to turn off the lights. The room fell into darkness, and we just sat there, talking quietly about random things, our voices low and soothing. Despite everything, he stayed with me, his presence comforting. As my eyes grew heavy, he stayed beside me, keeping me company until I drifted off to sleep.

#jaemin #na jaemin #jaemin fluff #jaemin ff #jaemin imagine #jaemin scenario #nct dream #nct dream imagine #nct dream fluff #kpop

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miseryoforpheus · 3 months

Text

intro post <3

Hey there!

Im Jamie and my pronouns are They/She/he

Im a neurospicy minor (but I will swear and also am fine being moots with/talking to adults as long as no one is a creep to me it’s all good)

Uhhh welcome to my online diary :|

Happy to make friends if u want - feel free to DM me

online diary blog w lots of Neil Gaiman reblogs bc he’s my idol

Fun facts about me:

Umm ok (trying to think of fun facts now)

Im Italian but grew up in England, would love some more Italian moots <3

my favourite authors are Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett (but it’s been like that since before I read good omens lmao) also Rick Riordan and Alice Oseman

certified gravity falls child

if u couldn’t tell by the URL I’m obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology

nostalgic for a time I wasn’t even alive - late 80s and early 90s mainly but also like 70s

nostalgic for a time I WAS alive (barely but it still counts bc I do remember it) - the late 2000s

I did a quiz to see what Beatles band member I’d be and got Paul Mcartney

damn u rlly don’t realise how boring u r till u try and do an about me huh

Music I like:

Hozier, Olivia Rodrigo, Conan Gray, Harry Styles, YUNGBLUD, Beatles, Elton John, Queen, Renée Rapp, TV girl, bears in trees, Ricky Montgomery, NOAHFINNCE, MARINA, Fleetwood Mac

getting into:

Nirvana [used to love them a few years ago but then a mean girl made fun of me for it so I stopped listening to them but I’m starting again]

Dominic Fike Paramore

mother mother

MCR

the neighbourhood

The tags I will use:

Jamie answers asks - u guessed it this is for answering any asks

the most boring soap opera - my life stuff because my life is the most boring soap opera

MOTD - mood of the day which is just a lil thing I do

for the record:

I stand with Palestine 🇵🇸

please click here every day:

also free Ukraine 🇺🇦

aro and ace people are LGBTQ+ and this is an aro and ace and aroace safe blog

in general this is a COMPLETELY safe space

if u want anyone to talk to btw I’m always here to chat, can’t guarantee i’ll be able to help but I am always willing to listen literally any time we don’t even have to be moots or anything just DM me ok? Ily all take care of yourselves ok loves? <3

Also one last thing just for ppl that know me, I have no problem with u following this blog or anything but be warned that I’m not gonna filter my opinion at all on here bc I need a place to be myself and if u don’t want to see that i understand and idm just pls don’t take it as a personal attack or anything if u ever think something I post relates to you, I promise it’s not I just need to vent <3

My MOTD ratings:

0-2 > feeling really really really shitty

3-4 > shitty like I have too much sadness and anger and everything inside me and it feels horrible and yeah yk [reckless behaviour is strong here for me + pretty strong intrusive thoughts]

5 > normal. Numb. Yucky. Normal level of intrusive thoughts [for me at least, everyone is different]

6-7 > smol happy, probably was a bad day that got better

7-8 > :D

9-10 > fucking ecstatic

#intro post #personal #online diary

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aquaquadrant · 4 months

Note

Spoilers for Doc's ep 1 of HC10 but.

Doc torturing an allay with fire to filter out cobblestone because allays out-regen the flames (around 2:33:20) made me think of hels to pay Tangoooo. Nooo lmaoooo what if he found outtttt crying emoji

I DID SEE, it’s like doc got the idea directly from my twisted hels mind 🎻 the nature of the contraption would hit disturbingly close to home for tango, but he’d never admit to anyone- or even himself- that it made him uncomfortable bc allays are just mobs. he’s done worse to mobs for the sake of farms before, only difference is that they’re usually hostile mobs.

