#alright getting off my soapbox now
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Been thinking recently about the goings-on with Duolingo & AI, and I do want to throw my two cents in, actually.
There are ways in which computers can help us with languages, certainly. They absolutely should not be the be-all and end-all, and particularly for any sort of professional work I am wholly in favour of actually employing qualified translators & interpreters, because there's a lot of important nuances to language and translation (e.g. context, ambiguity, implied meaning, authorial intent, target audience, etc.) that a computer generally does not handle well. But translation software has made casual communication across language barriers accessible to the average person, and that's something that is incredibly valuable to have, I think.
Duolingo, however, is not translation software. Duolingo's purpose is to teach languages. And I do not think you can be effectively taught a language by something that does not understand it itself; or rather, that does not go about comprehending and producing language in the way that a person would.
Whilst a language model might be able to use probability & statistics to put together an output that is grammatically correct and contextually appropriate, it lacks an understanding of why, beyond "statistically speaking, this element is likely to come next". There is no communicative intent behind the output it produces; its only goal is mimicking the input it has been trained on. And whilst that can produce some very natural-seeming output, it does not capture the reality of language use in the real world.
Because language is not just a set of probabilities - there are an infinite array of other factors at play. And we do not set out only to mimic what we have seen or heard; we intend to communicate with the wider world, using the tools we have available, and that might require deviating from the realm of the expected.
Often, the most probable output is not actually what you're likely to encounter in practice. Ungrammatical or contextually inappropriate utterances can be used for dramatic or humorous effect, for example; or nonstandard linguistic styles may be used to indicate one's relationship to the community those styles are associated with. Social and cultural context might be needed to understand a reference, or a linguistic feature might seem extraneous or confusing when removed from its original environment.
To put it briefly, even without knowing exactly how the human brain processes and produces language (which we certainly don't), it's readily apparent that boiling it down to a statistical model is entirely misrepresentative of the reality of language.
And thus a statistical model is unlikely to be able to comprehend and assist with many of the difficulties of learning a language.
A statistical model might identify that a learner misuses some vocabulary more often than others; what it may not notice is that the vocabulary in question are similar in form, or in their meaning in translation. It might register that you consistently struggle with a particular grammar form; but not identify that the root cause of the struggle is that a comparable grammatical structure in your native language is either radically different or nonexistent. It might note that you have trouble recalling a common saying, but not that you lack the cultural background needed to understand why it has that meaning. And so it can identify points of weakness; but it is incapable of addressing them effectively, because it does not understand how people think.
This is all without considering the consequences of only having a singular source of very formal, very rigid input to learn from, unable to account for linguistic variation due to social factors. Without considering the errors still apparent in the output of most language models, and the biases they are prone to reproducing. Without considering the source of their data, and the ethical considerations regarding where and how such a substantial sample was collected.
I understand that Duolingo wants to introduce more interactivity and adaptability to their courses (and, I suspect, to improve their bottom line). But I genuinely think that going about it in this way is more likely to hinder than to help, and wrongfully prioritises the convenience of AI over the quality and expertise that their existing translators and course designers bring.
#alright getting off my soapbox now#apologies if this is not particularly coherent - i was very much working through my thoughts as I was writing#but yeah tl;dr i am not huge on LLMs especially for language education and am deeply disappointed by the way things are trending#anyways if anyone knows any learning tools that are similarly structured i'd appreciate the recommendation#being able to easily do a little bit of study on a regular basis helped me a lot and i've yet to find anything similar#duolingo#language#language learning
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So, I really like Bacchus/Dionysus. I don't work with him or anything, I just like his queerness and feminist agenda. But there is something that has been annoying me... His staff is not a pine cone.
Here are some examples of said staff(held by him, some maenads, and his wife):
The staff is described as a pine cone with oak leaves around it, he is also said to be wearing an oak leaf crown.
Here's the thing, why would the god of wine and drunken parties have a pine cone with oak leaves?
The answer is that he wouldn't.
So what is this plant? You may ask, well as a gardener and plant enthusiast as well as a study of Greek art and myth, I give you:
HOPS!!!!!!!!!
This is literally what they make beer with, wheat and hops.... And Dionysus is the god of alcohol. So the reasonable assumption should be that this is the plant that he is holding!!!
But I can't find a single article about this! Not even any speculation!! Why!! It's driving me crazy so I thought I'd share it with you all.
(Now I can understand a little why no one has ever realized this, hops are like two inches long a piece so it is a giant hop, but he's a god!!! He could totally create giant hops!!)
#alright im done now#ill get off my soapbox#i just needed to get this out in to the world#Dionysus has nothing to do with pine cones#hes a god of alcohol!!!#witch community#witchcraft#witchblr#witches of tumblr#greek mythology#greek gods#dionysus#greek pantheon#hellenic polytheism
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i have come here to settle a debate once and for all (even though i always knew yet i keep seeing the wrong spelling used everywhere and it drives me insane)
#i have my gripes with music and how people perceive things#as well as spelling#another thing i can't stand#is when people refer to a piece of music WITHOUT VOCALS as a 'song'#it's not a song unless it's sung! HELLO#alright i'll get off my soapbox now
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Congrats! The trashpile is getting bigger and bigger omg.
I would love to see Raph with 24 and 31, a lot of Romance for big red bc he deserves it
Thank you for requesting for Blurb Day, and yes, though now we've relocated to Donnie's garbage truck so we have plenty of room! We're gonna wage war against his electrical wiring. :3
You are absolutely right Big Red Does Deserve Romance! He deserves a chance to be soft! He deserves to be cared for! *is hauled off my soapbox*
"C'mon, Raphie, please?" Your voice whined over the speakerphone, and Raph smiled softly at the nickname he still wasn't quite used to. "Both my roommates are gone for the month, we'll have the whole apartment to ourselves!"
"I'm suppose to be inviting you to dinner, you know? That's what this call is for."
"Mikey never gets done cooking until late, we've got plenty of time! Come over now and I'll come back with you when it's time, please?" You cooed once more, drawing out the word like you didn't know you'd already convinced him.
His fingers drummed carefully over the handle of his water jug, casting a look out of his gym area to make sure everyone else was still occupied. Mikey had turned up the radio in the kitchen, Leo and Donnie were no where to be seen.
With a little self-deprecating huff, conscious he was whipped, he gave in to your request. "Alright, sweetheart, it's a deal. But I'm only doing this cuz you're cute."
He heard the muffled 'Yes!' you tried to hide before you chirped, "see you soon!"
He ended the call, shoulders rolling to relieve the soreness that had creeped in after ending his workout, and quickly left the Lair before anyone could ask where he was headed.
He was thankful you always left the living room window unlocked for him, though the fit was usually a bit tight and he always felt like he was either giving someone on the outside a good show or he was two seconds from falling flat on his face. The way your eyes lit up to see him was worth it, however, and the way you pressed yourself against him while giving a greeting never failed to cause his heart to give a heavy thump.
He might have balked a little bit though, at the sheer amount of pampering items laid out on the coffee table in front of the tv. He spied the usual bottles you kept for your 'girlie nights', as he liked to call them, and turned a wide eyed, worried look towards you.
You snorted, the sound at odds to the way you buried your face against him. "Cut the look Raph, it's just the two of us, remember? No need to be shy." You reached up on tiptoes, and he dipped automatically, let you press smooches against his nearest cheekbone before the sensation caught his attention and he returned your affection with a proper kiss.
He tried to deepen it, tried to entice you with a slide of his tongue over your lower lip, but you drew back with a tsk. "Nu uh, big boy, you're getting pampered tonight, no matter what. I'll let you kiss me after we've taken off the charcoal mask."
He tilted his head back out of reach with a pout, but you only tugged on the tails of his mask, leading him over to the couch and forcing him to sit.
He tried once more to distract you, curling an arm around your waist and scooping you up against his plastron. He took a moment to scrub his snout against your neck, breathing in your scent, thankful that, while you'd remembered to turn up your heat, you'd also worn something that allowed him to take advantage of the natural warmth you put off.
He was almost convinced he had succeeded, and the two of you could maybe just cuddle, kiss, and watch a movie, when the tick of a bottle opening sounded near the left side of his head, and he sighed roughly.
"Fine, fine, get it over with, but," he caught your wrist, his grip soft despite the way it swallowed your whole hand, and asked, "we can cuddle afterwards?"
You smiled, and he was caught in the happiness blooming across your face. You leaned forward, pressed your mouth to his once more in a lingering kiss, before you slid his mask off his face. "Course we can, Red. I'll keep you warm, no worries." You pecked him once more. "And besides, you'll feel good, you know you will."
Inside, Raph silently hoped his brothers would be too distracted to notice how he smelled, but a larger part of him simply relaxed, taking comfort from the way your hands glided softly over his face, the care you took when touching him.
And, unfortunately, the charcoal mask did feel pretty good.
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Appalachian Witchcraft for Beginners: Review
This is: Appalachian Witchcraft for Beginners: The History, Remedies, and Spells of a Rich Folk Magic Tradition by Auburn Lily
Rating: 2/10
Pros: Some information presented is correct, like the information on “ingredients” isn’t too bad if not a super small amount of them, she mentioned red clay which a lot of books seem to forget exists. And this book’s aesthetics? 10/10 for the illustration work, colors, fonts! I also appreciated the insistence that you help the land as much as possible, as well as the land’s original inhabitants and to give Indigenous voices space.
Cons: There is so much I was so disappointed by. First off let’s get this out of the way: The author in her bio on her own website auburnlily.com claims she is a starseed. I have a LOT of personal feelings about the Starseed movement and how it damages the progress of mental health and getting help and medication for said mental disorders. But this should have been the first major red flag that this book would not be what it says on the cover.
A lot of my problems are as follows:
Most folk workers don’t use the same three or four ingredients…in this case:
Peppermint. Rose. Essential Oils. Crystals, usually citrine or black tourmaline.
Actually we tend to not use crystals at all unless we’ve adapted them into our practice ourselves…the old folk didn’t have pretty rocks to use they got at the New Age store in the town square, alright?
A LOT of this information is definitely tinged in a new age and modern light. The correspondences for the days of the week mentions “The Goddess” which we don’t…deal with??? At all??
Another example:
Grannies used to use the bible and ‘faith healing’ to avoid persecution from their community.
Absolutely not! She mentioned the witch trials a minimum of 6 times, which (ahaha good pun) almost made me roll my eyes into the back of my head, then I read the bible to avoid persecution part and almost burned the book on the spot.
Faith healing is NOT a cop out.
It was the way things WERE. Were there hexers? Yes. Were they given a wide berth sometimes? Also yes. But they also had their place in the community! The hexer in my family, Flossie, was respected with some fear, but she was also the person who scorned lovers and cheated on spouses went to. When the police were hounding moonshiners a few came to her for cop go away works.
The author also insinuates that Yarb Doctors were held in higher regard because they didn’t use faith/and or gender may have had a point in that. I dunno what yarb doctors and grannies she talked to but men were not allowed in the birthing room, that was a Granny’s responsibility and by god they did it well. You never backtalked a Granny, they were and are the backbones of their communities.
Now that I’m off that soapbox, the author also seems to believe that meditation, third eyes, astrology in a modern way, and crystals are critical for Appalachian witchcraft which is stupidly incorrect. Her recipe for floor wash is hogwash and far too simple and small, her candle color correspondences are laughable…especially that little line on Orange: “Helps with menstrual cramps.” If that was the case no straight woman in Tennessee would get cramps because they all wear orange at least once a week for their team.
She only uses Hoodoo like…3 times which is better than most authors so I supposed that’s progress? But the author also hates baneful work and makes mention of that fact numerous times.
The author also has quite a few love spells mentioned, and weirdly enough…a lot of her ingredients in OTHER spells are also the same ingredients in her love spells. How strange.
My final and most damning gripe, the author seems to believe that stereotypes make for amazing offerings to the ancestors. In particular…the Irish would appreciate offerings of potatoes. You have to be kidding me.
Overall: Yet another new age witch trying to make folk magic look far more complicated and fluffy than it is. I hated this so much. I didn't even touch the "Open the healing channel" and "Reparative Visualization" "SPELLS" she includes which sounds like absolute woowoo.
Proof of some of these claims are below:
#buggy's book reviews#witchcraft for beginners#appalachian folk magic#witchblr#Reading garbage so you don't have to!
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jason prompt: first time making out where its all new and he can't get enough of you, please and thank you
Oh boy oh boy! I love this prompt. I have such a mega crush on Jason that this one will probably have me blushing. Let's goooo!
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Relationship: Jason Sudeikis x reader
Warning: Light smut?
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"Would it be alright if I kissed you?"
It started with that.
You were on a magnificent date, somehow, with Jason Sudeikis. You were a fan, sure, but you never thought you'd meet him.
And you never thought he'd ask your number.
And you definitely never thought he'd follow up with a date request.
You absolutely positively didn't think he'd go on another date with you. And then another. And now here you were, date number four with this fantastic man, who was now asking...
"Would it be alright if I kissed you?'
Your eyes are bright and your heart is hammering in your chest like a drum before his lips meet yours and you finally get to experience what a good first kiss is like.
Your hand cups his jaw, a beard coming in making you swoon, and his hands rope around your low back. Right there, outside the restaurant, he kisses you.
His tongue teases your lips and you tease him back, both of you smiling into the kiss. After it deepens for a moment (what feels like forever), he pulls back.
"My place?"
You nod quickly, climbing into the back of a cab. You're looking out the window when his arm loops around your waist, bringing you closer, his hand cupping your face and your chin, leaning in to kiss you again.
It's just dark enough, just late enough, that you don't care about the cab driver up front. He's probably seen worse.
Jason's tongue traces your lips, and then your mouths are moving in unison, his hands moving down your body, over the dips and valleys of your curves, while yours cost up and down his chest, to his neck, across his broad shoulders...
The car pulls up to the house not a minute too soon or you'd have an indecency charge. As you walk into the entryway, you marvel at the home and try to compliment him, but he's behind you, turning you around and kissing you again, his lips trailing down your jaw, and your neck, making you positively purr.
Your brain tries to catalog: When was the last time we were kissed like this? Your brain answers itself: Never.
