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ceilidho · 2 months

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 8)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

Now a nocturnal animal emerges into the daylight hours.

A week becomes two and your shoulders untense. It’s not something you notice at first because you’re used to an ever present strain between your shoulder blades and an ache in your jaw from grinding your teeth at night. Then a fortnight goes by without so much as a missive with your name on it floating across John’s desk or a stranger appearing in town after tracking you down, and you wonder if maybe the world really is big enough to hide in.

It sure feels that way at times. The woods beyond the bounds of John’s property stretch out farther than the eye can see and even walking it feels like you could disappear into another realm. Old spruces shoot up high into the clouds, and deeper into the woods, huge rock formations grow more and more prominent as you near the mountains. John takes you through the woods on horseback, following the rough trails carved into the dirt by a century of wagons and carts using the same path. The footprints of a different time.

Up in the trees, birds warble and chirp, talking to one another in songs that you’ve never heard before. A woodpecker drills into the side of a tree. Pinecones snap out of the upper branches and drop to the forest floor.

There is only a single trail and it’s easy to lose. You grow a bit nervous when John takes you off the trail and deeper into the woods, but he does so with the confidence of a man that knows these woods like the back of his hand. You go quiet when he stops Buttercup to let a herd of deer wander by, the stragglers hurrying to catch up with the group, throwing the two of you nervous glances before they disappear into the thicket.

“Should we be out this far?” you ask in a whisper, reluctant to disturb the silence. Though the woods are full of animals that bleat, chirp, chatter, and hoot, the sound of your own voice feels preternaturally loud and shrill.

“We won’t get lost, darlin’. I know my way around,” John reassures you, curling an arm around your waist to hold you to him. These days, you hardly worry about tumbling off the horse. Not with him at your back anyway.

“That wasn’t really my worry,” you mumble, trailing off.

“Then what’re you getting all worked up about?”

“Aren’t there wolves out here? Or bears?”

He snorts, the sound making you jolt. You don’t topple over because he has such a firm hold around your waist. “They don’t usually come this close to town. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That sounds like something mothers tell their children to stop them crying,” you say flatly. You draw your legs up automatically when John directs Buttercup through a shallow basin, a shortcut back home. It makes you anxious for a moment, but the water barely goes up to her ankles, so you relax when you realize that you’re in no danger of being swept away by the current.

“That doesn’t mean a bear or wolf can’t wander by, but it’s rare.”

“And there it is.”

You can feel the heat of his glower on the back of your head. “We could spend the night out here if you want to see for yourself.”

At that, you shut your mouth. Even if he were to prove his point, you have no interest in camping out in the woods now that you’ve become accustomed to the luxury of a soft bed. Granted that you’re forced to share that same bed, still you’ve never slept half as well as you do these days. You wake up rested after nine hours of blissful shut eye, a sleep so deep that your dreams only come in half-remembered flashes. Often they involve the man you wake up wrapped around, and for that you’re grateful that they remain submerged.

A new desire has started to burrow its way into the back of your mind in recent days. It starts out as a thought so brief that you hardly notice it before it skitters away.

And then it lingers.

You wake up in the middle of the night hot, sweat dripping down the nape of your neck and a fire burning in your loins, a red-hot coil wound around itself, fit to burst. Pulsating. At some point throughout the night, you must have thrown a leg around John’s waist because it rests there now, your hand planted in the middle of his chest and your sex all but rubbing up against his thigh. Under your hand, you can feel his heart pump strong and steady.

You hold very, very still, waiting for him to wake. But John sleeps on, his palm loose where it rests along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the flesh of your backside.

You can hardly look at him these days without shaking. You’ve come to fixate on the sway of his hips when he walks and the flecks of silver in his beard. The grooves in his weathered hands. The way your head fits in the palm of his hand when he cradles it to his chest. The fond glimmer in his eyes that shines the brightest when he puts his hat on your head and it slips past your eyes, too big for your head.

When you tip it up in order to see, the folds around his eyes become more pronounced with the force of his smile.

“There you are, bug,” he says, taking the hat off your head to set it back on his and reeling you in for a kiss.

Bug, love, honey, darling. The constant flux of endearments makes your head spin. John never calls you by the name on your marriage license. It’s like that name means nothing to him, cast away at the first opportunity and replaced by an endless stream of pet names.

He hasn’t touched your sex since making you come on the porch swing the week before. He pulls you into a chaste embrace at night, the only evidence of his own desire being the stiff shaft nestled against the small of your back in the early morning hours, which he takes care of on his own in the bathroom downstairs after pressing a kiss to your cheek. You feel robbed of something, though you don’t know quite what.

You’re tempted to offer your help, but you don’t know exactly what that would entail. Inexperience and fear of rejection hold you back, stay your tongue. In the two weeks you’ve been married, he hasn’t once tried to pin you down and rut between your thighs like you expected and dreaded that very first night.

Now that that time has passed, you don’t know how to initiate that moment again.

John promises to teach you how to ride a horse. You can’t see a reason to protest, much to your chagrin. Despite your apprehensions, even you can’t deny that it would be a helpful skill. A train only goes one way after all, confined to a single track. A horse has no such laws to obey.

The thought stays nestled at the back of your mind as the days continue on.

You flounder around in the kitchen on the day that John invites his deputies over for supper. You’ve met the big one—Simon—now a small handful of times, each encounter marked by a silence that sucks the air out of the room when he turns his gaze on you and holds it. Perhaps you’ve simply ascribed too much importance to his person, given that every time you’ve seen him, your life has changed irrevocably. His presence is always followed by revelation it seems. The archangel of vicissitude. A harbinger of uncertain times.

The other two are new. John introduces you to them when you bring out the cutlery and crockery to set the table, and you nearly go cross-eyed when they reach across the table at the same time to offer their hands. You go to meet them halfway, but flinch when John brings his hand down on the table with enough force to make the silverware jump.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he apologizes to you first before turning his glare on the other two. “That ain’t proper, boys. You wait for the lady to offer her hand first—you don’t treat a woman like she’s a mutt you’re teaching to shake.”

“Ah, sorry, hen,” the one on the left says, his voice a thick Scottish brogue like a purr. He’s possibly the handsomest man you’ve ever met, but there’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes. When he smiles, it curls up in a roguish sort of way that makes you falter, like he’s in on a joke that you aren’t. “Dinnae mean to offend. No’ often we get ta meet such a pretty lady.”

“Sorry—” the one on the right apologizes in a voice far more earnest than his counterpart’s. “And sorry for him. We think he was raised by wolves.”

“What’s yer excuse then?” the Scot sneers, knocking his knee into the other man’s under the table. “Dinnae see ye waitin’ for her fuckin’ hand like a gentleman—apologies, hen.”

“Christ,” John sighs, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling.

Simon stays silent at the other end of the table, but the whole table jumps when he aims a kick at the Scott’s leg. He hisses and blurts out a word in a language you’ve never heard before, the word unmistakably vitriolic. He clutches at his shin and shoots a nasty look at Simon, though he doesn’t make a move to retaliate.

“Name’s Kyle. Kyle Garrick,” the other introduces himself, and you finally reach across the table to offer your hand. His hand is warm against yours when he takes it, dark skin burnished in the candlelight. There’s something inviting about him; something about his eyes, so dark that you almost fall into them. Thick lips curl up into a smile. “And this here is Soap.”

You frown. “Soap?”

The man in question runs a hand down his front, emphasizing the cut of his shirt and the way it clings to the muscle of his chest. “‘Cause of how well I clean up.”

Simon barks out a laugh at that. The sound comes so sudden and sharp that it startles you. “You got it ‘cause your mum had to wash out your mouth with soap.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him and you can only stare wide-eyed at the lot of them as they dissolve into bickering and squabbling after that. It’s almost a relief to head back into the kitchen to finish cooking.

Dinner is a similar messy affair, punctuated by the sound of Soap practically gnawing the meat off the bone. He only apologizes when John barks at him for making a mess, more food on the floor around him than on his plate, but his table manners don’t last very long. John doesn’t seem so much embarrassed on their behalf as annoyed, but it’s an annoyance that comes with an aftertaste of warmth. You can tell without asking that they’ve known each other for years.