it’s like there’s a sliding scale of “ok to kill/harm” for mobs even tho in-universe, they would all be equal in terms of their sentience. piglins and villagers would prob be even higher, seeing as they’re species that have learned to use tools and bartering, but it’s not looked down upon to use them in very inhumane ways. again, i mean this in-universe. irl it’s all just a game so there is nothing morally wrong w making an allay-powered filter (NOT that i’ve seen anyone try to claim as much, it’s just interesting how we can generally agree that it just Feels Bad 😂)

#hels to pay au #HTP ask #anyway I Just Think It’s Neat #tango having very complex thoughts abt mob usage due to his hybrid status and all the suffering it caused him

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sparkle-d · 2 years

Text

waiting game | daniel ricciardo

pairing: daniel ricciardo x you

summary: in which you switch your phone with daniel's without knowing

tags: falling in love; chatting and messages; kind of enemies to friends to lovers

warnings: insecure reader; f!reader; dumb people

chapter: 4/?

(you: blue/ daniel: orange)

✧.* tag list: @bloodyvalentine93 @organasith @verstappens-hat @idkiwantchocolatee @landhoe @theplobnrgone @iamasimpingh0e @chiliwhore @buendiabebeta @icecoldtiress @holy-macncheese-balls @caosfanblr @cxliforniadream @calmleclerc @hannahholland1811

chapter 4 - beginning

hot stuff said: oh shit

hot stuff said: i just cut my thumb really badly

hot stuff said: don’t ask how

ma fraise said: how.

hot stuff said: i was shaving my hand…

ma fraise said: at the same time that i want to know why you were shaving your hand i’m a little scared to ask

hot stuff said: to have soft hands what else would it be

ma fraise said: idk you are "“kinky

hot stuff said: w-wht

With the blink of an eye, your vacations have come to an end.

You didn’t do anything special with your free time, aside from enjoying your own company and watching the most chick flicks you could. Even with the amount of movies and young adult series you’ve been binge watching, you still have a single and persisting thought inside your brain. You had a conversation with hot stuff a few days ago, the one he mentions about fancying you, at least that’s how you interpreted his text.

This continues to make you wonder between yes, he made a move on you and no, you’re being delusional. You like hot stuff, his company and to talk with him during your days and nights, but you can’t put your mind to believe that he would find you attractive. Maybe this is the way friends joke around with each other and you’re not used to it because your two best friends are more like your brothers and they would never do something like that.

It makes you confused.

You didn’t mention this to your best friends because 1. you felt weird about commenting on this kind of stuff with them, when you normally have nothing to comment about so you just don’t talk about it with them. And 2. they know who hot stuff is, and exposing that he made such a move on you is embarrassing.

Pierre and Charles have no filter in this matter, they always mention to you about their partners, people they hook up with and it’s so normal to you, you don’t even mind it anymore. But thinking about opening up about it to them when the issue is on your side, it’s different. They wouldn’t do anything to make you feel ashamed of it, but they definitely would lecture you about not being innocent and naive about things. They would want to protect you like they always do.

The truth is, you never felt desired.

You actually never gave the opportunity for anyone to see you with different eyes; you always tried to hide yourself from everyone, if someone turned heads on you, you would assume they were thinking badly about you. Well, and you’re probably right.

“You’re the ugliest out of all of us.”

You grew up in this reality - the reality that every single cell in your body is hideous. Your hair sometimes covers most of your face, leaving only a small gap for your eyes to pop out. Your skin feels too hot against your palms, making you think that your touch is feverish. The lines on your face are too deep and that makes you not smile too much, not that you’re someone who often gives away smiles out of nowhere, anyways.

You never felt beautiful.

When Charles and Pierre became your best friends, the friendship started because they never cared about your appearance. They never judged you for the way you’re, the way you look, or the way you dress - Pierre and Charles never tried to change you. Even though you are a very hard person to have around, in your opinion.

They came into your life and never left.

Your best friends could have anyone around them, they easily make friends without problem. But there’s something they share with you, they’re very anxious people. With you, Charles and Pierre have nothing to worry about. They always say you are a very sincere person, you never lie to them, never hide things from them and would never replace them with someone new.