You slide your jacket off and leave it on a puddle on the floor as he leads you to the couch, bringing you over his lap so you can make out like hungry, desperate teenagers.
It's impossible not to run your fingers through his hair, just long enough to tug on, graying in all the right places. His big, warm hands work around your waist, up your chest, to your face.
At this point, you're sharing oxygen.
When his lips move down your neck again, you can't help the moan that escapes your lungs.
"God," you hear him murmur against your skin. "God, I want you..."
Your body tingles and you clench, agreeing: "Oh, shit...me, too..."
He pulls back, his hazel eyes dark and blown out with lust.
"Upstairs?"
You nod and without missing a beat he takes your hand and leads up to his bedroom.
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Let the imagination run wild, folks! I hope you enjoyed this. Also, can I just say, making out is HIGHLY underrated. I know the big show is what people go after but omg, just kissing is so hot. OK, off my soapbox. Thank you for the prompt, friend!
#jason sudeikis x reader#making out#jason sudeikis rpf#jason sudeikis fan fiction#kissing is hot#kissing jason sudeikis is hotter
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next // previous
july 4, 2021
7:30 p.m.
adam's house
[wyatt] i'm gonna ask again...
[grant] alright, well, let me put it this way. what i didn’t like was very, very specific to me. it was a me thing and you are totally different than me. we are different people and the time period won’t even remotely be the same for us, so things will have changed. so, the experience i had isn’t going to be the one you would have. it’s not worth talking about because it just doesn’t matter.
[wyatt] boo, that’s not an answer.
[grant] okay, yeah, i hated it. still, i would absolutely, like, with every fiber in my being and all of my heart encourage you to go play college hockey if you’re interested. and yes, at the school i went to, if you’re interested in that school in the future. it’s so far off from now that you shouldn’t worry about it but you know what your dreams are and you should follow them. don’t ever listen to anyone else. do what you want. you know yourself best.
[grant] the only thing i'd say–and this goes for literally everything in life–is that if you do something and think it’s going to be amazing and you find out it’s not, trust yourself enough to leave and change paths. don’t stay with something if you’re not having a good, healthy, or safe time.
[grant] now i'm really going to get off my soapbox. i'm not here to lecture you. boring! gross! i'm supposed to be the fun uncle.
[wyatt] safe? did you get arrested or something? my friend at school has a big brother in college and he's in jail for selling cocaine.
[ezra] HAHAHAHA!
[grant] uhh–
[grant] i don’t know what to say but, uhh, i have never been arrested.
[wyatt] so, you didn't get arrested like papa?
[grant] you know about uncle paddy going to jail?
[ezra] he has his mugshots in his car!
[grant] oh, i forgot about that.
[wyatt] wait, why did you call him–
[grant] uncle paddy?
[wyatt] he’s your dad.
[grant] oh, no, buddy, i'm about to destroy your whole worldview…
[ezra] hey, the dragon is here! geez, the head chopping thing took soooooo long.
[grant] yay, alduin time! RIP to the others, though.
[grant] but, um, buddy, he’s not my dad. and your dad isn’t my brother.
[wyatt] liar!
[grant] i didn’t know you didn’t know!
[wyatt] how’s he not your dad? you wear glasses like him! and you laugh like him!
[ezra] wait, what?
[grant] i guess you’re confused because he calls me his son? and, well, your dad and his siblings and i call each other by, like, sibling-y terminology.
[grant] my mom is your grandfather and aunt bridget’s older sister.
[ezra] no! great-grandma aoife and great-grandpa joseph don’t have another–
[grant] no, no, they do.
[ezra] you're lying! liar liar pants on fire!
[grant] i am telling the honest truth! and i'm sorry to surprise! i really thought you knew.
[ezra] well, uh, you can still be uncle grant because you’re cool. you fly planes and do cool stuff like that, and you’re nice and funny and good at video games.
[grant] aww, i still make the cut? i'm still good enough to be an uncle?
[wyatt] of course! but if you become less funner than uncle alex, then you’re gonna get fired from the uncle job.
[grant] at least i know the terms of the contract!
[grant] but damn, you don’t like alex?
[wyatt] he’s kind of annoying. and he and lilly have a crusty white dog. i'm scared of crusty white dogs. they look evil. they’re gonna eat my limbs in my sleep.
[grant] that’s very oddly specific.
[ezra] i'm scared of sporks.
[grant] sporks?
[ezra] and i don’t like ladders.
[grant] okay, but sporks?
[ezra] it’s a fork but uglier and stupider.
[grant] you know what? valid. you’re not wrong.
[wyatt] i hate clowns, too!
[grant] also valid.
[wyatt] you aren’t scared of anything?
[grant] lithium-ion battery fires.
[wyatt] what?
[ezra] that’s a lot of big words.
[grant] yeah, lithium-ion battery fires, especially on a plane, and people being mean to me. germs, too. can’t forget germs.
[wyatt] if i sneeze into an open hand, would it make you cry?
[grant] yeah, a little bit.
[grant] don’t make me summon the crusty white dogs.
[ezra] summon! summon! summon!
#ts4#the sims 4#sims 4#sims 4 story#ts4 screenshots#simblr#hlcn: everything the stars promised#this scene is for the lore lovers just fyi#holocene.docx#holocene.png#hlcn: grant#hlcn: ezra#hlcn: wyatt
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Can you tell that I had way too much making the first half of this pic if I made up some supportive images on Canva for it? I'll be posting the images I did that accompany my new bkdk fanfic piece "Ripple" on Archive of our own. Check out Chapter 1 of Ripple: Chapter 1: Denki Bares the News
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It’s the morning before the celebration of the New Year 2200 and this was a rare opportunity for Best Jeanist to give Katsuki some time off from hero work. Alright, Alright…gave is putting it lightly. Forced. Forced is more like it. Katsuki told Billie Jeans that he was fine. He’s just had a lot on his mind recently which made him just a tiny-smidgen-you-can’t-even-see-it-through-a-microscope upset! A lot being a green haired, green eyed freckled asswipe that has haunted his every wet dream almost every night since the end of the war in their first year. His hand has amazing stamina at this point. He just…can’t tell Deku his feelings for obvious reasons. Katsuki has been breaking his ass to reach his childhood goal of the Number 1 Hero spot. There is no time for shitty extras and sappy romances; they’ll just get in his way and he’ll never be number 1 with such distractions. Especially when one of the people in his damn way right now is Deku ranking 5th in the recent fucking hero charts with Katsuki at the 6th! THE 6TH! Stupid Nerd! Stupid Starry Freckles! Stupid Blinding Smile! Stupid Forest-laden Eyes! Stupid Chiseled Greek God Body! Stupid Voice that got deeper as they got older and now sounds like vocal chocolate that Katsuki wanted to lick into oblivion! S-Stupid EVERYTHING! Everything is out of order! First is Katsuki (ALWAYS) and then Deku (IF HE’S LUCKY!). So Katsuki Bakugo does NOT have time to take a vacation or date or do any other distracting thing when he could be doing more to up his ranks! Seriously, Universe?? Go fuck yourself.
Billie Jeans seems to disagree and thinks Katsuki’s “unwillingness” to not stay after work; his increased—albeit-already-abnormally-high-for-your-average-22-year-old—irritability toward anyone simply breathing; and his not-so-subtle-but-totally-not-a-big-deal “ExTReMe UsE oF FooORCe” as obnoxiously mentioned by the media on small-time villains will get in the way of his hero work.
Standing high on his designer Levi-branded soapbox, Denim Head went on the same rant he’s told Bakugo over a thousand times about how similar he was to the younger man as a hot-headed, childish, and arrogant new hero years ago. He paid a high price for his cockiness one day, when due to his lack of attention, a villain he apprehended broke loose, causing the death of a civilian and a still-missing child. That incident forever changed the way the fashion hero performed his duties, and he’s never stopped looking for the missing kid. He targeted the hot-headed ash blond because he didn’t want Katsuki to make a similar mistake and—blah blah blah.
Shit happens, ok?! I mean, Katsuki’s not heartless anymore, but he still knows that things don’t always come out perfect in a hero/villain situation. Jeansie didn’t go into much detail, but it wasn’t his fault, it was the villain’s. Right? Right. As for Katsuki, this was totally unrelated. So what if the younger blond hero used a howitzer impact on a petty purse thief last month? Makes the shitty villain more convinced to not do it or other crap like that again. Faster reform for the snatcher and a bigger message to the remaining extras in Japan who might want to try the same stupid crap on his watch. It’s win-win situation, right? But NNoOoOooOo. Apparently, that and yelling at reporters and making 1 or 2…or 4 dispatch workers cry within the last 5 days is means for Billie Jeans to give his explosive ash blonde sidekick of 3 years an ultimatum—take at least two weeks of earned leave or take two months of suspension from hero work. Guess which one Katsuki picked?
Sigh…so there he was. Begrudgingly at the favorite brunch restaurant of his Bakusquad (Raccoon Eyes, Soy Sauce Face, Shitty Hair, Ears, and Sparkplug), on the verge of getting kicked out since Damn Denki can’t hold his alcohol from the bottomless mimosas the table ordered. Katsuki doesn’t drink alcohol frequently and if he does, he has his reasons, but he doesn’t get shit-faced like the rest of his (don’t-tell-them-this) friends. It’s just wet carbs to him and he’s on a tight eating regime and sleep schedule. Mina is currently laughing her ass off and trying in vain to prevent the Chargedolt from getting on top of the table and singing a recent pop song VERY off-key. Soy Sauce Face and Shitty Hair are loudly yucking away about the MMA fighter line-up coming this weekend and Ears is just sitting coolly and seemingly unaffected…oh she has noise reduction buds on (good idea). And out of the corner of his eye, a poor young waitress stands off to the side, shaking her head, which Katsuki is sure he hears her say before she storms away, throwing off her apron: “They don’t pay me enough for this shit.” Tch. Same, Girl. Same.
“Guys! Guys!” loudly slurs the blonde electric hero. Luckily, it was was too early in the morning to be that crowded, but Mina’s always anticipated the rowdiness of the crew and booked a semi secluded area of the restaurant.
“Keep it down, Denks!” Demands Mina.
“Got it!” Continues Denki at the same volume. “Did you hear? Shindo is gonna propose to Midoriya tonight at the New Year’s Hero Gala!”
(Cue Record Needle Scratch) SCCCRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
“HHHHHAAAAAANNNNNHHHHH???!!!!!!!” Katsuki interjects, hiding a twinge of sadness and jealousy under his signature angry scowl. He knew of Deku and Pan-Quake dating but didn’t think they were that serious.
Mina: “Oh, yeah, you didn’t know Blasty?”
Katsuki (tries to not express his annoyance): “Tch. My guess is Pan-Quake is just trying to use Dumbass Deku for his hero ranking to boost himself up.”
“Uh…” Speaks Kirishima, “Kats, I don’t know about that. I think Shindo’s been serious from the get-go about Mido since the provisional licensing exam.”
Sero mentions brightly: Literally swooped him off his feet that day!
“Haven’t they only been dating for about 8 months?” Asks Jiro, she seems to be suddenly engaged with conversation now that the voices have returned to reasonable decibels.
Sero: Yeah, but I think they’ve been off and on for the past couple of years. They’ve known each other for while, and they work at the same agency now, right? Mirko’s?
Denki (Sighs slowly while staring into the distance, sitting his chin in the palm of his hand): Oh, yes. My lavender lover is at Mirko’s, too!
Jiro (smirking): So is Momo.
Kirishima (bringing the conversation back to the greenie): I think Yo-kun’s been chasing after Midobro since he got back from his overseas mission after we all graduated.
Mina: Naw, even before then too, Babe. Remember when all the hero schools partnered more after the war? Whenever we combined with Ketsubutsu, Yo-kun had nothing but heart eyes for Midoriya then too.
Denki (coming back to earth): Well…If my gossip is right, and it always is, Shindo is going all in. Even the Sahara Desert doesn’t compare to his thirst for the green bean.
Sero: Didn’t Izuku save him from Muscular when he went on his vigilante shit?
Denki: Holy fuck, you’re right!
Mina: No wonder he’s head over-heels!
Jiro: I mean, yeah, have you guys even seen the new magazine highlighting the top 5 heroes recently??
Oh…Um…Yeah…Katsuki definitely saw the new magazine and NO he didn’t get it because of the shitty nerd even though that was his first time buying the magazine since All Might retired. He got it for…for…analytical purposes…yeah…ANALYTICAL PURPOSES for when he outranks Deku in the next hero billboard charts in a few months. Nice to get an idea of what they’ll ask him when he hits top 5. And NO, Katsuki absolutely didn’t go home and read and reread the entire article on Deku for over 45 minutes completely ignoring the rest of the magazine. And under NOcircumstances-NONE-NADA-ZERO-did he jerk off once or twice or four to Stupid Deku’s photo spread! Katsuki was still having a hard time focusing, not just on the magazine which he may or may not take out later for more analytical purposes, but marriage? The nerd? To some extra like the human vibrator of all people? Didn’t Deku have standards? And plus, aren’t they all too young? Yeah, they’ve seen some shit with the war and everything, but for Katsuki, that only fueled him to get to his dreams faster of being the number 1 hero, not…ya-know…fall in love or anything like that. Or admit his love to Number 5 for that matter. He’s had a few flings and one-night stands to get the edge off, but he’s not longed for anything beyond that, well…it doesn’t help perhaps that he mostly imagined his partners with freckled and scarred skin, green hair and green eyes, but still.
Kirishima: Woof. Who hasn’t seen it? Our little Greenie’s come a long way, hasn’t he? Super ma—
Denki: —I’d like to make him come a long way, if you catch my—
Jiro: Puh-lease Denks, it’s 10 in the morning!!!
Denki: Okay! Okay. Either way, it’s definitely happening tonight. My sources—
Kirishima: What sourc—
Denki: Doesn’t matter. My sources say that Shindo No-Mo-Ho has had the ring since the summertime, and was actually planning on taking our Mido to Yuuga’s Restaurant and Vineyard to propose then, but ya know…hero work and all that.
Sero: Did you say Yuuga’s? As in Aoyama Yuuga?