There’s room enough in you for food and envy. Back home you had friends. Never close friends, but acquaintances at least. Maids you could recognize by face. Small talk while ascending single-file up the servants’ staircase. Perhaps little more than that. You’d never been particularly close to any of them, but how could you? You worked from morning ‘till night, up and down the stairs, moving in the shadows. Never making too much noise lest your employers take notice of you.

Like he did.

You shake it off. That’s no matter now. You’re hundreds of miles away and living under a new name. A married woman, to the county sheriff no less. It only sometimes hurts your heart to think of how lonely you’d been.

When they leave, you stand at the window and watch as they disappear into the black of the night, Simon at the front of the pack, his torchlight leading the way. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt recedes the farther they get.

His hands warm your shoulders. You don’t know how long he’s been there, standing behind you while you stared out the window after the boys. All you know is that his hands are warm, and the kiss he presses to the back of your head makes you arch back into him, unconsciously gravitating closer to him. Needing to be near.

In bed, you curl your fingers against his chest. On a rough exhale, you wake. You dream still of something terrible that happens somewhere else, in another city, in an old life. His heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

John takes you to the local seamstress to have you fitted for a pair of pants and suddenly you’re out of excuses. They fit you comfortably, like a second skin, and you find yourself pulling at the legs at your final fitting as if to stretch out the material. The seamstress nearly jabs you with a pin and glares up at you until you stop fidgeting.

You come to terms with it when he brings you into the stables and makes you fetch the saddle from where it rests on its stand. It’s heavier than you expected. You stumble back over to where John now has Buttercup standing in the middle of the stable, holding her by the lead fixed to her bridle.

“I don’t know if—” you start, trepidation climbing up your chest until it grips you by the throat. For as many times as you’ve ridden her, you’ve never done it alone.

John fixes her lead to a post and walks over to you, taking the saddle from your hands and letting it drop to the ground. He cups your face in both hands to tilt your head up. “Hey, honey. We’re not doing much of anything today, alright? Just a walk around the paddock so you get used to sitting on Buttercup on your own. I’m not gonna smack her ass and send you down the trail at full tilt..”

That gets a laugh out of you. “You promise?”

He smiles. “Promise, darlin’.”

And he keeps it. The only thing you do that day is learn how to tack a horse and how to properly mount and dismount her. The latter part of the lesson is devoted to you trying to find your balance while John leads the two of you around the pen at a leisurely pace. He calms you down when he sees you grow too stiff, stopping to coo and rub your thigh until you gradually relax. It’s heartwarming until Buttercup begins to tense up too for a reason unbeknownst to you and you watch in righteous fury as John calms her down the same way.

John gets you a hat to keep the sun from beating down on you, but there’s little he can do about the soreness between your thighs and the stiffness in your legs the next day. All you can do is hiss and moan in pain, hobbling around the house until he forces you down into a chair and hikes up your dress in order to apply an arnica salve to your inner thighs.

It’s a relief and an affront at the same time. The duality of man. The salve soothes much of the ache, but you twitch nervously around John for the rest of the day, the memory of him pinning you to the chair and forcibly spreading your thighs haunting you. The lingering ache in your core is just the salt in the wound.

It rains another day. A light drizzle while the sun is still out.

Every day you sit and you think, will it be today? And then the wash basins are emptied out in the field, the horses are taken out to the paddock, you pin the laundry up on the line to dry, and John presses a farewell kiss to your forehead when he leaves you with Kate and nothing happens. Every inch of you waits for more, anticipates more. Throbs when he leaves you wanting, only a chaste kiss and a squeeze around your waist before he’s off.

You can feel it coming to a head. An itch you can’t shake.

That day comes with another ache you can’t shake.

“Please,” you beg, clasping your hands in front of you. “One day of rest. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t do this anymore, John.”

John snaps the lead in his hands. “Let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

You hang your head low on the march over to the stables, John taking up the rear like he expects you to bolt. An executioner’s walk. The thought of escape has never seemed further away—not even because of its feasibility, but because all you want to do is lie down and rest.

“You can quit your moping,” he says as you tack up Buttercup, a pout on your lips. “Got something special for you today.”

That makes you perk up, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t specify what that is. Anticipation mounts in you when he helps you up onto Buttercup and then climbs up behind you himself. He steers her away from the paddock and towards the trail leading into the woods, the sun at its zenith now, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see.

You’ve ridden this trail before. A week ago, with John at your back as he is now. Through the fields and over the hills until the trees start to number in the tens and then the hundreds, no clear delineation between plain and forest. Simply there and then everywhere.

By now, after hours of sun beating down on the path, the trail is mostly dry, yesterday’s rain long since having sunk into the earth. You think it’d still be a tough hike on foot, but on horseback you cover acres of land at a brisk pace, Buttercup hardly breaking a sweat. You cross paths with a small group traveling by horse and wagon, but John breaks off from the path not too long after that, steering Buttercup deeper into the wilderness, where the only gullies are the ones carved out by years and years of rainfall.

You only see it when the land begins to dip and you’re forced to hold onto the horn and tighten your thighs around the fenders to keep steady. At the bottom of a hill, a small stream opens up into a larger river, narrowing out at the other end where the land rises again and the water can only trickle over the pebbly riverbed. On the other side, a rocky outcropping cuts the stream off from view.

“Is this where you used to come to bathe?” you ask, recalling an earlier conversation.

John sighs. “Thought I’d take you for a swim as a treat, but if you’d rather just tease me—”

“Well now, let’s not be hasty,” you say, already trying to dismount on your own, eyes glued on the stream glimmering in the sunlight. John chuckles, keeping you pressed to him until he guides Buttercup under a tree for shade and dismounts first, helping you down after him.

All you want to do is wade in the stream up to your ankles, so that’s what you do. Boots kicked off, Buttercup relaxing in the shade of a tree, John standing by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and watching you tiptoe over the smooth rocks below. You roll up your pant legs, but eventually you feel the ends grow damp as you venture farther out. At its deepest, you would probably sink up to your waist.

“Don’t you want to swim?” John asks from somewhere behind you.

You splash around a bit, kicking your feet through the water. “Hard to do that with clothes—”

When you turn back around to face him, your eyes dart down momentarily at the sight of skin before you squeak and whirl back around, sending up an arc of water. Twice now you’ve seen him naked.

“You’ve no clothes on,” you state, bluntly enough that it almost sounds stupid.

You hear the water splash and ripple when he takes his first step in. “Right—you better think about doing the same if you don’t want to ride home soaking wet.”

“I was perfectly fine just getting my feet wet,” you say indignantly.

“We came out here to swim, not get your feet wet,” John laughs. You stiffen when his hand comes down on your shoulder, conscious of the fact that your husband is standing right behind you, entirely divested of his clothes. “So best get to steppin’.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says pityingly. “Yes, I can.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you make your way back to shore, careful not to allow yourself a glimpse of him. Your boots are stacked beneath the shade of another tree, John’s clothes folded neatly beside them. You strip slowly, attentive to the world around you; though unlikely, it’s not impossible that someone might wander by. Your only consolation is that John is still within sight, though you keep your back to him because in recent days, you’ve developed a hunger for him that even now makes your stomach hurt.

Though the air is warm, you shiver. When you turn around with your arms crossed over your breasts to hide them from sight, you find John wading in the river up to his waist. You’ve seen him like this once before, the hearty body of a man in his prime. Sturdy and strong. The hair on his chest is darker than that on his head, wet too from the dip he must have taken when your back was turned. His hair is slicked back too, a wet hand combing it back.

“Come on, darlin’,” he calls, beckoning you forward with his hand.

The water is a cold shock when you step in past your ankles. Ice cold tendrils wrap up your legs, sucking the warmth from you.

You suck in a soft breath when he pulls you into his arms and heaves you up, big hands gripping under your thighs. Your breasts press against the wet skin of his chest, nipples already pebbled. The river is deeper than you assumed; John pulls you deeper in until it pools around your waist and then your chest. Cold enough that you shiver until John dips his head down and the kiss he presses to your lips melts you from the inside out.