You feel the same for the both of them, and as years went by, you noticed that now they understand you. They understand that you don't like crowded places, that you like the silence and being alone. Well, you like to be alone with them, mostly. You enjoy watching chick flicks with your best friends, especially because even when things don’t work out in the beginning, in the end, everything is worth it.

Sometimes you need some positivity inside your brain.

Maybe you should start to believe more in yourself.

—

Charles takes off the protection on your ears, patting on your shoulders “Oh, I’ve missed having you around.” He gives you a smile, side hugging you “I didn’t see you arrive at the garage today.”

“I got late this morning, you know, I got used to watching the races from my television, so I did not calculate correctly the time I needed to get ready and get here.” You arrived at the paddock late, a coffee in one hand and another holding your notebooks and papers “I ran immediately to check in if everything was right.”

“I bet they are.” Charles says as if you would let him drive in a car that wasn’t in a perfect and safe state “Want to check in with Pierre? I haven’t seen him either and you will go there anyways.”

You nod, checking one last time if everything is okay, making sure you can relax a bit with your friends “Yeah, I was about to head there.”

Sometimes you can’t turn off your brain from being focused on the race, but being anxious and worried about everything all the time is the ‘you’ that you want to change a little inside.

If Charles, who is racing later on, is okay with hanging out with his friends, you can do it too.

Pierre gives you and Charles the biggest of smiles, waving as he sees you - acting like he hasn’t seen you in years when in fact you had dinner together yesterday. Having them with you during race weeks, hanging out around the garages and smelling the oil and burnt tyres in the air, makes you nostalgic.

This was your childhood, and things didn’t change at all. It makes you feel warm in your heart.

You only notice that Pierre isn’t alone when you’re too close to run away from it.

“Oh my god, yeah, you’re a Ferrari member.” Pierre shouts at you, touching your Ferrari uniform - looking like a couple of tomatoes with Charles “Red looks good on you, lucky you went working with Charles and left me alone.”

You can’t concentrate on whatever Pierre and Charles are starting an argument on, something about you having a preference for Charles and making Pierre feeling lonely, when in fact you used to share beds with Pierre and leave Charles to sleep on the ground when you were younger.

Your attention is completely on the man in front of you smiling, looking like the menace he is because he knows his presence annoys you, he annoys you - and he likes it. He likes to see your cheeks turning redder as you try to avoid his stare, leaving your shyness as a view he enjoyed seeing.

“So baby girl is a Ferrari staff.” Daniel leans closer to you and bumps your shoulder with his “I didn’t know you were working here, thought you were only friends with these two.”

You open your mouth to retort Daniel, but when you look up at him, you notice he’s having fun with your embarrassment. Your cheeks are getting a tint of red so bright, anyone around the paddock could notice it. Is this how Rudolph feels? You let out a breath and decide to put your mind in its right place. You shouldn’t feel ashamed or anything, when in fact is Daniel the one saying embarrassing things.

You can deal with it.

“That’s only my part time job, my full time job is being an engineer.” You reply the most simple thing you can think of, if your interaction with him ends fast, it’s easier for you.

“This means I will have you around more.” Daniel grins, as if he has won something, when in fact there’s nothing to win here “I knew I should’ve known who you are, you’ve always been with these two.”

“Thank you for making it more evident that my presence is unnoticeable.” You give him a fake smile, crossing your arms, you don’t want to talk with him, but you stay beside him.

“Not at all, I think your presence is very noticeable.” He winks, but you are not in the mood, especially because you didn’t know you would see him around today “You’re mysterious and that intrigues me.”

You look at him, not getting what he means by that, but when you are about to ask it, Charles speaks louder.

“She’s happier when YOU win.” Charles says, his tone a little louder as the discussion with Pierre got heated, bringing your attention back to your best friends.

“Well, you win all the time, of course she’s happier when I end up winning.” Pierre shrugs. They aren’t serious about this discussion, but they’re using real arguments on this. Pierre is right, you made a fuss when he won, of course you did it for Charles every time he won, but with Pierre you even cried.

Well, you cried on Charles' first win too.

Charles snorts “She works with me, she shouldn’t be happier with your wins, dumbass.”