Mina: Yes, the one who refused to tell us how or why he managed to bitch Mineta.
Jiro: In all fairness, Grape Juice was a sick bitch to begin with.
Denki: He goes by WineNDine now. Remember? Either way, Whatever magic or quirk our blond drag glitter queen pulled, had Mineta singing a new tune when we came back as second years.
Katsuki found himself tuning them out on their next wave of gossip, his thoughts going toward a man of green. As a matter of fact, when was the last time he talked with Deku? Like really talked? Was it Auntie’s and All Might wedding a year and a half ago? Shit. He really dropped the ball in keeping up with him. Izuku texts him every now and again, but Katsuki rarely responds back and if he does, it’s normally short responses. Nothing to keep the conversation going. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t heard from the nerd in a while.
Mina (reaching over the table to wave a hand in Bakugo’s face): Blasty…Yoohoo?! Are you still on earth with us?
Katsuki (shaking out of his daze): SHUT THE HELL UP!
Denki: Ah, there he is. So…how are you feeling about this Kats?
Katsuki: Fuck do you mean. Dunce Face?
Kirishima: Come on Bakubro, we all know you’ve been pining for Mido for a long LONG time now. Holding in your true feelings’ not very ma—
Katsuki: —I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Throwing up their hands together in perfect practiced choreography, Jirou, Kirishima, Sero, Mina and Denki all grunt in unison: UGH, HERE WE GO AGAIN!
Katsuki: WHAT?!
Kirishima: Seriously?! Bakubro, how long are you going to do this for?!
Sero: Well…you know what guys? Now that I think about it, it’s too late isn’t it?
Mina: To tell the truth? It’s never too late for that, even it’s just to get it off your chest. –nods at Sero then returns her attention to the irate blond—Blasty, you’ve almost died! Both of you! All of us! Multiple times! None of those moments ever showed you that maybe—just maybe—that life is too short to handle your relationship—
Denki: Or lack thereof
Mina (continues over Denki): —the way you do?
Jiro: We all know he confessed to you the night of the graduation party.
Katsuki: Wha-how do you know that, Ears?!
Kirishima glared at Katsuki—a rare sighting on his normally happy-go-lucky friend: Bro, because he asked us for advice on how to approach you about it.
Oh no. The nerd got the squad involved? Shit.
Sero (voice downcast): Yeah, Kats, he wanted to see if we might know how you’d respond.
Denki: We all told him yes, that you…
Katsuki: —that I what?
Mina: that you liked—maybe even loved—him beyond the platonic sense.
Jiro: Yeah, Bakugo, the signs were all there. By our 3rd year—hell even before then—you shifted when it came to Midoriya. You may have spewed the regular insult, but it didn’t have as much bite as it did as in our first year.
Kirishima: When you two sparred or went out on your internships or just hung out with everyone during game night, you were a Wonder Duo. Like you two worked so perfectly in sync as if you were made for each other—on and off the field. It was incredible to see that, it was super ma—
Sero: —Plus, it was the way you looked at him sometimes Kats. Don’t think we never noticed. By the time we graduated, you would get more and more “angry”—sero puts up air quotation marks—by the tiniest stuff Midoriya would do. You paid attention to him more; you’re damn eyes were pretty glued to him.
Denki: You even smiled more! God, the first time that happened, I thought you were demon possessed! I was half tempted to asked you for your TIC (Toga Identity Code)!
Mina: So, imagine our surprise on graduation night, when you came back down from the roof top alone huffing and puffing with poor Midoriya nowhere in sight? We only learned later that he locked himself in his room for two days only to suddenly pop out afterward and tell everyone he’d taken a job overseas for a year.
Of course Katsuki remembers that night. Too fucking well actually. While he has many regrets he refuses to voice—other than his apology for how he treated Izuku when he was younger—the one he made that night…made the top spot.
----
CUE FLASHBACK START: MAY 11, 2196
On graduation night, bathed in the twilight's bittersweet purples and pinks, Izuku mustered his courage. Sweat coated his palms, and his heartbeat reverberated in his ears like a dolorous chant. The time had come.
Katsuki always paid close attention to details. It was in those details he found his next move. Always a man of action. Every knoll and cranny of the UA whispered tales of his own journey of a hero in training. For three years, they had been together — him, his friends, and his insecurities, and most interestingly…Izuku. The feelings that blossomed for the greenie over time were just as vibrant as the man itself. Tonight as he followed Izuku to the UA rooftop, the echoes of his past were overpowered by the pulsating rhythm of his heart.
The door to the rooftop creaked under their history, blending with the laughter of nervous anticipation.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Izuku asked, gesturing to the vast cityscape bathed in the moon's tender glow. The neon lights flickered on and off like fireflies.
Katsuki nodded hesitatingly, attempting to purge the sinking feeling from his heart and replace it with the grandeur of the scene. Everything to Katsuki was Izuku. The latter had been a constant. The anchor in his raging storm, keeping Katsuki together and grounding him though he didn’t admit it. But there was a strange energy in the air tonight, a sense that something irrevocable was on the brink.
"I've, uh, I've wanted to tell you something for a while now, Kacchan," Izuku began, drawing Katsuki's attention away from captivating view of the city they’ve saved countless times as a Wonder Duo to the more mesmerizing view of the man beside him. This wasn't the same scrawny, quirkless boy who Katsuki betrayed and used as a punching bag. This Deku was different. This was Izuku.
At first glance, he would pass as the person the blond used to know. Same green eyes that sparkled with peridots and emeralds, but these held an added depth to them, hardened like a diamond under pressure. His hair was still viridian evergreen but ran wild like tiger stripes, earning him an air of rugged charm. His well-worn ridiculous ‘T-Shirt’ t-shirt hugged his bulkier frame, revealing the physical testament to a sudden life of heroics as the ninth and final wielder of One for All. Katsuki examined Izuku, his heart squirmed in its cage, caught off guard by an overwhelming rush of emotions. God…could the nerd have looked more glorious?
His voice trembled slightly, “Kacchan, I…uhm…”
Katsuki’s never been a man of words. Neither was he a patient one and his nervousness definitely didn’t help lighten the mood, but he barked with no bite: “Spit it out, nerd. Haven’t we gotten past you being nervous and shit around me?”
Izuku: Well, it’s…this…is not that easy.
Katsuki: Come out with it, dumbass, I ain’t getting any younger!
Izuku: I love you! Or rather I like you a lot. But like…like like. Is that too much? I just—”
Izuku rambled on but the world spun around Katsuki, and he didn’t hear a damn thing. A strange feeling, a cocktail of excitement, relief, and dread, settled in his gut. The confession mirrored the blonde’s feelings and stirred a gale in his heart yet; he utterly feared the repercussions. He wanted Izuku. Gods, he wanted him. Strip him bare, bend Deku over and ram into his ass right then and there with all the stars and holy hosts watching above them, but Katsuki couldn’t. The blond didn’t want to address those types of feelings. Not right now. After dying at the war and learning of the sacrifices made to keep him alive, he became even more determined to pursue his dream of the Number 1 Hero spot. He didn’t want to make time for…this…but in the future, yes. Oh gods yes, Izuku please. And if he was honest, he felt Deku deserved better. Preferably someone who didn’t come up with the name “Deku.” Someone who didn’t hurt him. Someone equally loyal and bright and blinding. Izuku’s freckled Adonis body only knew Katsuki’s hands as an abuser, a bully, a rival, and the blond didn’t know if his hands could be anything else for Izuku beyond that. Coming back from his thoughts and catching the nerd in a mutter, his heart ached at his decision.
Izuku: “I-I have been in love with you for—uhm—for…geez…ever? I just didn’t want for both of us to graduate today and not tell you how I fe—
Katsuki couldn't meet his gaze, feeling himself a traitor: I don’t love you.
Silence followed his declaration — pure and unwavering, casting a hallowed spell over them.
Izuku, the bright ray of sunshine that he his…Izuku’s smile didn't falter, but in his eyes were trees of the deepest rainforest rocked and bent relentlessly back and forth from a hurricane of hurt. Katsuki wanted to take the words back then and there. The blond cared for him, loved him with a passion as explosive as his quirk, but his own insecurities and fears of commitment clouded his senses. He was too afraid to accept that he could be enough for Izuku, that he could, in fact, love him, worship him the way Deku deserved.
Izuku: I….oh. Oh. I…
Katsuki eyes brimmed with an uncanny mixture of regret and guilt. He tried to hide his hitching breath, and he felt the world beneath them give away.
Katsuki: Sor-, I-, Deku, Y-you need get over me. Get over this. I-I’m s…I just. I’m not in love with you like that.
Izuku (stutter completely gone): I understand. Thanks for being straightforward, Kacchan.
Katsuki: Tch. W-whatever nerd. We won’t speak of this again. This will stay between us, y-yeah? Just—let’s just get back downstairs.
Izuku: I’ll head down in a minute. –wipes at a tear falling down his cheek— Enjoy the party.
Leaving Izuku on the rooftop, Katsuki returns to the commotion below. Despite the masses moving with Jiro’s music, he can feel eyes on him as he made his way to kitchen.
Kirishima looks nervously at Sero, Mina, and Denki before speaking: “Bakubro, y-you um-“
“What Shitty Hair?” huffs the blond, irritated by the existence of people in general at the moment, saddling roughly at the kitchen island bar.
“Nothing Blasty, here’s a drink!” Interrupts Mina, giving Kiri a woeful smile and a slight shake of the head. “Congrats on uh…getting an offer at Best Jeanist’s Agency.”
“Tch. Of fucking course. What would Billie Jeans do without me?” He spits, his eyes never making contact with theirs’s.
Denki shakes his head and offers a wince that passes as a tired smile. He sighs. “Yeah. Yeah Kat. Congrats.”
The night weighed on Katsuki like no other. When the nerd returned from the US, he became an even greater force to be reckoned with: more confident in his sense of self, more fluid in his quirk, more socially adept, more devastatingly beautiful, and Katsuki just didn’t know what to feel. His feelings never changed for Deku; they only deepened. As they deepened, Katsuki grew more distant.
FLASH BACK END.
Katsuki can barely form a coherent thought. He needed some time to himself. The nerd wasn’t seriously tying the knot right now was he? They’re in their 20’s for Kami sake, should they be really thinking about heavy crap like marriage when they have the rest of their lives to go for that sappy shit? And why fucking Pan-Quake? Katsuki abruptly rises from his seat, grabs his wallet and puts cash on the table for his portion of the meal. He’ll get to the bottom of this.
Katsuki: Just leave it alone, guys. As long as the nerd is…happy.
Kirishima: Kat. We were just—
Katsuki makes a predatorial glare at the squad before pacing out: Leave. It. Alone.
Denki (woefully too inebriated to care about the death glare): Wait, where are you headed out to, Kats?
Katsuki (already walking away shouts over his shoulder): Picking up some shit for the old hag! Now, fuck off!
As the blond makes his way out toward his car, he whips out his phone to do something he realizes he hasn’t done in a while: initiate contact with Izuku. Upon closer inspection of the text message dates when he presses send, he comes to a startling discovery:
“Holy shit. How did I forget the nerd’s birthday?”
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i now step back upon my “taokaka should have been the main character of blazblue” soapbox (though truthfully i never leave it housing prices are surprisingly reasonable on hills you choose to die on) to give another reason as to why her being the MC would have been really fun.
Specifically, she would have been the fighting game equivalent of Kirby. Allow me to explain.
Alright, so the biggest thing about Kirby games is that the lore is surprisingly deep and dark and full of ancient evils and long dead heroes and wish granting living stars and all that junk, while Kirby himself remains blissfully oblivious to all of it.
The reason being that he’s a basically good hearted kid with a relatively simple view of the world who is, coincidentally, the latest, and possibly last, in a long long line of super powerful warriors. So he just sees a bunch of jerks who steal his cake or wreck his house or make his friends sad so he just saddles up to make ‘em quit it. And he does make ‘em quit it. Every single time.
And because he always makes ‘em quit it he continues to be his happy jolly oblivious self, while he makes the lives of the people around him better just by being positive and friendly. He’s surrounded by people more serious or selfish than him, but they all defer to and trust in him because he’s proven himself, over and over, as a good and capable person. He’s their friend, Kirby, he’ll find a way to sort this all out just fine.
There’s a bunch of similarities between Tao and Kirby; they’re both big eaters, neither of them have any clue about the wider lore of their setting (Kirby because he’s a naïve kid and Tao because she’s naïve but also...kinda dumb), both of them are a part of a lineage of great warriors (Kirby is a Star Warrior while Tao is the clone of Jubei, one of the Six Heroes who fought the Black Beast), and both of them take a relaxed view on life.
If Tao had been the main character of Blazblue; the story would have shaken out something like so: Taokaka goes out from her village to find a way to get money to buy food. She meets Ragna, who she remembers from a wanted poster, and goes to fight him for that money. Problem; she’s hungry, so she forgets that first thing and says that if she beats him he has to buy her food.
Ragna is like, “alright fine whatever, weird cat...”, because this is just this random weird cat girl he can beat her just fine. And than she beats him. Trounces him, really, and he can only lay on his back in disbelief. While the cat girl cheers about her victory and impending meal, Ragna can only think that that beating was...oddly familiar.
He buys her food, cause he promised and he doesn’t want to get beat up by the cat girl again, and she’s really happy about it. Really happy. Oddly happy, They finish and he leaves...and the cat follows him.
“...you got your food, what else do you want?”
“Huh? Waddya mean Good Guy? Tao wants to hang out with Tao’s friend!”
And so Taokaka hangs out with her friend. And suddenly she has to deal with a bunch of weirdos trying to fight her friend, so she steps in every time and gets them to quit it. NOL officers, Noel, Jin, all the way to Nu. She just beats them all up because they keep trying to hurt her friend and nobody hurts Taokaka’s friends.
Just, imagine she gets to Hazama/Terumi, and he takes off his hat and does his laugh and he goes on this big speech about his plan and AMATERASU and all that anime villain shit...and Taokaka just scratches the top of her head befuddled and asks “...sooo, Tao didn’t get most of that, but are you saying you’re the reason Good Guy is grumpy and sad all the time?”