You can’t escape the intimacy of water-slick skin. When John drags you up his chest, your nipples brush over his and the shudder that passes through you is violent, toe-curling. You know that he can feel the heat of your core even underwater. With your legs wound around his waist, every inch of you is plastered to his front. Even your fingers play with the ends of his hair, arms draped over his shoulders. You can’t look away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, breath hot on your face. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could look anywhere else.

He reaches down under the water to readjust himself and you gasp when his shaft is suddenly right there, trapped between his belly and your heat. It’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to coitus, his glans nestled between your folds. You’d only have to shift slightly for him to slip right in. The thought makes your breath quicken.

He doesn’t make a move to take you though, even knowing that he could. How easy it would be. How it’s due to him. Your husband that’s waited a fortnight to take you as his own. John kisses you until each slick pass of his lips grows sloppier, clumsier—his lips barely parting from yours before they’re on you again, rendering you a creature of base needs.

But his hands don’t shift from your backside where he holds you in place. His fingers dig into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but they don’t move to part your folds to make room for his manhood. You expect him to—practically yearn for it and squeeze him around the neck all the harder when he subverts your expectations, doing no more than letting you grind your heat against the base of his shaft.

“John—John, please,” you beg, mindless for what. You don’t know what you’re asking for.

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” he asks into your mouth, stealing your answer with another kiss.

You fall under the swell of another wave. When the root of his cock glides over your clit, your core clenches on nothing, a sob half-bitten off in your mouth, ripped from your chest.

It doesn’t matter how close to him you get—he gives you nothing. The heat could very well burn you from the inside out. Cold water caresses your skin as it flows past, but the center of you runs so hot that you hardly notice it.

When he hikes you higher up against his chest, you clench your fingers in his hair, whining when he takes your nipple into his mouth. Your gasp comes out sharp and hurt when the coarse bristles of his beard rub rough against your breast. He sucks at your breast tender at first, gentle, eyes half-lidded like his mind has gone somewhere else, but there’s a glint in his eye that grows wild and dark, that turns him rough. You don’t know what to do except shake and let him use you how he wants.

Desperation nips at your heels, urging you up the length of him. If you had more nerve, you’d reach down and grasp him under the water, notch the head of his member against your sex and sink right down on him. You need him like you've never needed anything before. Every part of you aflame, searing hot under the sun at its highest point; right overhead, right on top of you.

His teeth sink delicately into your areola, tongue lapping over your nipple to soothe the hurt, and suddenly, you break.

“Please—” you gasp, wrenching his mouth away from your breast and whimpering when he resists at first, glaring up at you like he might bite. “Please, John—I can’t take it. I need you.”

His eyes darken, the pupil swallowing everything up. “Need me where, wife? Here?”

A hand dips between your thighs, pointer finger gliding over your sex, plump with blood. So tender that your mouth hangs open on a whine when he touches you.

“Y-yes,” you whimper, gaze swimming.

John’s breath comes out in a harsh, ragged pant. Completely undone in a way you’ve never seen before. “Get out, darlin’. I’m taking you home. Gonna give you what you need.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price

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bxlladxnnabxtch · 5 months

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Bittersweet Savior

Gojo x Reader

Getting saved is one of my very guilty pleasure tropes. (If you couldn’t tell) I can and will be writing more of it teehee

Warnings: Profanity, Blood, Descriptions of reader getting their ass absolutely handed to them, Near death experience.

SMACK

The last thing you expected when you got sent on this mission with Satoru was to be launched through a wall by your fucking face. But as you blinked your eyes open through the incessant ringing and metallic taste on your tongue willing them to stay closed, you realized that this mission may have been a little (a lot) above your pay grade. The chewing out you were going to give Yaga after this mission might even rivel whatever injury Satoru’s going to tear you a new one for. At this point it seemed like the higher ups were trying to kill you.

You were barely able to stand up on shaky legs and a shitty sense of balance from your clearly concussed mind, but you managed. Alas, you stumbled, hand shooting out to what was left of the decimated wall for balance, as your other hand came up to use your technique. When, again, your body was shoved back in to the pile of rubble you had just climbed from. Your back hit the concrete with a sickening crunch, and a wail left you when you felt pain explode along your shoulder blades and cascade down your back like molten lava. Your head fell back, your neck resting at an odd angle as you sat locked in a world of agony. You tried your best to breath though it, but your chest heaved as you attempted to get your bearings. The next time someone at the school told you to fucking box breathe to cope during missions, was the day you would be put to death for murder.

The curse was seemingly toying with you as it stalked towards you with a sadistic grin, it’s skin a grotesque green with shell like shield formations covering it, It’s armor barely chipping against your prior use of your technique. You gritted your teeth upon realizing Gojo hadn’t returned since the cursed spirit had split you up with it’s multiple copies crowding the man. And if he was having trouble getting through multiple of them, it meant that this was a special grade, and your chances of getting through this one were slim to none.

Your body had become essentially numb to the pain as you backed yourself up the piled of rubble, your hands gripping the concrete as it sliced through your palms. You gritted your teeth, ignoring the crackles of pain shooting off along your spine as you tried to steady your breathing for the second time. Your hand raised as it curled into a fist, focusing your cursed energy into your palm as you let go of your middle and ring finger. Your technique manifested as a slice of wind launched towards the curse, cutting through the ground in its wake as it hurdled its way towards its target. You could hear it howl as it sliced through the air, tearing up the existing rubble and raking up pieces of it with its momentum.

The curse was flung onto its back as it collided with your cursed energy, throwing it across the ground, pieces of concrete and rock chipped at its armor as it was dragged further and further from you. You watched it tumble, rolling over a couple times as it’s hands gripped at the ground in a desperate attempt to slow its speed, despite the blade of wind actively shoving it further. Your technique only stopped when it slammed the cursed spirit into a building, the structure swaying at the impact as a cloud of dust and debris surfaced from the landing. A silence fell over the barren what once was a street, now more of a warzone, but it was short lived as you saw movement from among the cloud. It didn’t take long for the spirit to get up again, and your heart plummeted as you realized how little your technique did to it. It screeched as it got up, the sound piercing your eardrums as you flinched from the jolt of pain it sent through you.

A switch seemed to flip in your mind as you shot up, getting up off the rubble, deciding that it would be better to flee with your life than to try and fight a losing battle. Your palms left bloody handprints on the bits of rock and shale as you scrambled to get off the pile, feet clambering down the pile of blood-stained cement as you pushed yourself off of it, feet hitting solid ground as you broke into a sprint. You stumbled the slightest bit, but righted yourself as you attempted to fend off the violent nausea that plagued your sense of balance and direction. A steady burn started in your lungs as your fatigued body tried to keep up with the added exertion, your feet clapping against the ground as you ran with everything you had left in you.

Adrenaline shot through you when a solid object was thrown into your side, the shrapnel cutting through your hip and throwing you off balance as you were mercilessly thrown to the ground. Your body skidded across the tarmac as the wind was knocked out of you, coming to a stop as you hiccupped, heaving in a futile attempt to get air into your lungs. A grotesque wheezing sound came from you as you tried yet again, the strain in your chest finally letting up as you greedily sucked in mouthfuls of air. A sense of dread settled in the pit that had formed in your stomach, your throat closing up as a sense of panic took hold of you. You didn’t need to look down to know that the freshly made wound in your side was bleeding heavily, you could tell from how cold it felt when the wind brushed against it. You sensed that the absence of pain was due to shock, and that only meant that the injury was severe enough for your body to block it out. Your forehead came to rest on the hard asphalt, your body shaking from the shock your body was put under as you quickly weighed your options.

You assessed your physical state, and you really didn’t need to think too hard as you deduced that you were entirely fucked.

You had essentially accepted your fate by the time you had flipped over, and for a brief moment you wondered how Shoko would react to seeing your corpse in the mortuary. You felt the faintest sense of guilt at that sentiment, maybe if you had defected like Suguru, maybe you’d have been able to spare her the disappointment of seeing another one of her childhood friends exit the Jujutsu world, only this time in a body bag.