“Are you trying to get me fired, Charles?” You say, but your voice comes out almost like a whisper and you giggle in the end, to make sure anyone notices you’re just joking.

“Do they always fight for you like this?” Daniel crosses his arms, interested in all of the dynamics with your best friends.

“They aren’t fighting…” You try to say, but your voice again fails you and it comes out too weak “They are just messing around.”

“I’m on Charles’ side, I think you’re favoriting Pierre in your actions.” Daniel simply says, mocking you with his tone. You don’t want him to meddle in, to have an opinion or a side. You aren’t close to him, you barely know him. Until a couple of weeks ago he didn’t even know your name.

“Thank you.” Charles says “She even has a tradition with Pierre before every race. Me? Nothing.”

You beg with your eyes for Charles to shut up, but the person you didn’t want to notice is the one that notices first. Daniel lets out a loud laugh, going back to your eyes and staring at them. This time you try to not break the stare, and try to pierce him with your glare.

Pierre looks at you side by side with Daniel, only noticing now how close you two are “Are you friends now?” He raises an eyebrow, and Charles immediately does the same.

“I wouldn’t call it like that.”

“We are building up our friendship.” You and Daniel speak at the same time, exchanging looks as the answers are not on the same side “Don’t be jealous, I’m not trying to be her best friend, just a friend.”

Daniel bumps into you again and you snort, but wanting to leave a smile at the thought. Not that you like the idea of being Daniel’s friend when you’re always bothered by him. But having a new friend, of any type, is something new to you. Charles and Pierre have been trying for years for you to open up to new people, and now someone is there willing to destroy your walls and share a space with your best friends.

Charles looks at Pierre and they exchange a look that you can’t comprehend what it means, maybe they are indeed jealous of you. They don’t need to be, no one will ever replace them inside your heart.

“Anyways, I think it’s time for us to prepare ourselves.” Charles finally says it, looking around and notices everyone in the garage is wrapping things up “Just do your thing with Pierre and let’s leave.”

The tradition you have with Pierre is that you always close his racewear, for good luck. Pierre puts his overalls on his shoulders and you zip them up, tapping his chest in the end. You give Pierre a kiss on his cheek and wish him good luck, and do the same with Charles, so he won’t have such a pout on his face. His expression lights up immediately, the least thing you would want is for one of your friends to feel left out.

“And me?” Daniel says, showing his left cheek to you and standing still.

Pierre and Charles are watching Daniel waiting for your kiss. You look at them as if they were crazy, almost laughing on Daniel’s face. Why would you kiss his cheek? Why would he ask you for it in the first place? It’s not like you’re uncomfortable with it, but you aren’t leaving kisses everywhere you go.

“I would rather die, Daniel.” You answer, if Daniel has no shame in asking for a kiss, you shouldn’t feel ashamed to answer him like that. He deserves it.

“Ouch, you’re in a bad mood today cupcake?”

“For you my mood is always bad.” You say. Daniel seems to be having fun with this, and it infuriates you even more.

hot stuff said: how do you know if you’re into someone?

hot stuff said: i think i might be-

ma fraise said: what?

ma fraise said: falling in love?

ma fraise said: kdfjgnsdfkj

hot stuff said: this sounds so boring omg

hot stuff said: falling in love and etc

hot stuff said: but yeah something like it ig…

(prev chap // next chap)

#daniel ricciardo #f1 #daniel ricciardo fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x you #formula 1 #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #f1 fic #abi #awriting #wg

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whywhatswrongwithblue · 9 months

Text

DW REWATCH

S1E2 THE END OF THE WORLD

The Doctor takes Rose on her first voyage through time, to the year five billion. The sun is about to expand and swallow the earth. Amongst the alien races gathering to watch, a murderer is at work. Who is controlling the mysterious and deadly spiders?

WHAT was he doing in this scene.

You think you're so impressive. ---I am so impressive baby’s first flirt….

2. You lot, you spend all your time thinking about dying, like you're going to get killed by eggs or beef or global warming or asteroids. But you never take time to imagine the impossible, that maybe you survive. i adore this line. Iirc i read somewhere that this episode was made when a lot of negative climate focussed media was coming out and rtd wanted to assure young viewers that there was always hope? Not sure where i saw it but it’s stuck with me

3. Is that why we're here? I mean, is that what you do? Jump in at the last minute and save the Earth?-- rose we are literally here so i can trauma dump. Haven’t you heard of healthy coping mechanisms??