And Terumi can only really blink at her slowly and go, “heh, you know what? Yeah, that’s basically the gist of it.”
And Taokaka nods cheerfully, “Okay! Tao gets it!”
And than she beats him up. Beats the absolute shit out of him. And Terumi is a mix of rage, panic, and terror. Because this is like fighting Jubei. No, this is like fighting Jubei if he had no regard for his own physical well being or for the integrity of his environment and was somehow both utterly stupid and completely mental.
And this repeats for every major villain in Blazblue. All the other Arcade Modes have each character struggle against their inner demons and these cruel villains, while the Canon Story is Tao’s Eventful Afternoon where she meets a bunch of weird guys, befriends them, and then meets a big scary nightmarish villain who she beats up with her big puffy sleeves (full of knives) until they quit trying to hurt her friends.
It would have been rad, is all I’m saying.
#blazblue#Taokaka#mori did nothing with Tao so im restoring balance to the universe by suggesting EVERYTHING be done with Tao
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Hi. I had to psych myself up to ask un-anonymously ☺ I feel like a stupid derp new kid bc I'm new to tumblr & struggling w/ fanfic. Anyhoo, I absolutely adore & look up to your writing. Your descriptions are always so brilliant & lovely, sth I struggle with. Your nsfw pieces perfectly mix spicy & moving. I especially love "In Which You Both Demonstrate How Not to Ride a Horse." I was so touched & wanted to cry, & with so few words. Waiting to read "Things Asked & Promised" bc I know I'll enjoy it & want to give it undivided attention.
Could I pls ask for a nsfw Arthur x fem reader piece where they're accidently voyeuristically discovered in a hot n spicy moment? If not it's ok. Thank you for your writing!
I realize that what I am doing is the equivalent of handing someone a cup of tuberculosis after they asked for ice cream and for that I am sorry
[Ao3 link] [Part 2]
In which quills are shed [Part 1/2]
Bluegill scales cover the oak slats like a scatter of half moons. Or, viewed through the lens of your current mood, a scatter of torn fingernails, each one ripped clean. Glancing up at the man at the other side of the table, you drag the back of the knife viciously against the dead fish’s decimated mail, and another shower of parts falls against the notched wooden surface like a morbid spray of rain.
Micah asks. “You and Morgan still fucking?”
He says the words loud enough to carry across the whole of what ragged remainder is left of the camp at Beaver Hollow. The two strangers sitting by the cave’s open maw look up from their card game, and you feel a faint, falling sensation in your chest. The kind that flutters through when you miss a step going down the stairs.
Keeping your head down, you continue scraping at the bluegill.
“Nah, can’t be. Doubt that miserable bastard can even get hard, the state he’s in now. And even if he could, can’t see him lasting more’n two minutes without, y’know…” Micah wheezes dramatically, adopts a wet, hacking cough that sounds despairingly close to the real thing.
You put the tip of the knife to the seam of the bluegill’s belly, then rip it open with unwarranted violence. Droplets of fish blood spatter against the front of your dress.
“Now, if what you’re looking for is satisfaction, I’d suggest you head on down to my tent.” From the periphery of your vision, you can see Micah jab his thumb towards the lean-to set up in the shadow of Dutch’s tent. A hint of bile rises to the back of your throat. “I’ll show you how a real man fucks a woman.”
Come any closer and I’ll show you how to skin a snake, you think, groping for innards with your fingers. Grasping the bluegill’s pebble-shaped heart, you yank out a string of entrails that glistens dark red and gleaming, and let it drop from your hand onto the table with a wet plop.
“Best time to do it’d be now, while Morgan’s out gettin’ himself killed.” Micah says this affably, as though you’ve acquiesced. “And on the off chance that he does come back, what he don’t know won’t hurt him, right?”
You lever up the flap adjacent to the fish’s cheek with the tip of the knife, then reach in to tear out the gills. The fanned red edge nicks the pad of your thumb. Wincing, you jerk your hand away to check the cut.
“Aw, didja hurt yourself? Here, let me see—”
The moment he steps towards you, you flinch and brandish the knife like a weapon. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding up both hands, retreating. Under his breath, he mutters, “Goddamn touchy little bitch.”
Beside the mouth of the cave, the shorter of the two strangers (what were their names? Joe and… Clem, or something?) stands up and rests his hand on the hilt of his holstered gun.
You flick your eyes towards the overturned soapbox beside the campfire. There, Dutch glances up from the book in his hand and holds your gaze just long enough to acknowledge your plight. He raises his eyebrows, then deliberately turns his head away, returning his attention to what might be his millionth perusal of Evelyn Miller.
All of your potential allies are either departed or well out of sight: the girls at the river, Charles on the hunt, Sadie on guard duty. John, scoping out a potential lead up north somewhere.
And with him, Arthur.
With exaggerated precision, you lower the knife and lay the edge of its blade at an outward slant adjacent to the bluegill’s puckered mouth. You lift your head to look Micah in the face, then slam your hand against the dull heel of the knife hard enough that it decapitates the fish in one swift motion, slicing through scale and muscle and bone with a beautifully crisp thunk.
He doesn’t seem impressed. Micah says, “You really gonna keep on pretendin’ you can’t talk? I heard you well enough the other night, while I was sittin’ out here on guard duty.” In a high, breathy voice, he squeals, “Ohhh, Arthur!”
Blood rushes to your cheeks. Hot with shame and anger, you duck down and glare instead at the dead fish. Its round, sightless eyes stare pointlessly back at you.
“Alright. If you’re still gonna play at bein’ a deaf-mute, lemme spell things out real clear for you.” Micah makes an obscene gesture, points at himself, then rubs his fingers together to indicate that he has money, all the while enunciating loud and slow, “HOW… MUCH… TO… SUCK MY—”
“I am not for sale,” you snarl. “And I would sooner cut off my own tongue than put it anywhere near your diseased prick.”
“So she can speak,” he says, unfazed by the insult.
“Probably speak better than you and every other contemptible fuck in this camp. Van der Linde included.”
“Wouldn’t say that if I were you. If word got to Dutch that you were disrespecting him— well, ain’t no telling how he’d react. Might even find it… disloyal. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.” As he speaks, he nods towards the northern stretch of woods banking the cave, where the blackened and twisted branches left from an impromptu pyre still lie scattered. And beside it, the shallow grave of what little had remained of Molly O’Shea afterward, unmarked and unmourned.
A cold trickle of fear runs down your spine. “Arthur wouldn’t—”
“Arthur this, Arthur that.” Micah pronounces the name as though it were something foul in his mouth. “Open your eyes, you dumb cunt. Black Lung’s gonna be dead within the week. If not from the fuckin’ plague, then for sure by the Pinkertons. Just look at him. He can barely walk.”
Within the week. God. No, he’s not… he’s not quite that bad…
(not that bad yet, a voice murmurs from inside your head)
“And when he’s six feet under,” he continues. “You’re gonna have nobody on your side. That is, unless you start courtin’ new loyalties now.”
Micah Bell has laid all your worst fears out in front of you as frankly and bluntly as an assortment of dead fish at market. And to this, there is but one response. Not denial. Not anger. Only the deepwater chill of utter despair.
“You ain’t that stupid. I’m sure you can see the writing on the wall.” His voice smooths to something unctuous and oddly familiar. It takes a second for recognition to click. This is the same voice he uses when flattering Dutch. “So what’s it gonna be? You gonna cast your lot in with a corpse, or you gonna make the smart choice and go with the man with the highest chance of making it outta this place alive?”
“I’ll go to the grave with him before I go to bed with you,” you hiss.
Micah laughs. “Oh sure, you’re all bravado now, but we’ll see what you really are when the shit hits the fan. A whore. Just like every other cunt here.” He raises a hand in farewell and starts walking away, calling over his shoulder, “You know where my tent is, honey. Come find me after you ditch Morgan.”
With a great deal of effort, you force yourself to train your focus back on the bluegill. You slip your knife to a space just above its spinal cord and angle the blade parallel to the table, then begin carving its pale meat away from the thin, clustered bones.
Filleting has always seemed inordinately wasteful to you– throwing away perfectly good meat, that’s what it is. A stupid and tedious method, and truth be told half the reason you hate doing it is because you’ve never been particularly good at it— but Arthur always complains about spitting fish bones otherwise, so… so…
The realization sifts in as soft and cold as autumn rain. So soon I won’t have to do this anymore.
No. No, no, no— that’s not true at all— you’ll be filleting fish until your dying day, and you’ll roll your eyes and sigh all the while, and he’ll be just as annoying, asking melodramatically whether you want him to choke to death on a fish bone, and… and…
A teardrop falls onto the back of your hand. Another falls onto the half-stripped bluegill, then another, and another, all raining down in rapid succession until you have to put the knife down to wipe at your eyes with your sleeve.
— — —
You hurry to the hitching post at the first, faint rumble of hooves, standing next to the grazing horses straight-backed and overeager. The light blue dress you’d borrowed from Tilly looks nearly white in the pines’ damp shadows, and it cuts through the gloom so starkly that when John emerges from the woods, he startles.
John is alone.
“It’s alright,” he says, answering the anxious, searching look on your face. “Arthur’s just a little ways back. Shouldn’t be more than a minute.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’s wrong. Said he was gettin’ somethin’.”
A white-hot curl of contempt coils tight in your chest. You narrow your eyes. “Dutch is sending him out on another errand before he’s even back from this one?”
“What? No, nothin’ like that. S’cuse me,” he adds, swinging his leg over the saddle to dismount.
Gathering your skirts in your hands, you hastily backstep a few paces away to give him space enough to maneuver. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I’m pelting you with questions before you’re even out of the saddle—”
“You don’t gotta apologize,” John interrupts. “You ain’t done anythin’ wrong. And hey, uh…” his voice drops low with the gentle lilt that seems to always accompany well-intentioned white lies. “He’s… I think he’s doin’ a little better. Weren’t coughin’ as much as he usually does.”
Over and over again, you’ve played along with these small farces. Little fictions woven for your benefit. The only one who’s taken it upon himself to tell it to you plainly is Micah, and in a sick, bitter way you’re almost grateful for it.
You force a smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”
John sighs. He looks at the thin path that picks through the mountains and into camp and sets his mouth to a stubborn, flat line. “Listen,” he says, and there is conviction in his words now, whether true or misguided not for you to determine. “Arthur’s gonna be alright.” Awkwardly, as though sympathy were an undertaking largely unfamiliar to him, he pats you on the shoulder. “He’ll pull through,” he says. “He always does.”
It’s another twenty minutes before Arthur finally arrives, his clothes gritty with buffeted dust and his shoulders slumped with apparent exhaustion. Bedraggled and drained, and when he spots you standing by the hitching post, his smile is weary, worn thin by the long miles he’s traveled.
“Hey there,” he calls out.
“Hey,” you reply. “What kept you?”
“I’ll show you in a bit. C’mere.” He sets himself on the ground, and pulls you into what’s clearly meant to be a quick embrace before he unsaddles Athena. But when he lets go, you don’t. Bemused, he rests his gloved hand on top of your head, runs his fingers through your hair. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” you say, hiding your face against his chest. “I’m just glad you’re back, and not— shot full of holes, or skewered, or something.”
“Course not. Just scopin’ the place out for now. Gettin’ shot full of holes and skewered comes later.”
You raise your head to fix him with a severe, unamused look, and his smile quickly fades. “You’ve been cryin’,” he says, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
What isn’t wrong? The blood flecked at the corner of his mouth and shirt collar, the quietly pursuant eyes of the strangers by the cave, the cold portent of what might come next, all of it building up day by day like a red rime of rust.
“Nothing’s wrong.” With a note of mechanical cheeriness, you tell him, “Hey, that net Charles set up in the river finally worked out! Caught a bluegill, so I—”
From the staging ground behind you comes Dutch’s voice from on high, shouting his name. A master calling for his errant hound. Arthur doesn’t even look up. “Tell me what happened.”
You shake your head. Reluctantly, you step away from and gesture towards camp with an unenthusiastic wave of your hand. “He won’t be happy if you keep him waiting. Especially on my account.”
“Dutch,” Arthur says, and he sounds more tired than angry, as if even resentment has been ground out of him by the sheer weight of his fatigue. “I won’t be long,” he says. “Meet you at the tent.”
— — —
His cot is uncomfortable without him in it. Especially these days, as the first tinge of autumn begins to assert itself. The evening chill that much sharper, the afternoon that much darker. Pulling one of his jackets over your shoulders, you sit yourself on the cot’s rickety edge and lean towards the crate set at his bedside, gently lifting the chipped saucer you’d covered the plate of roasted bluegill with to keep it warm.
It’s long since gone cold.
With the tent flaps drawn down, everything here dims to an ambient blue, tinted by what light manages to filter through the navy canvas. Rather gloomy, really. Near impossible to read anything without squinting hard at the print.
But with the tent flaps up, they’ll accuse you of eavesdropping. Which is an activity that you’d partake in enthusiastically, you admit, were it not for your precarious position in camp. A position predicated solely on Arthur’s wellbeing and Dutch’s (extremely conditional) goodwill.
They’re having some sort of protracted argument up there on the ridge. An argument which has lasted— you check your pocket watch, peering irritably into its cracked glass face— about sixteen minutes now. It takes some effort to make out who exactly the participants are. Dutch, of course: his booming baritone is difficult to mistake. And Arthur, and John, and… Bill? Micah, too. And a voice you don’t quite recognize.
Bill shouts something that carries the tone of accusation, and Arthur snarls something in reply. And… now it seems like they’re all yelling. Then Dutch again, cutting in to mediate.
Things quiet down after that, diminishing back to just a muted murmur of dissent. You hear Arthur’s heavy, plodding footsteps a short while afterward, crunching against hard-packed dirt and the scattering of dead leaves that have begun to fall. He pulls up the tent’s left flap and pins it back and you throw a hand up to shade your eyes against the blinding mid-afternoon sun.
Against that brightness he is momentarily cast in silhouette. In that shadow, he is imposing still, his broad shoulders and looming height undiminished. But when you’ve blinked the dazzle out of your eyes, it’s just Arthur again, looking well and truly expended.