SMACK

That thought was quickly interrupted as the curse was kindly launched through a wall by it’s fucking face.

You didn’t even get a chance to process the relief at this development, as you saw a platinum head of hair pop in your vision and a hand come to pull his blindfold off as he stared down at you with those damn near blinding blue eyes of his. A grin spread across his features, a chuckle emanating from him as he looked you over.

“You don’t look so hot, princess.” He remarked slyly.

“Oh yeah, I’m great, thanks for asking.” You wheezed, hand coming to press into your side with a hiss. You flinched at the pressure, beginning to feel the warmth of your own blood flow through the spaces between your fingers. You felt the large divot that that was now engraved in your side, and blinked up at Gojo when you saw his expression falter at the amount of blood beginning to pool around you. His signature smile fell slightly, silently examining you before pivoting around to face the curse head on.

“Just give me a minute to deal with this.” He said softly, and you nodded your head lightly. “Take all the time you need.” You hummed, a soft groan falling out of you as the shock began to wear off. You began to feel the steady thrum of pain throb through your being, squirming slightly as you laid on the ground.

You could hear the shuffle of rubble through the soft ringing in your ears. One second your eyes were on Satoru, and the next he had vanished, you barely had a second to flick your eyes over to the curse as you heard him sprint towards it with frightening speed. You saw his figure practically fly through the air as he cocked his leg back only to swing it at the cursed spirit. With a sickening crack, the curses head flew through the air, splitting it’s armor and leaving a stump in it’s wake. You flinched at the sight, tearing your eyes away as you heard its head roll across the dust scattered road.

You blinked and he was at your side yet again, face unreadable as he directed both of your hands over to your sliced open side. “Keep pressure on it.” He said, eyes flicking over your face as you laughed weakly. “Aww, c’mon don’t be like that, what happened to the cocky Satoru that never takes anything serious?” You joked, wincing as you obeyed his order, forcing your hands harder into your side. You struggled to keep pressure on it as you began to shake, hands trembling as they began to feel sticky from the blood.

“Shut up.” He scoffed, scooping one hand under your legs and another under your shoulders as he hoisted you up. A yell of pain left you at the movement, and his face fell the slightest bit as he adjusted you in his hold. “You’re pale, I’ve gotta get you to Shoko.” He stated softly, voice laced with a twinge of- dare you say- concern? Your laugh came out as more of a weak wheeze, head leaning against his shoulder as you stared up at him. “Yeah, I dunno about you but-“ you sucked in a breath of air, finding it getting harder to breathe as you gritted your teeth. “People usually get pale when they’re bleeding out.” You finished, eyebrows furrowing as a wave of nausea hit you.

A small smirk crept onto his face as he shrugged his shoulders lightly, your figure dipping the slightest bit with the movement. “I wouldn’t know, never bled out before.” He said with a huff. You snickered, shaking your head lightly as laughter wracked through you. A wave of pain hit you immediately after, and you tensed in his hold. “Ugh you’re such a dick.”

Your eyes slipped closed as you rested your head against his chest, feeling your surroundings change as you snapped them open again in surprise. You quickly took note of the beds that took up the room, and your jaw fell in astonishment as you blinked in shock. Your eyes flickered up to him, Brows knitting together in confusion as you realized what he had done. “Did you just-“

He cut you off, cocking a brow as he spoke. “Warp you to the infirmary? You really thought I was going to let you bleed out in the street? Wow, you wound me. Truly I don’t think I could ever recover-“ You cut him off with a soft slap to the chest, the action leaving a bloody handprint on his pristine white shirt. A groan sounding from you as you listen to him ramble about your subsequent betrayal.

“Just set me down and go get Shoko before you’re the one that ends up in a recovery bed.”

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my-writings-and-musings · 5 months

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So Tumblr is barely functional as usual and wouldn't let me edit an ask and deleted it instead : )

Here's a response the dear anon that asked; "Anon here asking (respectfully begging) for more soundwave content. Can We have a continuation of mama reader? I am fully invested.

Bots being parents to tiny babies keeps my world going round so you absolutely can, dear anon. Continuation of this.

The bunker was far enough underground that day and night didn't really matter, but some part of you still new it was late when you were startled awake, your exhausted body gaining a burst of energy when you instinctively recognized what had awoken you.

Soft cries compelled you to move across the bed despite lingering pain, a powerful instinct giving you strength as you looked into the little bassinet that attached to the side of your mattress and found a squirming newborn Cybertronian. Despite being mere hours old, the little one had managed to kick off all his blankets, leaving him quite upset despite having caused the issue for himself. A rounded visor brightened when you came into view, his cries pausing with a hiccup as he recognized you on instinct. Tiny servos lifted to the sky and his needy cries started again. You smiled as you fulfilled his request and pulled him to your chest.

Just as you managed to lay on your side and get somewhat settled, the door to your shared bedroom opened and closed in a flash, a bright red visor stepping through the darkness.

"Is he alright?" Soundwave asked quietly, approaching with careful footsteps. Your son had ceased his squirms and quieted his cries, but his sounds of distress continued, tiny face scrunching unhappily as his sire kneeled on the berth beside you.

"Mhmm, just fussy, but he did kick off all his blankets." you explained, trying not to yawn. Your body was begging for rest, but you couldn't bring yourself to sleep while your little one needed you. Just having his tiny helm snuggled into the crook of your neck made you want to stay up with him forever. "I think he just wants me to hold him for a while."

Soundwave didn't look entirely convinced. Laying his much longer frame down beside you, he replied in a firm but gentle voice. "You need rest."

"I'll be fine." you answered quickly. You knew he was telling the truth, and your body wanted to comply, but you couldn't just let him go. Something deep had awakened within you when the sparkling had been born, and you were still adjusting. Even now, as his little digits grabbed a firm hold on your pajamas and his warm vents ruffled your hair, you knew you'd die for him without hesitation. Soundwave seemed to understand in his own way, but he was no less insistent for your sake.

"Correction; you'll be fine if you rest." he persisted, subtly tucking you in. The gentle touch of his digits did wonders for your lingering anxiety, and though a part of you still wanted to resist, you had no trouble handing over the mostly settled newborn when his sire offered his servos. Handing him over, you only heard a tiny sound of surprise before the sparkling settled once more, cozy as could be in the mech's careful grasp. "I'll figure out what woke him up."

"He's not hungry..." you offered with a yawn, keeping an eye on them both as you laid your head down on a pillow. You'd already started to learn what each particular type of cry was meant to communicate, and the one that had awoken you was more like the fearful wails he'd made upon entering the world, making you wonder what might have frightened him in the safety of his crib. Sleep clouded your brain and prevented the formation of any sensible theories. Thankfully, Soundwave had more energy to focus on the problem, his visor pulsing faintly in thought as he looked over the bundle in his cupped palm.

With his spare servo, he tenderly traced the rounded helm resting against his thumb, contemplating something you couldn't know until he finally spoke up. "Sensitive audials..." he noted at last, digits lingering as he took a second to observe and ponder the feature he'd given his son. Realizing he'd drifted off, the mech moved a bit more swiftly upon catching himself, looking to the ceiling so his expression couldn't betray him. "The ventilation system is quite loud upon activation. It must have startled him. Solution; resonance dampeners."

"That sounds like a good idea. We can get the nursery soundproofed before he moves in..." you said with a nod, already drifting off. Thoughts blurred as sleep came for you at last, your body dimly aware of the blankets being adjusted once more before warm digits stroked your cheek. You had just enough strength to open your eyes and meet Soundwave's scarlet visor.

"I can handle that, and this." he said in a final, tender insistence. Knowing that everything would be taken care of made it much easier to drift off. The last thing you saw before closing your eyes was the form of your son snoozing soundly in his sire's palm, a loving voice rumbling in your ears as you complied and prepared to dream of all that might be ahead. "Sleep, please. For both of us."