4. He's blue RTD my beloved. What an incredibly realistic, human observation—i feel like companions simply do not do this anymore. And they should!

5. Love the bark makeup. It’s so pretty!

6. The air from my lungs….this episode is so good damn it

7. Moxx of Balhoon better known as the CEO of sex. I give you the gift of bodily salivas lucky Rose

8. CASSANDRAAAAA

9. Rose being overwhelmed and running out. I can’t get over the amount of care and detail RTD put into writing her. She really is his baby. Can’t wait to see how he brings her back now (because he will. He will.)

10. Jabe’s device is unable to identify a timelord, probably because the rest of the universe thinks them dead? Although her reaction is very different from that of the Nestene Consciousness (who is implied to have lost quite a bit in the Time War), whereas Jabe doesn’t seem to have any personal connection. I wonder what the other outsider perceptions of the War were!

11. Ahhh Rose being kind to the plumber. I love my girl. LMAO at her realising she just hitched a ride with a complete stranger w/o thinking about it. The metal spiders are very Minority Report.

12. Your machine gets inside my head. It gets inside and it changes my mind, and you didn't even ask? the WRITING. Just chef’s kiss. Even in this sort of power dynamic, you never ever feel like Rose doesn’t have agency. She’s so smart and capable and fierce. i love her.

13. Gotta love how fast they switch from arguing to flirting. Jiggery-pokery <3

14. I might be late home. and then she comes back a YEAR later JESUS

15. Bad Wolf mention!

16. Hahahah i can’t watch the Jabe scene without thinking of plant sex now, courtesy of Katie

17. I was born on that planet, and so was my mum, and so was my dad. I love how much Rose loves her dad. Like if you’ve never even known a parent, you probably wouldn’t bring them up in a context like this, but the addition implies that Rose thinks of her dad quite a bit, and this is a nice little subtle setup to my favourite episode of the season, Father’s Day

18. The sun filter scene! It’s unexpectedly tense. I remember being really worried the first time I saw it

19. This whole event was sponsored by the Face of Boe. He invited us. Jack set them up….god that’s so sweet. The fact that he knows that they’re properly together in Pete’s World at this point <3333333 he is Literally Us. Putting his blorbos in Situations.

20. What are you going to do, moisturise me?

21. At least it'll be quick. Just like my fifth husband. HUHHH?? LMAO

22. I love the turning fan trope, every time it’s in any movie ever, it’s got me on the edge of my seat

23. Everything has its time, and everything dies. OOF. Appreciate Rose still wanting Cassandra to be saved! Something something parallel with how she changed the Doctor so much that he’s willing to give Cassandra a peaceful death in New Earth <3 the power of love, folks.

24. The Earth death scene is beautiful. I remember feeling so sad that everyone just missed it! And the Doctor finally realising that maybe this wasn’t a great first trip for his young companion xD

25. I'm left travelling on my own 'cos there's no one else.---There's me. What a beautiful moment of intimacy. And such great acting! The Doctor is finally beginning to let her in, and Rose has attached to this stranger so quickly, despite how prickly and condescending he can be. Soulmates <3

Loveee this ending. 10/10 again!

#dw rewatch: s1 #rose tyler #ninth doctor #ninerose #rtd era #meta

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borom1r · 26 days

Note

1-25 choose violence ask game ❤️

ALL OF THEM?????? you’re so real for this ty snfnsnbfns. doing LotR bc of course I am

1. the character everyone gets wrong

PIPPIN I HATE TO SAY IT BUT PIPPIN. all those incorrect quote polls that have been posted where pippin keeps fucking winning YALL REALIZE HES AN ACTUAL CHARACTER RIGHT?? with like depth?? and bonds?? and a personality. yall realize that right?????? right??? ik we all love 2 joke but he would not say half of those things

2. a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

ok I personally enjoy both for Boromir BUT if he IS topping. he is a service top. I will die on this hill

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

I block ppl for these takes so no screenshots but everyone who thinks Boromir is a villain. if you think Boromir is a villain I will key your car.