He doesn’t even bother taking off his coat or setting his satchel down before he sits down beside you. The cot’s metal frame lets out a pitiful squeak.
“What was that all about?” you ask.
“I ain’t sure myself.” Idly, Arthur presses a palm between your shoulder blades. Tentative, then firm, as if feeling for a solid surface in the dark. With things gone to vapor, something to hold onto, to follow through to the end. “Lot of bluster. Lot of talk about ‘loyalty’. And faith.”
“I thought I heard you snap at Bill.”
“Yeah. He called you a Delilah.”
That’s a new one. “A Delilah,” you repeat, smiling a little. “That’s surprisingly literate, for Bill. I’m almost impressed.”
Arthur’s voice is quiet and worried. “He sure as hell didn’t come up with it himself.”
“Then who do you think…”
He doesn’t answer this. Just briefly curls the hand at your back into a fist, bundling the cloth there between his fingers. Holding on tight before he lets go in that way that says, later. “Anyway,” he says. “I got you something.”
“Arthur, you don’t have to—”
Rummaging through his satchel, the straps and leather of the thing just as battered and scarred as himself, he pulls out something small and round, and tosses it into your lap.
An apple.
“Found a little cluster of fruit trees not too far from here,” he says. “Someone’s attempt at an orchard, looks like. They’re only just comin’ in to season, and most of ‘em are still green, but I found a few ripe ones. Could take you there later today, if you want.”
“You were late because you went apple picking?”
“You’re always whinin’ about how much you miss sweets, and I figured this was the next best thing.”
Ah. He’s caught you. As he does again and again. Without even meaning to, he’s trapped your heart in his hands like a child catching a grasshopper: guilelessly, heedless of the desperate, dire flutter between his fingers. No escape, but you’ve never been more willing to die like this, so long as he keeps smiling at you the way he does now. Soft and focused, as though everything else has fallen away.
You bite your lip against the inopportune swell of emotion and argue, “Twice is not ‘all the time’.”
“Oh yeah?” His smile turns to a smirk. “Abigail said you keep openin’ that biscuit tin she keeps her sewing supplies in and lookin’ all disappointed. Like you think those needles are gonna magically turn to biscuits the forty-seventh time around.”
“It’s not a biscuit tin. It’s a macaroon tin,” you say, your voice petulant with longing. “I love macaroons.”
“Yeah, well. Eat your apple and pretend then.”
You run your thumb over the plump curve of the apple. Speckled gold and striated with crimson, it’s smaller than what you’d find at the grocer’s, but with a richness of color that makes it look like something plucked from a fairytale forest. You almost can’t stand to eat it.
Almost. When you bite through to the apple’s white flesh, the clarity of its sweetness catches you off guard. Like a last, golden taste of departed summer.
“It’s good, right?”
“Thank you,” you say through a mouthful of fruit. “I really… I— um… ”
It’s not something you’ve ever gotten good at, showing appreciation. With kindnesses like this, it’s all you can do to stumble through the words and lay your hand on his knee, hoping to convey with touch what you cannot do with words.
He lays his own hand over top, keeping you there. Arthur traces over the ridge of your knuckles as you gnaw the fruit down to its knobbly core, then asks gently, “So, you gonna tell me what happened?”
No use in putting it off any longer. He’s more persistent than a dog at a bone, with some things. You happen to be one of them. Staring down into your lap, at the apple’s yellowing hull held loosely in your hand, you say, “Micah told me I should fuck him if you… you know.”
“If I die,” Arthur says flatly.
You give a single, reluctant nod.
“I’m gonna kill him.” He says this calmly, as though it were a task as mundane as any other. Chop wood, draw water, murder Micah. Arthur starts getting up, and you have to grab at his coat to drag him back down.
“I told him I’d sooner die than fuck him,” you tell him. “And I mean it.”
At this, Arthur sours. He fixes you with a long, hopeless look, too exhausted to be angry but with just enough energy left for irritation, then sighs and passes his hand over his face. “You think I like hearin’ you say shit like that? Scares the hell outta me, the way you keep talkin’ like you’re gonna follow me to the grave.”
“But I—”
“But nothin’. Listen” he interrupts, and he drops his voice down to little more than a whisper. “I’ve been talkin’ to Sadie and Abigail. When I’m gone, you go to them and they’ll—”
“Stop it,” you say in a small, shrill voice. “You’re not gonna die. I won’t let you.”
And then you start crying so hard that your shoulders shake. Big, heaving sobs that you’re sure half the damnable camp can hear, but you’re past caring. Let them hear what they’ve done. How they’ve ruined you, ruined him until he’s become but the torn up shadow of his former self. An apple core chewed to its very stem.
Arthur pulls you against his chest. He tucks your face against the junction of his neck and shoulder, and you can feel the heave and fall as he draws in a deep breath, then lets it out shuddery and slow. “No,” he murmurs, gripping you tight as you soak the collar of his shirt with tears. “Of course I won’t.”
When your sobs abate to hiccups, he shifts to press a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your cheek, and another to your mouth. And though it begins chastely enough, it deepens almost immediately into something urgent and hungry. Clutching at each other as though drowning, your hands frantically working him out of his coat and the nip of his teeth at your neck— until abruptly, he shoves you back and turns away, shoulders hunched as he shoves his hand over his mouth and coughs.
Relatively speaking, it’s not so bad this time. Just a few frightening seconds of hacks and wheezes. The terrible whistle of air through his ruined lungs, and then the short, choppy inhales afterward as he tries to catch his breath. At this point, there’s nothing unfamiliar in it, but the sharpness of that newly ruptured horror— the jagged ridge of horror at that first glimpse of blood at his lips— splinters through with each iteration. The wounds of the past do not mitigate those yet to come, and so it is with this.
You scramble off his cot and start towards his trunk, but he grabs the sleeve of your dress and shakes his head. He’s not yet recovered enough air to talk. Panting hard, he holds out the hand he’d covered his mouth with and flips it palm up to show you the absence of blood.
“I still think you should take some,” you reply, frowning.
“…s’alright,” he gasps, not looking it at all— face flushed from exertion and eyes bloodshot, spacing every cluster of words with a strained and shallow breath. “Besides, we’re gonna… go through that bottle of tonic in no time if you… keep givin’ me a spoonful every time I cough.”
“Water, then.” But when you pick up the pitcher by his bed, you find it empty. “Goddammit, I keep on forgetting to— alright, give me a second,” you say, skirt flaring out like a dervish as you turn and sprint out of his tent.
The barrel of rainwater is a ways up the ridge, wedged behind the chuckwagon. On your way there, you run past Charles, who calls out to you as he carries a clutch of dead pheasants that hang from his hands like bloodied feather dusters. You return his greeting with a hurried “hold-on-i’m-getting-water”, then promptly slam into someone very large and solid and fall on your ass, dropping the pitcher in the process.
“I’m so sorry,” you start to say, but the last word dies in your mouth, because halfway through saying it, you decide no, you’re not very sorry at all, actually.
The black-coated stranger, the one who’d put his hand on his gun when you’d pointed a knife at Micah, looks down at you with an inscrutable expression on his face. The pitcher has rolled to a stop right beside him, and when you reach for it, he steps on its handle with his boot.
He, Micah, and that other skinny bastard. You’d like to gut them. You’d like to see them choking on the gallows, legs dangling and dancing feebly in midair. You’d like to fasten the noose yourself, see in their eyes the same fear you feel now. Instead, you smile very sweetly and say in as polite a voice you can muster, “I sincerely hope to see you get hit by a train someday.”
The man spits on the ground and the smile he returns resembles the rictus grin of rigor mortis. “Micah did say you had a mouth on you. See if we can’t put it to some other use.”
“I bite,” you reply tersely.
“Not without teeth—”
“That’s enough.” Charles interrupts, striding over. His voice is calm and forceful, in that quiet way those assured of their own strength eschew volume. He stands over you, and you find yourself face-to-face with one of the dead birds he’s carrying, its round amber eyes glassy and still. A compatriot, you think. Both your fates wholly dependent on the volitions of men with guns.
The stranger’s mouth tightens to a half-sneer, but he raises his boot. You snatch the pitcher away as though he might change his mind, clutching it to your chest like it’s precious.
For perhaps a second— a second that seems to stretch to minutes— he stares Charles in the eye. And though you can see neither of their faces very well from your place on the ground, you can well imagine the line of tension drawn between them, taut and electric as wire. Then he shrugs and steps to the side. He continues down the ridge, deliberately clipping Charles by the shoulder as he stalks towards the hitching post.
You wave away Charles’ outstretched hand and get to your feet by yourself, patting dirt from your dress in faint puffs of dust. “Thank you,” you say. The second time today that you’ve had to subject yourself to the uncomfortable ordeal of gratitude.
“Don’t know what Dutch was thinking, letting Micah bring in men like that,” Charles says in a low voice. “The way he looks at you and the other women…”
“Yeah, I… think I’ll stick closer to the girls from now on.”
“You do that.” He watches as the stranger’s back diminishes with distance, the black coat melting in with the shade of the pines. “And I’ll keep an eye on him.”
As he walks with you towards the chuckwagon, you wipe the pitcher clean with your skirt and briefly mention the day’s catch, the bluegill bright and iridescent in its panic as it had flapped against the netting. The foolishness of fillets. The abundance of wild game in spite of the dearth of everything else, and poultry dishes. But for all your blathering, you’re unable to steer the conversation away from the inevitable. All roads lead to Rome, and all talk leads to Arthur.
“I don’t know,” you reply dully when Charles asks after him. You balance the lid of the rain barrel against its wooden rim, and the reflection that stares back from the crescent of revealed water is dark-eyed and wan with uncertainty. You dip the ladle through the image like shattering a mirror and splash the water into the pitcher. “John said he was doing better. But I think he’s losing weight again, and he’s so pale, and…” Humorlessly, you huff out a bleak laugh. “He did promise not to die, so we’ve got that going for us, at least.”
Charles is quiet awhile. The rain water sloshes a little less noisily against the pitcher with each addition until it is nearly silent. Finally, he says, “I’ll see if I can’t convince Dutch to let me take on some of the scouting jobs in his place. Have him focus on hunting instead. It’d be easier on him. And he’d come back to you every night.”
The third thank you of the day, and by far the most meaningful. There is no simple phrase that springs to mind that doesn’t feel grossly inadequate.
“Charles,” you say, and the measure of trust you have in him makes him one of the perishingly few men you’d ever offer this to. “If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all…”
“Just be well,” he says. “Both of you.”
It’s funny, actually. You’d made this same proposition to Arthur early into your acquaintance, and his answer had been much the same. A simply stated, don’t die.
When you get back to the tent, Arthur’s lifting the saucer and peering at the roasted fish with some curiosity. “You cut me a fillet?” he asks.
“Yeah.” You fill the tin cup from his mess kit until there is scarcely a millimeter between rim and ripple and set it carefully on the bedside crate.
“Well, thanks. Appreciate it. Guess I should be sick more often if it makes you this sweet.”
The possibility of future illness is dementedly reassuring. He’s clearly trying to needle you a little, drive you to irritation to distract from despair, and you have to bite your lip to fight down wretched sentimentality.
“I still think it’s a stupid way to eat fish,” you say.
“Right,” he replies, groping in his satchel for a fork. “Because it’s so much smarter to risk my life every time I want a cut of trout.”
“Only because you think it’s appropriate to try and inhale half the fish with a single bite. You’re supposed to take small bites. You ever heard of savoring a meal?”
“You ever heard of efficiency?” he asks, and you playfully kick at his boot in response.
He says something impolite about your general taste in food. Impractical, he snickers, before gracing you with the worst mispronunciation of “hors d’oeuvres” you’ve ever heard. And you fall easily into the old pattern of banter, an ersatz normality at best. Like a single strip of gauze over an axe wound, fragile and frayed, but it’s something. It’s something.
He drains the cup only after a considerable amount of coaxing, and you suspect that it’s rather on purpose. Caretaking has never been your strong suit. It must be bizarre, and not without a considerable amount of confused satisfaction on his part, to watch you fuss over him like this, trying hard to turn the reticent, abrasive impulse to something gentle. Like a porcupine pulling out its own quills, shedding that which has cloistered its taciturn heart for so long.
When the plate is empty, he sets it aside and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then makes as if to set out again. You pull at his coat with both hands and state rather than ask, “What the hell are you doing.”
“Told you I’d take you out to that orchard.”
“Not when you’re half-dead on your feet, you’re not.”
He scoffs. “Can’t tell you how many times I been sent out on jobs in even worse shape than this.”
You say, “I know.”
“If you know, then—”
“It’s because I know!” you snap at him, a little spark of anger flaring like a sputter of hot oil. But not at him. “I’m not Dutch. I’m not about to ask you to drag yourself back on the road when you’re sick and exhausted and… and like this.” You sweep your arm horizontal as if presenting him for show. “And all for my sake.”
He stares at you like you’ve just recited something blasphemous to him. And him sitting there like a penitent silent to this new heresy. Not a word of denial.
“You keep doing things for me,” you say, voice breaking. Both your hands are balled up in your skirt, wadding up the worn linen with your knuckles white. “Even when you’re…”
Dying is the word that you won’t say.
… even when it’s supposed to be the other way around,” you amend. You kick his boot again. “You stupid man.”
The added insult has him quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re well matched, then.”
“Two idiots.”
“Two idiots,” he agrees, kicking off his boots. Arthur shrugs off his coat and tosses it expertly against the back of his chair, where it hangs in a perfect parabola, then heaves the rest of himself onto the narrow cot, squirming to the left until there’s just enough room for you to lie sideways.
When you pull down the tent flap and crawl in beside him, he stretches his arm out to accommodate you, letting you rest your head against his shoulder as he unties the ribbon binding your braid with one hand. He loosely combs through the plait until your hair curtains your back, the ends still waved.
“I talked to Charles about fish bones today,” you say, cheek pressed against his shirt.
“What’d he say?” His voice is vague and drowsy. A good sign. It’s the nights he can’t sleep that worry you the most.
“He said fish bones are thin enough that you can just eat them if you chew long enough.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it’s awful.”
“Thank god,” he says. “For a second there I was a little worried you might agree with him. And that I’d have to beg you to never serve me fish again.”