#transformers #maccadam #earthspark #transformers earthspark #tf earthspark #transformers: earthspark #tf #human reader #self insert #soundwave x reader #x reader #tf x reader #human/bot babies #sparklings #tfe #tfes #soundwave

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astroenchanter · 5 months

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Alright so, my little game design major ass keeps getting dark premonitions of what might happen in the bachelor route. And instead of desperately trying to explain to my friend who does not play, I figure I might as well elaborate here. First off this one is just a neat horror mechanic I hope they bring back and flesh out. One of my favorite things in the OG bachelor route that I haven't seen done in other games before, but to me was supper effective was the way they had you trapped in horrifying dialogue implying things where happening to you and Daniil's responses also implying what was going on around him, to an unsettling degree. Like on day 2 when you're talking to that infected woman and she goes "I'd scream, but I don't want the children to hear..." and "I keep hearing children's voices... The girls are crying, and the boy is laughing... We mustn't scare them... Don't tell them and don't let them in here..." And when talking about her sisters: "Just... Don't kill us-don't kill them if they ask you for help... Their mind is clouded with pain... They can't even find each other... They're only praying... Don't come close to them... And step away from me too." And Daniil Has to Either tell her she's delusional or when referring to her sisters goes " Make them stop following me then! Why are they constantly at my heels? They are supposed to be lying down!" Or in the conversation with Peter on day 10 where you're having a conversation unsettlingly close to a fire and you're trying to talk Peter down from incinerating himself and get the Polyhedron blueprints, and Daniil can just keep going " Peter, this heat is intolerable. How can you stand it?" and getting ignored so that Peter can go off talking about the Polyhedron. I think that with more time if they decided to keep that element in the new bachelor route they could do that in an even more effective way, time stops during dialogue and wont start until you end it. They could use sound design or fuck with the dark backgrounds in dialogues to make you even more worried about what they're saying. Like imagine the mechanic build up of time stopping in dialogues, you're used to the format from the haruspex route, and then after a while the sound effects and visuals are making you think something is different and you read the dialogue and shit is progressively getting more and more fucked up and you can only respond with more horrifying descriptions. It could trap you in that same kind of suspense as watching a horror movie or reading a short story where you aren't able to directly impact things, but you still have input in the dialogue and have to participate, IMAGINE THE TENSION.

All I'm saying is if IPL don't use that idea, I'm stealing it if I ever get around to making a horror game after my current project.

#Next time I'll talk about Eva #oh man do I have thoughts about eva #daniil dankovsky #pathologic #Bachelor route #pathologic 2 #даниил данковский

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amywritesthings · 9 months

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silver underground. / chapter 16.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin)

Word Count: 5.4K

Summary: flashback six - also known as the day of the heist

Warnings: this chapter heavily explores and discusses themes of peril, thoughts of self harm and self destruction, hopelessness, death, violence, and torture. if you are triggered by these topics, i would suggest skipping this chapter.

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 16 - FLASHBACK: SIX

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. they are my interpretations of the material. please watch those episode first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.

The silence of the Underground City spoke volumes.

At this rate, you’ve gone over the plan — and the potential ways it can go horribly wrong — at least a dozen times.

Only so many distress signals can be sent from three people outrunning an entire Military Police unit, so you've employed all of them.

First, there’s the stolen flares.

They’re sparingly used, if ever, when it’s the four of you on a job. Two teams of two has easily been your best formation tactic.

A slight change to a single team of three should not cause much difficulty, especially when it involves veterans like Church, Ackerman, and Magnolia.

(You've already waited a half hour. No flare ever ignites.)

Next, if someone loses their grip on a flare canister, then the pursued team resorts to high-altitude flying.

At the height you’re perched upon — the rooftop of a dilapidated apartment complex overlooking the northern half of the Underground — you’d be able to see at least one person flipping and weaving through even the tallest buildings.

(Another half hour passes. No one ever breaches the skyline.)

The last option, should any ODM gear jam and fail, is more human: eyesight.

With the B-team units ordered to be stationed around the Underground City, your three friends should be covered. If it looks like the Military Police have the upper hand, then you can quickly get the rest of the gang to safety.

You told Levi you wouldn't run after him, that you would keep your promise and stick to the plan, but now that it's been over an hour of radio silence?

You're not so sure.

Because there are no clouds in the Underground, your sightline is clear. Idly your ODM gear sits on either hips, hands occupied by the mechanism's handles that will boost you at a moment’s notice. Below you on the street stand your appointed security, both gang veterans, looking for any stray MPs roaming the area.

Every second waiting for Levi, Isabel, and Furlan to return from their heist route spans to eternity.

Over and over your eyes scan, checking between rooftops — nothing.

Your attention drops to the streets — nothing.

Silence creeps to a ninety-minute drag.

No flares sound.

No bodies fly.

��C’mon, Ackerman,” you mumble under your breath, flexing your left hand to give your body something to do — to avoid pulling the trigger too fast on a rescue operation.

He was explicit about not coming for him.

He was explicit and he was stupid to think you’d never come for him.

He was stupid to think—

“James!”

A panicked, shrill voice, however, sounds from the street.

You whip your attention to the east, taking your eyes off of the skyline for a belated beat.

The rogue voice screeches with urgency a second time.

“James!”

It's young and feminine and terrified.

You shift a boot towards the sound, squeezing the metal handles in your palms with your index fingers at the ready.

“Hey! Where is she? Please, tell me James is here.”

She seems out of breath, like she ran a great distance to get here.

You draw a line with your sight from where her footsteps originated: she came from the south.

Most of your units are pushed towards the north, where Levi stated the job would take place.

One of the seasoned lackeys, a younger man, grunts to her in response. “Who’s askin’?”

“I need to speak with James,” she urges, ignoring his question with a wavering tone. “Please—”

“She’s busy, kid,” the second man replies. “Spit it out if somethin’—”

“They caught Levi!”

Her shriek almost makes your foot slip, causing a roof shingle to dislodge.

Time ceases to exist.

Levi.

Below you hear the young men argue with her and the exchange of pleas that follow, but there is no distinction of sound to you. Their words are muddied as if your head has been dunked underwater.

You can't run to her. Anxiety grabs you by the scruff of your neck to hold you in place.

What's wrong with Levi?

Move.

Did something happen to Levi?

Move.

Without thinking, your hand ignites the ODM switch in your left hand to propel a spear into the stone wall from across the street.

You swiftly swing down from your perch, finally catching a glimpse of the girl in question:

The girl — you remember her first name being Lucy — is as pale as a ghost. Her entire body trembles like a decaying leaf, as though she’s witnessed something horrific that she can’t scrub from her line of sight.

(What the hell did she see?)

Her shoulders relax once she spies your face, but not enough to quell your concern when tears well into her eyes.

“James! Oh my god, you’re here,” Lucy breathes, taking a step forward like you’re willing to console her with a comforting arm. "I tried to get here as fast as I—"

“Repeat what you just said about Ackerman,” you demand without solace. “Now.”

You take one pace back, ignoring the spike in your heart rate as the scenario snowballs in your mind’s eye.

From your peripheral vision, you see several others from the gang join the fray.

The two other lookouts on Lucy’s team run down the tiny guarded street, equally out of breath and panicked.

“We saw it happen in the southeast corner!” one of the running girls exclaim.

You — and the rest of the gang — turn in that direction. You can feel your throat seize.

He said the job was going to be in the northern half of the city.

How the fuck did they end up in the south quadrant?

"We followed them when the job changed course," Lucy explains as if she can read your mind. "Levi ordered Furlan and Isabel to cut south. Too many MPs were waiting in the north."

"But the job was in the north," you numbly reason.

“It might have been a trap, we don't know!" she desperately chirps. "A bunch of MPs went after them on ODM gear so we followed by foot. They were chasing Furlan through the streets. A few of them fell back and we thought maybe they gave up, but then a bunch of new people came out of nowhere and they all had green cloaks with wings—”

“Wings?” you snap, unable to stop your eyes from widening.

You whip your attention back to the young girl. Lucy cowers at your unyielding gaze.

“...yeah,” she answers, meek and uncertain. “They didn’t have the same jackets as the MPs. They had wings on their backs, on the cloaks and the jackets.”