4. what was the last straw that made you finally block that annoying person?

there is one singular straw and it is bad Boromir takes in the Boromir tag

5. worst discord server and why

I don’t join fandom discord servers bc I love myself too much for that 💗

6. which ship fans are the most annoying?

ummm idk? most of my lotr mutuals have different ships from me and it’s all chill. but tbf I’m very selective abt who I interact with now lmao.

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

no one yet thank fuck.

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

Aragorn/Arwen isn’t actually romantic sorry I think it’s fucked up actually. the vibes are off there for SURE

9. worst part of canon

FARAMIR’S “yeah I’m gonna take you from your home and tame you. haha wdym. you don’t need a blade during times of peace.” SHTICK WITH ÉOWYN IN THE BOOKS. UNPACK YOUR BIASES YOU LITTLE FREAK!!!!!!!!

10. worst part of fanon

HM. I will stick with “people who horrifically misinterpret Boromir’s character”

11. number of fandom-related words you've filtered

at the moment I only have rings of power blocked but I’ve had that blocked since it came out bc if I look at the armor in that show I will commit crimes.

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

MOVIE!FARAMIR MY SPECIALEST LITTLE GUY OOOOOOOOOO MOVIE!FARAMIR I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUU he’s so handsome and special and I love him and you WILL all look at him and clap and cheer. it makes me insane that his temptation by the ring mirror’s Boromir’s and he’s actually fucking normal abt the Rohirrim AND I just love him very much :)

13. worst blorboficiation

ummm idk… maybe Frodo

14. that one thing you see in fics all the time

HMMM exposing myself but I basically only read Aragorn/Boromir fics lmao + since we’re Choosing Violence the most annoying thing is Boromir just being A Brute. like damn I love the surface level reading of the text maybe try engaging with it above a 1st grade analysis next time 💗

15. that one thing you see in fanart all the time

hmmmmm idk cuz again I don’t interact w a lot of fanartists so there’s nothing like. annoying. all th ✨motifs✨ I do see r very fun + I like them :)

16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

ummm for Serious, portraying Pippin as Stupid. for Silly, uhhhh Trans Faramir is so real to me I completely forgot cis people both 1) exist in the real world and 2) probably interpret Fara as cis too. i don’t get it :(

17. there should be more of this type of fic/art

trans Faramir 🩵💗🤍

18. it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

HM idk. trans Faramir again. also bc I love it, utilizing Old Norse culture for the Rohirrim teehee

19. you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like...

OK IM MAD THAT FINNISH BOROMIR IS JUST ME. THATS ME. THATS AN OUTFIT I WEAR REGULARLY MINUS THE LONG HAIR. I DRESS LIKE THAT TO BUY GROCERIES. i love him for that tho. I’m also mad that MtG Boromir’s stupid pointy muttonchops have grown on me. freak behavior, keeping his facial hair trimmed in those stupid little points

20. part of canon you found tedious or boring

I’m fighting for my life reading the histories rn 😑 I find them very dry for the most part

21. part of canon you think is overhyped

idk? I think there is an appropriate level of hype. but idk if Rings of Power had a lot of hype. if it did, then Rings of Power is my answer

22. your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

idk if it’s IGNORED necessarily but the fact that Boromir carries a Rohirric shield in the films does actually genuinely make me insane 💞 I love that sm

23. ship you've unwillingly come around to

UNWILLINGLY?????? idk?? ummmm I think it’s all fine for the most part I’m just A Fag so I don’t write het ships. it’s like a moral thing. Éowyn/Faramir gets a pass conceptually bc they’re T4T to me tho

24. topic that brings up the most rancid discourse

idkkkkkkk I don’t engage w discourse bc I want this fandom to remain pleasanttttt

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

again idk.. I block on sight if I see a Bad Take + then I erase it from my memory so I can continue to live in a beautiful blissful world where I. forgor abt cis people ☺️

#my phone autocorrected joke to hole……. ummmmmmm………..#NFNSJFJJSB TYYYYYYYYY FOR THIS FRRRR

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