You flick him on the shoulder and he kisses the top of your head, which seems an appropriate microcosm of your usual interactions. And as he drifts into sleep, you lay there awake for a long while, listening to the cadence of his breathing. The slow in and out of it, and the occasional wheeze interspersed like an afterthought. By the time you’re able to fall asleep, the bright line of sunshine splashed at the gap beneath the tent flaps has deepened to orange, stained red by evening.
#arthur morgan#arthur morgan/reader#arthur morgan/oc#fic#ask#rivetingrosie4#my work#red dead depression 😊#in which quills
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@headstrongblake said: “i don’t get it, you know her shit could get you killed right? loving someone doesn’t mean loving them to your death.” nick to kass about octavia, probably after the car accident
“what? don’t get mad at me!” kassy said with a scoff, her arms crossing over her chest as she frowned up at nick. what happened to octavia had been horrible. it had scared kassy half to death to think she could have lost her best friend. she was sure nick’s anger had to do with that but she didn’t understand why he was coming at her with this. “loving someone means whatever damn well i say it means, and what i say it means is i’m not gonna fuckin’ leave her because you think she caused the damn accident,” she snapped back, rolling her eyes.
yes, she knew that her best friend had been under the influence while she had been driving which was never okay, and kassy didn't condone that but she hadn't been in the car with o, and in fact, they would have never driven if she had been with her. kassy was angry with her best friend too, that she could have died doing a stupid thing like that. she was also more scared that she could have lost her, that she was injured and being held at the hopsital right now, that she said she’d been driven off the road. it seemed as though nick didn’t care to believe that
"she said she was driven off the road, nick," kassy reminded him with narrowed eyes and hands on her hips. "and why are you even involving me in this, she was the one who could’ve fucking died. not me, i wasn't there and if i would've been she wouldn't have been fuckin’ driving." she voiced aloud now with a huff. "also, don't give me that crap about loving people to my death as if you don't care about her, or grant, or any one of your gang members. you gonna just walk the fuck away from them if they do something stupid too? hm?" she shook her head because no, she didn’t think so. but then again what did she know about him? what did he know about her?
“now, i’m done with this ridiculousness,” she began with another exasperated huff as she gathered her purse and headed towards the exit before whirling back and pointing at him with an accusitory finger, “and don’t think that means i’m giving her a pass cuz i’m not, what she did was stupid, but she’s my best friend and i’m going to be there for her no matter what and i know for damn sure if things were reversed she’d be giving your dumbass hell then going to see me too.” she brushed her jacket smooth then and turned with a careless wave, “alright, well, i’ll see you there when you decide to get down off your soapbox.”
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GWG Ramblings
Why George & Angie's Marriage would've Failed: A Soapbox Dissertation
Disclaimer:
*This is my personal opinion and not an attack on anyone. It's okay if you disagree. Just please keep discussions civil.
**JK Rowling stated in an interview that Fred and Angie were romantically involved. Here is the video that confirms it: (starts at 31:20)
youtube
~•~
I want to start with George first because it will make it easier to understand Angie's mindset.
For the North Star series, I researched extensively into twin loss. Losing a twin is considered to be the most painful loss a person can experience. In fact, the pain of twin loss is rated higher than that of losing a child.
Unsurprisingly, this level of intense grief can lead to some very common but heartbreaking psychoses.
1 - The surviving twin tries to be themselves, AND their twin by assuming some of the personality traits of their lost twin. In some cases, it can get to the point that the survivor has trouble remembering which twin they are. One of the most heartbreaking things I read during my research was a woman talking about losing her twin sister, saying, "Some days I can't remember which one of us died."
I read that months and months ago, and it still haunts me.
2 - Survivors guilt is off the charts for surviving twins. Often, the remaining twin feels like they don't deserve to live their own life, so instead, they’ll live their twin's life for them. All the things that Fred should've been able to do and will never be able to do, George will do for him.
You see where I'm going with this?
3 - To compound things even more, the survivor is desperate to reconnect to their lost twin through any means possible. They will cling to anyone and anything that had some connection (no matter how big or small) with their lost loved one.
(This is also why I think George and Angie's marriage would've failed even if she hadn't dated Fred. Think of her connection to the older twin. She and Fred were friends. They were both sorted into Gryffindor, AND they were Quidditch teammates. That's still one hell of a connection.)
A marriage built on one or both persons desperately trying to reconnect with their lost loved one by any means possible is not only unsustainable and unhealthy, but downright toxic, especially when the person realizes the other one can't give them what they seek.
~•~
OK, take a deep breath.
~•~
Now on to Angie. So, we have a woman grieving for her lost love and here comes his grieving identical twin, who has not only, assumed aspects of Fred's personality, but is also determined to live the life that Fred would've had if he'd lived. (Or at least the life George thinks his twin would've had.)
For Angie, it's like getting Fred back. And if the personalities don't always perfectly mesh, that could be written off as the effects of war. War changes people. Everybody knows that, right?
~•~
Ok, one last thing. (I know, I know. I promise I'll shut up after this. 😁)
This next point doesn’t just pertain to twin loss but any bonding over shared trauma. Be it war or a shared loss or abusive childhoods, you have two people whose relationship is built on (shared) pain.
That in itself is unstable as hell. Add to that the fact that couples do not heal in lockstep and you have a recipe for disaster. Because one person is going to heal faster than the other. So, their already unstable foundation cracks and crumbles even more as one person tries to climb out of the darkness while the other keeps pulling them back down with them. When these relationships end, it's rarely gentle. It's catastrophic. Anyone close to the blast (i.e. children) will get hit by shrapnel.
We all know George never gets over losing Fred, but Angie, I'm certain does. And she is not the type of person to let anyone keep her down for long.
In all honesty, I really don't think Rowling had any clue of what she was doing when she paired them up.
~•~
Alright, I think that's enough of my gloom and doom for today. If you stuck with me to the end, I thank you for your persistence. I know I rambled on forever a bit long.
I'll be stepping down from my soapbox now.🙂
@princess-paramour @milivanili99 @fancy-pantaloons @turvi @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @georgie-weasley
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Numb- A soapbox moment
(Hops onto soapbox)
Numbness is the new plague, and it beats all existing plagues in pure numbers. Every single person has felt numb at some point in life. Don’t believe me? Of course, you don’t. You’ve been kept in a happy little bubble your entire life, and that’s wonderful. I am genuinely very happy for you, however, that bubble sounds incredibly lonely. To not feel numb, even once, would mean that you’ve never been allowed to experience enough life to have something stripped away from you.
Anyway.
This is a lot.
Everything is a lot.
I get it.
That’s the whole problem. We wouldn’t have to be numb if it were remotely possible to digest everything happening in the world. And it’s not. Too many damn people.
But we can do better here, people. We can hold on to our emotions, we can care for people, and we can give new life to awful situations if we would just feel together.
Alright.
I’m going to step off the soap box now.
(Leaps off of soapbox)
My dad died a couple of days over a year ago now. To say that it’s painful kind of feels like an understatement. He died of COVID. What I believe is a completely preventable death, and he’s gone. Way too early in my lifetime. So, I can safely say that I have felt a lot of things since his death. Pain (to be redundant), Hurt, Guilt, Anger (Oh. Oh so much anger), and little bits of the good stuff like denial, but mostly this last year has been filled with the absence of all of these feelings. I was Numb.
And I promise,
With all my heart,
It was not productive.
Look, I understand that I don’t have to be productive during this time, I get it. Grief is awful, and it’s something we all deal with at some point. We have to have each other’s backs so we can move on faster. But I didn’t have anyone’s back, I didn’t have the capacity to care. And the number of people who had mine after a certain length of time dwindled. This is the numbness I hate. The assumption is that people are fine after a certain amount of time, so you just fall out of their world.
They still hurt.
All of them.
I promise.
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//
#this fandom gets so damn heated about rpf omgggggg#maybe it's because i was in the queen fandom for a long time that i'm so baffled by why it's such a big deal#we were all writing rpf left and right#and now i'm in the pedro fandom and it's like..... a Very Bad Crime Sin™#but what's funny to me is that the same people who are nasty to rpf writers WRITE FOR JAVI#HE'S A REAL PERSON???? BRUH#and if the excuse is 'well it's a fictional version of him'#i would argue that the same thing applies to writing rpf#it's kind of like a 'fictionalized' version of pedro bc obviously we don't know pedro personally#idk i'm just kinda tired of the drama in the pedro fandom and i've only been in it for like... a few months lmao#i don't have any problem with rpf#as a matter of fact i've written it and would 100% write it again#to pedro rpf writers: i love you! i think you're great and creative and NOT creepy and NOT bad#alright i'll get off my soapbox now#maddie.txt
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I get so tired of listening to people complain about the younger generations.
For two reasons:
1) The ones complaining are the ones that raised the younger generations. If you wanted us to act different, you should’ve raised us “better”.
2) The crap they complain about are literally behaviors that come into being when kids aren’t having their emotional needs met. Literally, these kids are suffering mentally and emotionally because their parents neglected them.
Also, the sheer amount of people that will complain about my generation or my sister’s generation TO MY FACE is ungodly.
And they always had that smarmy little “not you, though”. Like yeah, sure. I totally believe you there, bud.
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♡ physical affection; levi
↳ NOTE. characterizing boyfriend levi, my passion project lmao! with some sexy moments included 👀
WORDS. ⇢ 7k
tags / warnings. ⚠️ smut, fluff, soft sub!levi x female reader, hurt/comfort hc, angst, shower sex, blowjobs + handjobs + boobjobs (yep. spoiling the captain), face-sitting, protected sex, soap kink, season 3-4 setting, no manga spoilers
Ready for a surprise? It’s not really about what kind of skinship he’s extremely selective about and what not. This is only something people would perceive about him at first glance. Instead, it comes down to how emotionally sheltered he feels. Because of his experiences, that predicates everything else. Which is why Levi’s sexuality is as complex as it is.
But also, in its sudden perfect expression once a person gives him a different perspective: That’s the time when he is touchier. The more in private, the better. The lights down low, with only a candle or two shining from another room. Broad daylight brings the harsh truths and the shaking ground. Nighttime is when Levi feels more intimate and open to caress, down his back and arms, the shoulders, the side of his neck. Done with extreme gentleness, and all of your deep respect.
If you offer him an environment of trust, Levi is open to almost anything and would even magically doze off in your arms for a little while. Breathing softly, resting for the first time in weeks, the brows becoming less tense the deeper he sleeps. You asking if you can stroke his hair (carefully, not messing it up or anything) is something he can’t say no to. The closet romantic in him will fulfill you any reasonable wish as soon as you’d ask anyway.
We know how receptive the captain is to a request, and how much there can be a soft spot for somebody in his heart. If you’re forward enough to just ask, Levi sets himself that goal and opens up. He is diligent with it just as you’d expect. That especially includes the things he says are „absolute horseshit nonsense“ and „disgusting, useless activities“ when reacting to newly formed couples kissing in the survey corps at the other end of the room. Is he a hypocrite and a hater? Actually— not at all.
Levi is a raised rather than born skeptic. Between courage and care, he is always gonna be torn. Both didn’t work in his favor at some point. But at the end of the day, he fears recklessness more than being cautious. Looking at these couples, he knows that they could lose each other the very next day. Or hell, the next hour. Not everybody has 200 titan kills.
Not everybody is a physically indestructible Ackerman destined and designed to escape death and outlive others whether they want it or not. And showing themselves this vulnerable out in the open is even more dangerous considering all the political intrigues, chaos, attacks, and espionage going on.
When he’s scoffing at skinship in the survey corps, it’s not his intent to ruin the couples and their little happiness in the present moment (nothing he sees as more tragically precious), or say only he can have a relationship because he’s strong enough to make it survive. If anything, Levi is the prime example of how all his connections were doomed exactly because of his status pulling in all the danger. He very well and painfully knows.
What I mean is: He sees the brutality of consequences that can create more misery than if two people would just go about their business. Levi already dreads that the same might happen to him. But after all, the behavior of others is easier to rectify than his own undeniable feelings for you. Which he cannot control in any way, which is why he reacts to others instead. Looking at other people holding hands, he’s also afraid how dabbling in love is a distraction from threats that can even backfire on uninvolved others if someone is suddenly in harm’s way.
Levi does associate physical touch with something that takes an otherwise observing mind off when it shouldn’t be. To him, it creates something so valuable that can become an unintended burden through all kinds of circumstances, he’s seen it all, it’s terrible he had to. And the reason why he has such a torn relationship with it. You really have to know your stuff to build a resilient little bubble where Levi is not constantly hypervigilant and either past- or future-focused.
Which is pretty damn hardwired into him. It’s almost impossible to bring on that kind of atmosphere spontaneously. It has to be ritualized. His intelligence comes with the downside of overthinking and having problems with spontaneous romance, it’s good to direct his thought into something that’s always done in a specific, structured way. You sit down with tea, put the candles on, Levi finishes cleaning his weapons, makes everything combat-ready and usable in seconds, and you carefully lay down on his impeccably made bed together.
Which he never uses, Levi sleeps in chairs. Or on the ground, so he can feel any titan steps in the distance with his whole body, using the cleanest possible mat or towel as a mattress and nothing else. The bed he basically just makes to have it neat, and for you, and to have a spot to lay together.
But yeah. He will never remove his harness. Not even when you’re sleeping with each other. He’s not once gonna risk having to put it on in a hurry. The only time you will be skin to skin with him is for not even five minutes under the shower. It’s when his cleanliness beats his anxiety around being always ready, which is why that’s a time to fully cherish.
And then, he really has no qualms about you wrapping your hands around his soap-covered torso in the shower anyway. It’s the only time his inner default germaphobe is not vehemently screaming inside his already heavy heart. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, this is about his demons only, confronted with the immense relief you give him. If the latter wins over his mind’s struggle, Levi might draw out the shower time sometimes.
The other voice that tells him ‚don’t make it end so soon’ is now finally convincing him. He will dial down the water stream so he can hear what’s going on outside better to compensate, to know if there’s any ruckus or approaching hazards. Levi has instructed a fast runner among the cadets to bang on the front door under any critical circumstances immediately in the first place.