A cloud of fearful whispers spreads like wildfire through the small crowd, infecting the minds of the reconnaissance team under your command.

It isn’t uncommon anymore for the Military Police patrolling the Underground to show up with ODM gear. It used to be a rarity, but now? They know better than to show up empty-handed.

Years of embarrassment have taught the thick-headed MPs a valuable lesson.

But green cloaks — and wings?

You can’t be mistaken by their meaning:

The Scout Regiment.

The military branch where suckers with death wishes band together to expire. They seek to explore the unknown, taking off on brainless expeditions past the city walls and into whatever Hell awaits on the other side.

(Why the fuck would they send the goddamn suicide squad to the Underground?)

You don’t need to live on the surface to know the stories: a third of Scout recruits barely make it past their first mission. And by the end of their first service year, the death toll rises to half.

The only dumbasses left standing with the Wings of Freedom on their back are those who desperately want to die but can never find the right titan to eat them.

And, according to the stories, their missions beyond Wall Maria always come up empty-handed.

A thought passes through your mind like a papercut, stinging your blood cells with the very real possibility that they’ve turned their efforts inward — whether at the demand of the king or the disappointment of the people paying their salaries is unclear.

(Is the Underground City their new playground?)

If so, then Levi — this gang — could very well be their first dedicated target.

“Where?”

The word spills out of your mouth, starting in your mind as a demand but dissolving to a murmur.

Going, running, to wherever the Military Police — or God forbid, the Scout Regiment — have your friends is the only plan of action you can think of.

You’re supposed to make sure the people here are fine.

The need to run — go, go, go — far outweighs your logic.

“I…” The girl falters.

You hate how your voice erupts in the wake of your fear. “Where, Lucy?!”

“I don’t know! I lost track of them!” she yelps, squeezing her amber eyes shut. The hands at her sides are balled into tight, painful fists. “Isabel and Furlan got taken down by some MPs, but Levi kept going on ODM gear. He outran most of the MPs, but there was a man, a tall blonde guy, who—”

“Was he a Scout?” you press on, gritting your teeth. “Did you see the Wings of Freedom?”

“The fucking Scouts are here?” someone yelps behind you. “Oh, shit, dude. Oh, man…”

“What the hell are they doing down here?” another asks next to him. “They don’t fuck with the Underground!”

“Did the Wall missions fail?” an older girl asks under her breath. “Are they coming to wipe all of the Underground City out now?”

“Quiet,” you order, holding up a hand. It takes tensing your arm to keep the limb from shaking. “Lucy: where did you last see Levi?”

“The blonde man chased him out of the sky and into the streets. No one knows. We couldn’t see where they went, but it… I’m so sorry, James.”

Lucy’s voice is so small that you barely hear her.

All you can focus on is his voice ringing in your head, a whisper against the thin line of white noise filling your body.

Protect them.

You’re ready.

You’re so ready to fire up your ODM gear to chase after him, to fight off every single bastard who thinks about laying a finger on your friends.

We won’t get arrested. We’re too fast on ODM gear.

“What do we do, James?”

The MPs won’t stand a chance.

“Can she hear us? Is she freaking out?”

You want me to be the last person standing.

“James!”

Lucy shrieks in your face, breaking your delusion.

You blink back into your body to see a dozen faces staring back at you in various stages of grief.

Fear.

You focus on the way a tear streams down Lucy’s youthful face. It brings you back to when you picked her up off the streets. A kid, just like you, looking for food scraps and shelter — her mother had passed away at a young age, leaving her to fend for herself.

You knew what that was like, so you promised protection. A roof over her head. Food in her belly.

A chance at life.

Just like he once gave to you.

Now you’re the only leader left standing. The other three are either arrested — or worse.

You’re all that stands between dragging her back to the streets or pushing her to the gallows.

(You’re all anyone in this gang has.)

I need you to be safe.

Levi’s voice tickles the outer shell of your ear, whispering past despite the dead wind.

You want to hate him. You really do.

But you promised.

Lucy’s lower lip trembles as she takes a step forward.

This time you stay put, too frozen from the numbness in your body.

“James… please, tell us: what do we do?”

You don’t know.

You wish you did, but you don’t know.

You want to tell them to run, to run as fast as they can and never look back.

You want to tell them that you don’t know how to do this without Isabel or Furlan.

You want to tell them you’d rather die than know a life without Levi.

But you promised.

I’ll keep them safe.

I know you will. Echoing in your mind like an omen. I trust you.

“If they’re arrested, then the MPs will be storming the apartment at any minute.”

You finally answer without an ounce of emotion. You can’t stomach thinking past protocol.

“We don’t have time to get our stuff. Organize yourselves into teams of three. Find the safe houses and don't come out until you hear from me. Take a single runner out to Roxy’s. They owe me a few favors, so they should give you table scraps until this blows over.”

“Are you getting Ackerman?” An older girl holding onto her brother’s small shoulders pipes up from your right.

“And Church?” Another person asks. “Magnolia?”

Refusing to think further than the present crisis, you shake your head.

“They all knew the risks of this heist. Right now, my priority is keeping everyone here safe. So go — and avoid detection the best you can. Leave the rest to me, alright?"

You pause, making eye contact with those staring at you. In front of you is a gradient of nerves.

(Everyone knows the risks of running with a gang in the Underground, no matter the price.)

"I said go, goddamnit!”

At your shouted order, most don’t hesitate to run.

The crowd forms into smaller clusters of refugees as they run towards the emergency routes you’ve mapped a hundred times before.

You don’t have time to panic.

You don’t have time to mourn about what could have been.

(A house gleaming in the sunlight with its windows open. The scent of a fresh meal being cooked. The soft meow overlapping over pleasant conversation about nothing at all.)

After all, you made a promise —

And if three of the Underground’s most notorious gang leaders have been caught, then it’s only a matter of time until the manhunt ends with you.

Week after week, your numbers dwindle.

Day in and day out, houses are raided for anyone associated with Ackerman, Church, and Magnolia.

Bars, brothels, and drug dens are scoured for that missing puzzle piece.

Military Police, emboldened by their victory, are adamant to find anyone involved in their gang.

Most found are arrested.

Some offer information for a chance at immunity.

By the fourth week, the gang dissolves into half of its original number.

However, the rampant pursuit slows after the sixth week, and by the seventh, the Military Police stop searching.

The city becomes boisterous again for an entirely different reason, falling back to its routes of debauchery and strife.

Panic of those still in hiding twists into remorse, remorse into doubt, and soon the doubt creeps into what was once an impenetrable fortress.

And somewhere you failed.

Maybe it was because you kept your promise and never went after Levi, Isabel, and Furlan the day they disappeared.

Maybe it was because no one ever saw them again, creating a shroud of mystery in their disappearances. Most people assumed they were arrested and tortured for information. Others hoped they were able to at least die in a merciful way.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because you gave up.

The longer you fought without your three friends, the longer you ran around the Underground City hiding from authority, the harder it became to remember why you were trying so hard to be the last person standing.

Hiding with nothing to go back to — that was what waited for you at the end of all of this.

To make new headquarters on mere piles of rubble, alone.

People continue to get caught.

People continue to lose their lives.

You were ready—

Ready to give up.

Ready to join the fate of so many others.

Ready to lose.

(All things considered, you had a good run.)

Eight weeks.

It takes eight whole weeks for someone to finally rat you out.

In exchange for immunity, a scared newcomer snitched to the Military Police about the location of your hideout — and you can’t blame them.

The Underground City has always been a dog-eat-dog pit.

That, however, doesn’t mean you don’t still run.

The crisp, metallic zip of the pulley cuts the air every time you push through the alleyways, leaving the Military Police unit in the dust. Wind frays your hair, whipping pieces of it into your face as you run along brick walls and push for the a momentous swing.

It has been weeks of these chases, all evaded in the dust, but something feels different about this pursuit.

The officers feel confident this time.

Ready.

Another unit of MPs pursue on foot, shouting and taunting for your surrender, but they're no match for your swift escape.

The two officers following with ODM gear cannot match the sharpness of your turns.