Levi says he wants to save water, too. He won’t admit it, but he also turns the showerhead to a medium pressure to hear your calm, almost-quiet moans — the barracks have terribly thin walls — better when you’re sucking him off. Slowly, smoothly, not too much spit. Folded towel under your knees because Levi insists, and he is right. The showers in the survey corps have uncomfortable floor tiles.
He makes sure you won’t get soap in your mouth as well, I don’t have to tell you that he is very circumspect. Levi isn’t usually feeling overly heated in moments like this, but he gets hard and releases fast. You swear his cum tastes like afternoon tea with milk but you won’t tell him that. And who doesn’t like tea and Levi’s homemade milk, no complaints alright.
What’s still a shame is that Levi, always being in such a constant hurry and alertness, puts too much stress on his body for him to become horny all the way. In fact, he often forgets it. He feels numb, and can’t fully take in the sensations. Levi has not been able to feel a lot of genuine pleasure in his life.
A racing mind is an absolute sex killer, and his adrenaline spikes are so high in combat that most normal things don’t do anything for him. Which is why he brews his tea extra strong. But seriously: It’s a concerning thing. And it tells you to take your time. With his whole body, doing the things he loves the most. And what else could that be? It’s straightforward: Keepin’ it clean.
You make sure that Levi feels extra comfortable by thoroughly massaging his loins and thighs with a sponge during foreplay. Yes, you’re gently working him up. All in circles and light brushing motions. Lots of soap. Suave and bubbly, like silk on his skin. It’s handmade, with oat milk, lavender, and honey. For your honey. You regularly gift a new one to him to try out scents and have supply. You can guess how much Levi appreciates it, to the moon and back in fact. The present box is neatly stored on his office table where he can always see it.
Sending out its balmy fragrance throughout the day, making the room smell amazingly aromatic to him. His nose will never grow tired or accustomed to it. Levi puts the soapbox in a drawer within literal split seconds when someone who isn’t you enters the room. „Tsk, announce yourself when you knock…“ That could even be the newest recruit who doesn’t know anything at all about the place and people. But this is just a you and him thing.
Levi doesn’t want nosy questions from the squad even though nobody would probably even notice the soap laying there in its case, much less ask him about it or the fresh scent in the air because duh, it’s Levi’s office. But it feels absolutely personal for him — so he reacts sensitively about it. This man would probably protect your lavender soap with his blades if he had to.
The captain is very secretive about your relationship in general. Who on earth would go as far as buy him a new scented bar of joy bi-weekly? At this point, he would crawl on hot coals, needles, lava, ice shards, desert sand, and a mile-long straight of legos (laid out by a maniacally laughing Zeke personally) for you.
Although you wouldn’t allow any of it. Nothing should ever hurt those kitty paws, I mean captain hands and captain feet. You’d put Zeke on blast on your own, luring him with a banana to confuse his senses and then, whack, homerun the monkey into the ocean with Levi’s bristle broom. Problem solved. Anyway.
Levi wouldn’t hurt himself willingly that way either, the ice shards don’t stand a chance. He has sworn to protect his own life out of self-respect, to honor those passed by living on bravely toward the goal they worked for and being the one always coming home to you. You can rely on him.
So enough about gleaming hot coals and Zeke’s evil legos, back to the point — you already get what I mean. Levi might seem totally grumpy on the outside, but for sure is a devoted man, a caliber as always. He takes all of your presents to heart and is unbelieving as to why he’d be deserving of so much. You prove a point using the gifts as regularly as possible on his body. Where he can feel every bit of your fondness of him. And remember it with muscle memory. Oh shit, this soap does smell so good. As anything on him, who are we kidding.
Dousing Levi with all your attention is the best thing ever. He feels great relaxing with you, and his face softens up. He’s looking at you with a tiny smile in response to you whispering sweet things to him, all while you’re using the sponge on his legs, the chest, and ever-tense back that can definitely use some alleviation. „Thank you for cleaning me“ has got to be the best thing ever to hear from Levi Ackerman. It means the entire world to him. Captain, your mommy kink is showing. His arousal increasing is a natural side effect in no time.
Recently, you’ve been slipping his cock between your breasts as well, and it’s been slowing him down a lot after an eventful mission. While at the same time making him more in the moment, he really enjoys you gradually lathering him up like that. The feeling of skin on skin is amazing. It might be something that… often crosses his mind when he trains during the day, but he can blend it out for the important things. Until you do it all over again, and he ruminates about how much you turn him on until the sun rises.
You also never do a blowjob hands-free. Why would you, anyway? His body is amazingly buff and compact, you want to hold onto those gorgeous lil’ hips and his own hands that need a fair share of holding after carrying the world. You feel him twitching on your tongue when you run either hand over his ass and abs, making sure to trace across all his most erogenous spots there. What’s more: Levi feels really protected and soothed when he feels your palms on him under the streaming water, he can’t explain it.
That's why you like doing shower handjobs just as much. I don’t have to tell you that Levi really delights in them as well and his poker face regularly cracks a bit. His eyes fixate on you, you can tell the connection and involvement. He thinks your fingertips are heavenly, a welcome change to his rugged days.
He loves how softly they tease and stimulate him with the smallest movements and subtle presses. Yes, Levi doesn’t like rough action, those are vulnerable moments. He has enough brutality elsewhere, violently jerking him off and insulting him would be entirely inappropriate and even scare him.
He’d probably brush your wrists off right away, it’d be so uncomfortable in the silence of the evening. A tender chain of kisses on the nose tip, chin, collar bone, and especially forehead gets him going a lot more. The more chaste and doting the kiss, the more he melts on the inside.
His anxiety baseline goes down, and he feels like he can let you in. However you guide him and however you choose to indulge him with your lips, Levi is on board, quietly enjoying. Since it’s something that he’s still feeling so new to, leaving you the active role comes naturally.
Stroking him with a deep pace, carefully brushing your lips against his to give him goosebumps — Levi definitely grows into that. In those moments, he really feels taken care of, in safe hands, hands that will stay with him. He’s gonna be surprised just how good something like this feels many times. And be overwhelmed by pleasure to the point where it almost frightens him, he didn’t have that a lot until now.
The satisfaction of a spotless table simply does not compare. Just so you know: He will either be dead silent or mumble under his breath nonstop. That he is okay with you touching him below the belt and even take him in your mouth tells you how much Levi trusts you, how much he knows you love him, and how meticulously he’s already scrubbed and shaved himself beforehand. Yes, the sheer preparation. He puts a lot of work into his body. He couldn’t stand you becoming dirty.
That’s also why the shower is the place oral goes down. And even there, he uses like ten cleaning products to double rinse the stall and himself before and after. Mind you. He sees you eating healthy, brushing your teeth well. Your lips are very beautiful and a masterpiece of nature to him. So it’s not you who he thinks is dirty. Levi is pretty damn paranoid about his own skin and hygiene. If only he would think about himself the way he thinks of your body.
He feels like he has to earn it, be acceptable, and prepare himself endlessly to enjoy touch. Even then, he thinks he must be ugly and revolting. You have to respect him fussing about it rather than forcing him to cut down on his routines. You don’t criticize his perfectionism and see the motivation behind it. So instead, you reassure Levi your own way.
The more he sees you having fun and enjoying his body, the more accepted, confident, and clean he feels. Most people would like to see their partner play up the enthusiasm obviously (unless you have a ‚hiding his amazement’ emo boy kink, which is exactly why you like Levi don’t cha), but it’s particularly meaningful to Levi. Guess why he looks up to Armin’s mentality, and Hange is one of the few people who truly vibe with Levi.
She’s easily amused, dedicated, swooning, excited, and constantly eager. Levi does appreciate a bit of zeal in someone. If you’re a little ardent about touching him, it’ll give his esteem a boost he’s long needed, oh god. Nobody has the guts to praise this guy like that, even if he’s so extremely good-looking. Don’t let him off the hook there. Give him feedback, you’ll be surprised how much it resonates.
It’s already apparent to yourself how keen you are being touchy with him, hell, you’re so in love. Still, it’s a good idea to give him an idea how stoked you are. He doesn’t like it fast and brutally raw without a second thought, but passionate is a whole other debate. A simple „Levi, stay like this, let me do it“ or „Levi, you smell so good“ works wonders. Say what you think and his ease will set in. And I don’t have to tell you that you won’t look like sex is a chore anyway. With Levi, that’s an honor and a pleasure.
That he puts his faith in you and gives you his time is already a massive deal and goes against everything we know of him, what he’s used to, and how his avoidant personality works, being so ridden with losses. And it’s all because of how much you desire and approach him. That’s what it comes down to.
Even if he’d suffer decades from yearning, he’d not go out of his way to kickstart something, never ever. He’d feel like he’d cause you so much trouble. You wanting him so badly and treating his body like a treasure on the other hand changes his mind.
It proves him wrong all the way. There is still time to enjoy love, the chance is now. Anything else would plague Levi with solitude and self-pity all over again. And the feeling of missing you around in his rooms. Two teacups on the table until he grows old and grey are his ideal of a good life, after all. He will open himself to your emotional and physical presence, realizing how touch-starved he is, and how much it improves his life to have someone to kiss and lay down next to at night.
The even breath at the back of his neck gives him a sense of finally someone sticking around with him side by side, even if he’s gone during the day. It feels good and right to be wanted by you, and nuzzling his face into your cotton dress. Your commitment gives him the little smiles and the silver lining he’s been searching for. He can’t label that feeling, but it’s joy of life and humankind, more than just a willingness for it. He would stay forever pained and bitter if he wouldn’t invite it in now, and you won’t waste that chance with being silent.
You’re attracted to everything about him, tell him, make him aware. The voice, the hair, the mannerisms, his height, his abilities, his mind, his care for others, the posture, how soft his cheeks are, the list is endless. Levi won’t miss how much he’s your type at some point. Which gives him a lot of ease, comfort. You show him that his inferiority complex was an entire smokescreen in his mind.
He fucking deserves to be called handsome. And by the way — you can lust over him as much as you want when he’s made that time window for your couple stuff. It’s good if you make it as obvious as possible for him. Which is hard to hide anyway. You’ve been masturbating over Levi just sitting there sternly writing something. And he’s like why, and you’re like, it’s you! Look at you!
Levi does want you to touch his skin all over but it’s always sore. And he remains insecure on many days. So he only has particular comfortable spots in the first place. Since hardly anybody dares to touch him, and even if he pats someone’s shoulder nobody would ever be courageous enough to reciprocate, you would feel a bit like a lab scientist. Silently theorizing over him at first even if you really don’t have to. Other people say they’d rather run towards a titan than expose themselves to Levi’s moods, swords, and barking tone after trying to caress him in any way.
News flash, Levi has had such terrible moods since forever because there’s no affection coming to him from anywhere just because people decided he might not need it. And no, he won’t yell at you for touching. He finds it very sweet of you instead. Touching Levi always creates an occasion that will float around in his head for the entire day, that’s guaranteed. He sees how someone goes out of their way and cares for his well-being. He might not like it like standing in the middle of the whole corps, but anywhere else is fair game, at home anyway.
The pressure of dealing with threats he can manage to a degree, and he has lord how many coping strategies. The lack of love he cannot. Big difference that everybody seems to confuse. On top of how he has to be unrelenting in his position because battlefield and the Yeagers being a pain. Most people — except maybe Armin — see that as a closedness to touching altogether.
The whole world seemingly can't intuit Levi’s craving of gentleness behind the arguably pretty convincing armor, but still. It seems like only a few souls ever think about the Levi that sits down on his bed in the evening completely depleted. You have to make it clear to yourself and him that it’s obviously a one-dimensional way of looking at Levi Ackerman and not good for him.
Which has covertly shaped how he interacts with others in return like a vicious spiral, which is why he blames solely himself for his depravation. And, how severe and untouchable the circumstances made his character. Yes, Levi despises himself for being inaccessible and unable to change it on top, added to how it happened to him over the years.
Which he had pretty much zero influence on being basically at the gunpoint of life. It’s what you hate seeing the most and comfort him about with brewing tea. It definitely comes back tenfold, Levi won’t take it for granted when you brush out his hair and speak soothingly to him in the evening. „I don’t care, those are all reasons why you’re the apple of my eye“ seems to be what makes Levi’s heart a little mushy in particular.
He is very preoccupied with blame at the start of your relationship. Levi is torn apart by daily guilt and a constantly looming perception of failure to show an opening to his heart. He also crumbles under how the majority of people don’t take him seriously, overreact, or fear he snaps back into soldier mode — he doesn’t — when he does show affection.
That you gaze behind his reputation and touch him without prejudice is the most important thing to him. You can ignore his mad and gloomy expression, Paradis has carved it into his face for half an eternity (the other half is for you and him when this is over). It doesn’t mean he’s angry on the inside about you. The causes for his madness are way elsewhere, knowing his early story it goes without saying. What made Levi callous and broken-hearted are things very opposite to you.
Those who only see and enjoy his fighting personality probably want him as their poster boy, people who are reflected enough to bother with the idea of a private, cuddling Levi are the only truly caring ones. Because private Levi needs that physical and emotional connection the most. Patting his cadets on their heads is only a little, albeit meaningful moment. The teacup is still half-empty regardless if you wanna think of it in those terms.
Because he can only do so much in terms of initiative — which already shocks people to the point of paralysis, which ruins the moment since he assumes it’s not appreciated then — and it’s only one-sided. Giving isn’t fully making him happy even if it’s his only option given how most people perceive him.
The teacup only fills to the brim if Levi can let go for like half an hour getting some good ole kitty on your lap treatment. He silently lays there and enjoys your hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks genuinely peaceful that way. His hand palms gently at your thigh and knee, and rests there all tranquil while he ruminates about his day and how lucky he is to have you.
The whole ‚theorzing rather than going for it‘ thing stems from you listening to those people a bit too much at the beginning. Instead of asking Levi directly about touch, and to be fair: Not a single human being has done that yet, you try to figure him out at a distance. Which is also a good thing though.