You don’t know why you keep running.

Why can’t you just stop running?

In your lingering rage you almost want to turn back, take a knife, and attack.

To earn the heaviness of a murder charge on your shoulders.

You want to lash out—

To make someone hurt—

But you just keep running.

In your time of solitude, you've wondered how the end of all things went that day. Did those pigs take turns kicking Furlan with his hands tied behind his back? Did they drag Isabel through the street? Did they cut out Levi's tongue for back talk?

You hope they gave the MPs hell.

The imaginative injustices — the cruelty — fuels your fantasy of revenge.

Through another alleyway and into the streets, you latch onto another building and swing to your left to continue through the streets of—

Wait.

Skirting around a corner, you see something briefly whip around a corner in a cloud of exhaust.

(Was that emerald?)

Your attention turns to the distinct color that entered your line of sight before it disappears.

Your eyes widen with recognition, but it's too late.

You failed again.

One look to your side is all it takes for a solid, heavy object to slam straight into you from the opposite direction, knocking a spear clean out of the neighboring wall.

The ODM gear jolts, causing you to jerk and drop abruptly to the dirt beneath. Your forearms shield your face from the dirt and debris as your body skids across the dirt path.

Before you even realize what's happening, you're scrambling to your feet. Metal clangs from the jostled handles in your palms as you push yourself up.

Your right arm reels back, fist clenched, and flies in an attempt to connect — and it does.

The punch lands directly in someone's face. The bone crunches under you knuckles.

A person yells in pain and grabs their nose, giving you ample opportunity to attack further. Your leg swings, kicking your boot square into their abdomen. You recognize the way their breath squelches: the wind rips right out of their lungs.

You want them to feel pain, just as you’ve felt pain.

You want them to suffer, just as you've suffered.

It doesn't matter who they are.

When the attacker is incapacitated, you make a choice: you turn the opposite direction, taking off into a sprint.

And you run, if only for a few seconds.

Because that very same emerald flash appears in your peripheral vision.

In just one breath, your feet get tangled up and send you flying to the ground you'd just found yourself lying upon.

A pair of hands suddenly tug at the back of your shirt, pushing you further into the muddied street. A forceful forearm presses down harder, pinning you to the ground. A pebble digs into your cheekbone, its jagged edge slicing into your skin.

Trapped.

You grit your teeth, fighting the painful hold with everything you have. You shout and yell like a woman possessed, kicking your boots deeper into the Earth to propel forward, but you can't move.

(Give up — why can’t you just give up?)

Then a deep baritone voice pulls you from your erratic defenses, smooth like honey.

“James.”

Your last name on a stranger's tongue makes your stomach churn.

You continue fighting, digging the toe of your boot further for purchase.

Suddenly pain explodes in your scalp. Something pulls your chin high from the crown on your head, forcing your attention to the sky. What greets you is a tall, built figure above.

From the street lamp, you see it’s a man — early thirties, broad shouldered, with piercing blue eyes and neatly-combed blonde hair.

This mysterious man stares down at you, standing at full height. He doesn't acknowledge the person holding you down, knotting your hair in their balled fist.

One after the other, two more emerald cloaks drop down from the sky, their faces obscured by their hoods.

Blinking away from his face, you see it: his tan, cropped jacket, with white and blue wings outstretched against one another, pointing high with dignity.

The Wings of Freedom.

It's the Survey Corps, in the flesh.

“Four whole Scouts for little old me?” you chide.

The person holding you down rips your torso up higher, causing an immense strain in your spine.

You wince at the sensation of nearly being broken in half but refuse to make noise.

They don't get that satisfaction, not yet.

(You've felt worse.)

The blonde man above you does not react. He continues to stare, however, when he addresses another in his squadron.

“Get her up on her knees, Miche.”

The man behind you — presumably Miche — yanks you from the dirt to settle you on your calves. Without your arms to support you, you’re left floundering at his will.

“What?” you ask through clenched teeth. "Are the Scouts so bored of getting eaten alive that they've come to the Underground on a field trip?”

The man makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. His crystal blue eyes slide slowly from the crown of your head, past your face, then rest at your chest.

“Surface made?” he comments in a languid, baritone voice.

When you jostle against Miche's grip on your back, a feather-esque sensation brushes across your sternum.

Then you realize:

He’s staring at your necklace.

“Stolen?” the blonde man asks again, and venom poisons your tongue at his slander. Somehow you manage to hold a response.

You sneer instead, turning your attention to the side of a building.

A painful beat passes.

You hear the man’s boots near, crunching under packed dirt.

“My name is Commander Erwin Smith, of the Survey Corps," he introduces, not fazed by your lack of cooperation. "I was informed that you’re not only the muscle of this operation, but one of its four founding leaders. Is this true?”

He’s met with another stretch of silence.

“Handling operations for seven weeks without the help of your comrades is impressive.”

Another step.

“Or has it been closer to eight?”

“What do you want, surface scum?” you finally murmur, eyes locked on a particular patch of moss growing at the foundation of the building.

He exhales through his nose, contemplating. You continue to look away.

“Your protection is gone, James," Erwin begins. "Your gang, eradicated. Your people have fled — abandoned you, to save themselves.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tell him.

Erwin evades your feigned ignorance. “A bounty has been on your head for two months. You’ve done all you can to avoid detection, but from where I stand, I see someone out of options.”

Your nostrils flare, unwilling to betray yourself in the face of the truth.

He isn’t wrong — it’s been the end of the line for weeks now.

You’ve run on borrowed time and a promise you barely believe in anymore.

You’re so tired.

“The Military Police would be glad to round out their gallows with someone responsible for embarrassing them so thoroughly.”

Is that where Levi ended up, in the gallows next to Isabel and Furlan?

(Are they no longer alive, just as everyone suspected?)

When you continue to stare at the adjacent wall, the man behind you tugs at your mangled hair and rips your focus back to the man in front of you.

The toe of the Commander’s boot is in line with your muddied knee.

From this angle, he's practically on top of you.

“However, I believe the finality of a noose is a great waste of potential talent.”

His eyes bore into yours when he slowly, carefully, drops to your height. His ivory-white knee plants gently into the dirt.

You blink up to his face, unable to suppress your confusion.

“Potential talent?” you hiss back, ignoring the searing pain in your scalp. “What is this, a pitch?”

The Commander hums. “I don’t pretend to know how extensive your crimes are, James. What I do know, however, is that you have an out.”

“Yeah?” you ask. “And what’s that, O' Golden One?”

Erwin’s eyes drop to the ground, so you follow suit without moving your head. From the edge of your vision you see it — the ODM gear still hooked around your hips.

“How long did it take you to properly handle ODM gear?” he asks with a genuine intrigue.

“Barely took me a week,” you lie under your breath.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he agrees. “Most of our recruits take months, sometimes even years, to masterfully scale the way you can.”

“Sounds shitty to me.”

“In a way.” A beat passes. Commander Erwin’s jaw sets. “Which is why I’m asking you to join the Scout Regiment under my command.”

You can’t help it — the anger disappears in a bark of a laugh.

It’s a request you never see coming, not a million years or a thousand lifetimes.

You’ve avoided the Military Police for weeks, only for a Scout to offer you… what? A twisted version of salvation in his army?

The words blurt out of your mouth faster than you can help it.

“Join the Scouts?” He nods once to your yelp of a question. “Are you fucking insane?”

“Are you?” Erwin challenges. “Both options lead to your death. The only difference is choosing to make your death matter.”

“A noose or being eaten alive,” you snidely respond. “Gosh, Commander, which sounds less painful?”

“What do you think your friends would have selected, if given a choice?”

The swiftly-timed question is a punch straight to your gut.

Unable to stop your eyes from widening, you hate how your blood chills with panic.

How you can see that glint in the commander’s eyes when he’s finally, finally, caught your weak spot.

Seeing the visceral reaction, he continues. "Before they expired, would they have chosen to die here? Or would they have chosen a new life."

Was he saying…?

Was he saying they were already dead?

Isabel. Furlan.

Le…

Your lower lip trembles as you hold back from thinking about that final name.