You learn about many Levi habits others would overlook, misinterpret, or don’t think have any meaning. The more you learn about him, the more understanding you become, the more protective you will be, the less he will avoid intimacy. Because Levi really doesn’t want to shy away, but often his body has too much memory in it to be instantly receptive. So it rather starts with the mind, then.
The irony is. Levi rejecting bonds with others as not to have them weigh heavy on his mind when fighting will only make it worse. You make a statement to him that if he fully immerses himself in what you have, he can fight better and actually be without those godforsaken regrets he’s always talking about. That’s why when you’re having sex, you make him look in your eyes and kiss their lids, and wrap your legs around him very firmly because Levi has to know he’s deeply yours.
Hugs, the same thing. You squeeze the last curse out of him every time and tell him to hold you tight as well. You do have to tell him twice. Just because Levi is the strongest man in history, doesn’t mean he embraces very roughly. In fact, Levi is not used to this at all. Even more irony. Paradis’ ever-swearing, most badass titan killer with the physical excellence of a hundred acrobats can’t execute the simple act of putting his arms around you in a normal, casual way.
The why is the harder thing to talk about. Last time he got proper, truly loving hugs was way over 20 years ago. From Kuchel, during a time where he was too young to remember these things long-term. Let that sink in. It confuses him when he does it and even more so when others do. Kissing Historia’s hand even as a light official gesture was already completely unusual for him and a first time.
Levi doesn’t go beyond what he sees others doing in that regard. No extra miles, just imitating. Now think of him with something as big a deal as embracing his lover for minutes. He lets his arms just hang there and you gotta make him learn how to intertwine fingers or how to press his palms on your back. You’re the one holding him tight there, while Levi’s mind and stare go blank, he’s even more speechless and perplexed after confronting his uncle back then.
I’m not kidding. You have to ask Levi to be forthcoming with those things as well, it simply does not occur to him, and he’s unsure about everything there is to it. What a loveless world this guy is in. If it already frustrates you to see him struggle, imagine how deprived he must be. One of his inner blocks is, Levi has major jealousy of guys who are what he thinks a better hugging height. It’s obviously the other way around to anybody who’d be in love with Levi.
Of course he has the best hugging height by far. What’s not to like? He’s ideal. But in his perspective, imagine all these people above him wrapping around each other in moments of enthusiasm, shoulder-level on shoulder-level, or only with slight differences. And when it comes to him, it feels awkward because they feel strange bending down only for him and Armin.
And that’s probably the issue. Because it’s much better not to bend and try and intertwine, but just have Levi bury his face into your winter coat without a hassle. You don’t have to be perfectly chest to chest to make it work. Besides… romantic hugs are always a bit different. And, you invite Levi to do exactly that with you. Since Levi’s pet peeve is politeness, you’ll also have to show him the difference between mere courtesy and love, he hasn’t fully learned it either.
But just so you know. Levi is not a naive baby or raging bull in a china shop once he has given his love to someone. He observes well, adapts well. When it’s heartfelt, when it’s the right moment, it comes out almost by surprise, he’s feeling it and he will respond to you. With serenity and intent.
If there’s someone who can be unpretentious with physicality, that’s him. He just has to transfer that to romantic gestures and Levi will be the perfect lover after some time. He’ll end up like, „Eh, so what. We do this hugging thing!“ — Hilarious. Levi, knowing his battle tactics, does have a sort of innate courage to approach bodies: This time, it’s about someone he wants to give pleasure and gratitude to, though. Which will feel very different.
And you’re a lady he’s all whipped for, that changes everything. He might sort of try to lean at the wall next to you, to murmur about you kissing him after eating cake so he’s full of crumbs „and now I have to dust it all off again, hmph“, but he is not prepared for another kiss and you tickling him pinned against the wall (he’s not ticklish, but you still love it, and Levi has a thing for you being all over him despite his stoic face).
So yeah, Levi will be super grumpy and do the „Oi oi!“ thing, but also turn around so you won’t see the blush. Man, is he embarrassed. He will try to waddle away awkwardly to do paperwork, but no chance if you tug him back by the sleeve, dust off his shirt from crumbs, and squeeze his cheeks into a perfect Levi snoot. I’m telling you, he has a nice pouty face.
He might assume that you’re out of your mind because nobody has done that with him yet, but once you tell him that you just wanna look at him because every day might be the last, he sees the point of your antics. Merely saying you kiss him just because won’t make sense to the captain, it’s gotta have a purpose for the future.
So, you will tell him to always remember what your soothing lips do on him before he draws the blade tomorrow, and that he has plenty of filthy crumbs to come home to. „I think that’s right by what we’ve seen today“ is what he’ll admit, and carries you off to the bed to get grinding because all that stuff made him kinda turned on. Or rather, you grind, Levi on the other hand gets flustered. He complains about you being a tease at length since he’s having a huge she-pinned-me-to-the-wall boner.
You sit on his face to take it even further and as his favorite treat, end of discussion, your goddess is here mister. Geez, you’ll make him a hot mess. That dick won’t go soft anytime soon. You’ll talk to him about when his face is already ruined with cake crumbs, he has nothing to lose, gotta clean up anyway. The grumbling noise from below tells you that the argument is a good one. For good measure, you palm at his trousers to see his legs react and his voice suddenly hitch. Ah, it’s a wonderful day.
Levi knows a thing or two about holding his breath correctly, but what he likes the most is that he feels perfectly sandwiched between thigh Rose and thigh Maria. Yeah, he does consider them his personal comfort walls and hopes they’ll always be there. Congruently, Levi wraps his arms around them, in fact it’s locking rather than wrapping, and you’re like I see wow he’s serious.
On goes his tongue lapping away between your labia pretty much incessantly. The arousal is so intense, you have to breathe in yourself. Oh shit, Levi is gonna try to finish you off, shots fired. Not fast, but insisting. He does not bother with you panting pretty damn hard whatsoever. He’s calling people like that, but Levi might be the real brat all along.
Fair enough, he currently doesn’t hear anything, which he also loves the idea of. All day, people everywhere are talking nonsense, and now he gets to enjoy perfect silence. His ears are small, they’re easy to cover with thighs. He just goes on and on and gets you past lord how many brinks with a heated buildup.
There are a lot of evil things Mister Zeke has said and committed, but by far the most offending thing he has yet insinuated is that Levi is not popular with the ladies. Blasphemy, treason, outrage, éclat, trickery, criminal offense, international slander, the most grueling case of fake news since the horse left the building, and no, Jean is not meant. With those oral skills, any lady interested in him would get a permanently bleeding nose and something else permanently wet as you can personally attest to.
If Paradis would even remotely know what he can do in bed (and they would if Connie told them, he lives next door), even more people would run down his house than they already do to get a piece of him. Jesus Christ, the Ackerstamina. But I mean. People are probably suspecting it.
How can you not move like a god in bed if you can bend yourself into any Pythagorean shape mid-air. Him being a fighter also gives him experience with managing energy when you have sex, I’m not kidding. Levi can even handle you thrusting right back on his tongue, and even your jokes about how he’s getting the cream to his tea now.
Levi is already kind of dripping in juice. His fingers are sweaty, this time it’s something on his face and hands he prefers though. He won’t wipe it off just yet. So you take on the task to put a condom on him — kind of expensive, mysteriously imported, gotta make every one count my friend — and have Levi take you from behind to soil the bedsheets completely at this point.
Levi lets all the leaking happen, of course he notices, and yet he’s too focused on you gripping his cock hard all the way. So much for walls. Levi has to surrender to the thought of you squeezing him in any way you fancy at this point. That doesn’t just include the face, that much he learned. His cock is gonna fall off, you tighten up so much and make him squirm, Levi’s all blissed out.
He can’t handle your ass either. He just stares like the Founding Titan invented a brand new method to hypnotize the Ackermans or something. Although. Why’d you need to come up with something, though? People they love completely enthrall them already.
If we know something by now, it's that every Ackerman gets completely fucked in the head out of the blue and sent to another dimension when they’re with the love of their life, no hypnotizing device needed. Levi is clasping his teeth for his dear life back there. People asking him if he’s gone mad he’d answer ‚maybe‘, but if you asked him if this made him lose it he would admit it.
Since he doesn’t know what to do with his hands again, you ask him to place them at your waist. „Properly, now slide in, Levi.“ — He takes his time for the first few thrusts, grunts, but gets the hang of it, in fact he’s a pro in the making. All that vertical maneuvering can turn into horizontal maneuvering very quickly. Levi feels so strange and so good at the same time, it’s overwhelming. How can something he thought would be so dirty be this amazing?
And since this position allows him to penetrate you even deeper, Levi gets the full experience of being inside of you times two. The wet noise already turns him on, his body feels so warmed up, and he feels really shocked he’s doing this. Although his face won’t show, it’ll be concentrated as before. On the inside, Levi is losing it.
He can’t get enough of your body and how you tell him what to do, Levi will be driving it home in no time. You’re gonna have your jaw dropped by how lusty he can get yourself, but also love how he’s really breaking a sweat just because of your hard grip. Who would have thought. 14-meter class titans got nothing on you. Levi’s entire neck and chest is glazed over. You call him out on it, all you’re gonna get is a little ‚tch, that’s your fault, woman‘. I mean of course it is. He’s literally at your mercy. I told you he’s hilarious.
Little did you know that Levi will straight-up ignore his sweatiness and just continue, one heartbeat at a time, to really fill you out and make you feel good. Can you imagine. Levi dedicating like 20 minutes to make sweet love to you doggystyle.
He has a good feeling for keeping you just on the verge of cumming. He even reaches around to press two fingers into your clit after five minutes of figuring out his angles. You didn’t expect this at all. It’s as if Levi can read your mind going „but his hands are gonna get really messy, why?“ — he just goes on rubbing and says, deadpan: „Miss, do I look like I care.“
Some dirty things in the world are just there to annoy him. They’re not existing to make his life easier. And toilet humor-related things: We know Levi’s stance on that. Wet pussy on the other hand: Surprise. He thinks of it very differently. Levi is pretty caught off guard by the fact that you loving and adoring him is the reason you’re leaking so much.
It sinks in (um, literally) that you’re all drippy because you really want him inside. Not to mention that he constantly realizes just how attracted to him you are. Your desire for him, that’s Ackerman kryptonite. Levi doesn’t miss your eyes, nope. That motherfucker is a damn good face reader.
And— How warmed up your body feels in his hands, how you’re breathing. How you’re telling him exactly how to tilt to hit the good spots. How you’re sucking in air when he does just that. How you sound, grip the pillow, the sheets. Your goosebumps all over your legs. How your lips part. How you wait for every thrust. The way you tell him how good it is. Your pulse. Your own sweaty back, letting his hands on your waist slip and slide a little with the rhythm.
How he’s struggling not to moan his soul out and chokes back. How you’re softly moving to glide off, he’s gonna lose his mind. How much you’re enjoying him and how cute you tell him he is. Whatever you’d ask of him, he’s so ready to fulfill it. You having the absolute hots for Levi is probably gonna preoccupy him for the whole night while you’re sleeping and he sits in the chair.
He’s been shooting grumpy cat level eye daggers with extra Ackerpoison at the corps couples for walking around showing any signs of this. Making all those lovey-dovey faces or going to the back of the barn together. Levi has chased them with his favored broom to whoop-diddly-doop those horndog soldiers back on track, swirling his weapon of choice around to send a sweeping cloud of dust after them.
Whereas now… he has to deal with the fact that he really loves all that horny stuff. Cognitive dissonance 101 is striking him out of nowhere. I mean he’d not fuck in the barn, that one is truly disgustingly shittily bastardly filthy or however he’d word it, but you get the gist. He caught feelings and caught pleasure — and that’s such a good thing.
His problem is, Levi wouldn’t know how to fawn right back at you. Except saying „good job“ like he’d praise a cadet, but he decides that’s not something to say during sex. He’s very right about that indeed. So instead: He will always reply to you accordingly and with Levi-typical honesty.
If you say you love how he kisses your neck from behind, he will tell you he’s enjoying it as well because damn he loves that spot indeed (titans can tell you a story about it… Levi has such a neck fixation, that fucker). And: Letting actions speak the loudest with him. He’s a practical guy. Levi’s hands can to the most complicated reverse grips and all that crazy human Beyblade shit. Getting you off at his fingertips is gonna be his easiest exercise ever once he gets into it.
He doesn’t even do it to show off at this point. Levi is just that kind of a sex machine and eager to please, not to mention god, is he obedient and a giver in disguise. If Levi were offered the most luxurious, expensive tea available versus your breasts to suck on for a week given he’s free of titan duty… that cup is gonna turn cold. He loves the skinship and he loves giving you a fuckton of orgasms, as many as you like and as many he has time for.
Self-explanatory, this is something he will not feel one bit of regret about. Hours touching you is the farthest from wasting time to Levi. The less he holds back with his love, the more secure things become. He doesn’t feel the misery he thought he’d run into, nor does it feel like a reckless act that’s only something feeble.
The new soap every other week on his table alone reminds him you’re here to stay and like his every quirk, and make this a private thing rather than something to parade around. You never lied saying „Levi, you’re mine.“ He does wrap his head around the fact that all of this is happening with time.
Levi finds your relationship meaningful because it gives him feelings and exactly that emotional harbor he never had before, and he gifts you the reverence of your lifetime since Levi doesn’t half-ass anything. You reassured and guided him so much, he looks up to that, it breaks down his prejudice against loving more and more. That’s how you’ll feel intimate in all kinds of ways for very intense hours he can spare to make the most out of it.
From the light touch at his arm to making out until the candles burn down. And if you tell Levi to sell the deal and dedicate his heart, how can he not take that as a serious order. He has to be guarded to put his guard down, and that’s what you can offer him, and he will create something lasting out of it. Promise is promise to him, we all know.
RELATED: sub!levi hc (tea shop au) | life after war (levi’s happy end)
multifandom mlist | levi writings on ao3
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#levi x reader#levi smut#levi headcanons#levi ackerman#aot#snk#levi#snk smut#sub!levi#attack on titan#levi fluff#snk fluff#levi imagine#levi headcanon#snk headcanon#snk crack#levi x female reader#attack on titan headcanon#snk season 4#domestic levi#i'm crying but also laughing at the zeke crack
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