You barely recognize your own voice when you speak, low and dangerous.

“How dare you…”

Erwin’s gaze is unwavering. “I’m asking you—”

“Don’t talk about them.”

“—what would they have chosen.”

“I said don’t talk about them!” you shout in his face, losing your cool.

His chin tilts a fraction of an inch, expression stoic.

“Then what about your fellow comrades, the people who laid down their lives for your safety — would they have wanted a chance?”

Despite yourself, you push with your boot to propel towards the blonde. “You disgusting piece of sh— fuck!”

Miche rips your head back impossibly further, exposing your neck to the Commander. Erwin stands tall, pulling out a long sword from its metal sheath. The cool, sharp end of the blade rests against your throat.

If he wanted to, he could end your life right here in the streets.

If he wanted to, he could make this so much easier on you.

But he won’t.

This isn’t about ease.

It’s about power, control — total submission.

A part of you wants to push against the blade to make it easier.

No noose. No titans.

Just here.

But you promised.

Last one standing.

“...what happened to them?” you ask, unable to stop the crack in your voice.

If this is it, then you might as well know.

Commander Erwin keeps his blade held towards you. “I don’t know.”

“But it was you that day, wasn’t it?” You ease down to your knees again. Miche loosens his hold on your body. “You're the one that went after them two months ago. When there was a heist, it wasn’t just MPs chasing them. There were Scouts—”

“I don’t have all day, James.”

He interrupts the beginning of your emotional spiral with cutthroat apathy. His arm lowers when you do not retaliate.

“Your hand-to-hand combat expertise is needed within our regiment. Combine that with your unique ODM handling, and I see a formidable redemption in your future—”

He continues to speak, detailing your servitude should you accept his terms.

You can feel the fight, the fire, ebbing to dying ember.

You’re so tired.

You’re so done with running.

(I’m so sorry, Levi.)

“—and you would presume a title under my command, the rank of a Lieutenant—”

“Wait.”

He pauses when you speak up, catching the oddity of his words. Your lifeless vision connects with his.

“Lieutenants don’t exist in your shitty Scout Corps.”

Erwin nods. “That’s correct. Lieutenants do not."

"Then why..."

"A title will deter animosity. Those who look down at you cannot question your authority."

"Because I'm not from the surface," you reason.

"Yes," he says.

"You're willing to give me an edge on the rest of your people. Why?" You watch him, trying to figure him out before he tells you for himself. “Why not just make me regular front-line titan fodder?”

Erwin seems to consider this, if only for a beat.

Then he speaks with an unshakable certainty:

“Because you know what it means to survive. That, in itself, is vital.”

Your shoulders slump as your body shuts down from the eternal fight.

So this is a choice, but it’s no choice at all.

Your life will not matter in the Scouts. The commander is right: you will die, perhaps not today, but at least choosing the Scouts guarantees the sunrise one single time.

Just like you once promised you'd see with the three of your friends.

And in the moment you mourn — the loss of your friends, the loss of your life, what could have been if that job really had worked out.

(What does it matter when you die, so long as it's soon?)

You grip onto a sense of hopelessness like a vice.

Grief.

Then—

Rage.

As swift as a sudden earthquake, you feel it tremble from your shins to your knees, up your torso and through your heart, filling every red hot blood cell in your body.

It was him.

You’re so sure of it.

Commander Erwin would have been the one responsible for turning Levi, Furlan, and Isabel into the Military Police. He was the one who would have sent your friends to their deaths — or did he kill them himself?

And if he was the one to kill them, then why would he offer you a choice to escape?

(Was this the same choice he gave the others?)

Levi would have never agreed to the Scouts. Furlan, Isabel — they would have followed whatever he chose.

They must have died the very day the heist went wrong eight weeks ago.

It’s why Erwin won’t confirm or deny their fates.

Sickness floods your body, but you hold onto the one thing that will keep their spark with you.

That rage.

They really think you’ll comply.

They really think you won’t burn and take the Scout Regiment down with you.

You’ll kill him.

You’ll kill Commander Erwin Smith, then Miche, then every single Scout that steps into your path until someone’s smart enough to take you down themselves.

“Fine, then.”

You speak, knowing your word is as doomed as the fire in your veins.

“I’ll do it."

You meet Erwin's intense gaze, signing your fate with blood on the dotted line.

"I’ll join the Scouts.”

author's note: I'm glad we collectively giggled and screamed and kicked our feet in the last few chapters. It was a marvelous time. Now I'm out here ruining everything.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @vigilancio @nomi98 @urfavcelestialangel @milkersonmac @blossomedfloweroflove @carries-blenders-and-stuff @hurtcomfortwhore

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pianocat939 · 7 months

Text

Unjust Punishment: Prologue

I love 2nd person, and no one can do anything about it-

Summary: Art block is a bitch, and your dumb self went out to the woods to paint a few landscapes. But of course, some crazy things happen *ahem* feral horse *ahem*, and you end up nowhere near where you were.

Tw: implied attempted murder, attempted beheading, MC gets so tired they're a bit delirious

Word Count: 1.1 K

Taglist: @dewdropthesimp @msvanillabean (Inbox or comment if you want to be added-)

This mountain fucking sucks. You aren't at all an active person, but this is just pure torture; scaling up the path while your ankles are halfway dead. At least you could see the top now, maybe another 15 more minutes of pain.

Finally, after reaching the top, there's a feeling of relaxation. No more coughing and wheezing like someone with Tuberculosis. You turn to admire the view before you: every tree top, every bird, and every bush. It simply maybe was worth your struggle. The sight is wonderful and gives great inspiration to your clouded mind.

Being an avid landscape painter, you had a fair share of going on different trips to paint the view. But this time around, a block had been in your way, and you haven't been able to wave the brush like you usually could. So what better than to spend a few days on the mountain, and paint whatever you see? It's a truly great method to pull you out of the entangles of no creativity.

You settle your luggage somewhere, only taking your easel and canvas. After setting up the items, you dig around for your paints, finding them shoved into the bottom bag. Vermilion, Prussian Blue, that ugly bastard yellow that no one likes but is also crucial for shadows...You have them all.

You take out a pencil and do a rough sketch of the landforms of the scenery before taking a light blue and painting over the entire canvas as the initial background. Soon, you start filling in each leaf and blade of grass, making dots and sharp strokes. Your mind turns blank, as concentration fills your head in a heavy, but empty void.

——————————————————

Once the sun sets, you set up your sleeping site in a rush. You were so concentrated on your painting you forgot you're in the fucking woods with a bunch of feral creatures lurking around. Fortunately, you actually practiced once or twice getting everything ready and managed to finish in record time.

By the time it's nightfall, you're still not quite ready to sleep, so you laze around on your phone, scrolling through your latest interests. You oddly felt calm, despite being in an unfamiliar place, alone. The isolation didn't feel foreign, if anything, it was nice compared to your hectic life.

That is until you hear a neigh. You know your animal sounds. That was a horse. Confused more than ever, you glanced out the makeshift, plastic window. There was in fact a horse. You could only see its hooves, but you could tell it was a gigantic horse. Its black legs and honed clipper-clapper hooves are a bit intimidating.

Then, the horse started to dash, at full speed.

In sudden panic, you took your phone and ran, out the exit. You didn't want to be squashed by a feral horse! After reaching the outside, you head for the nearby path, carefully skidding on the downhill parts. The horse was still running after you, and it freaked you out. Equinophobia was so real. As soon as the path was flat, you turned your direction into a zig-zag formation, trying to confuse the horse.

When you passed a tall pine tree, an object came flying at you, barely missing your head. You felt your heart stop, and your mind go blank for a split second. It was an axe. A fucking axe. First the feral horse, and now flying axes? Your night just went from peaceful to an absolute murder chase. You were basically running on adrenaline and nothing else as you dashed.

The moon illuminated the surface, bright and shining in a silvery colour. If it weren't for the fact you're trying not to collapse and freak out, you would have found the moon another lovely view to paint. Now that your frazzled mind leads back to awareness, exhaustion is really kicking in. You can't even hear the clapping of the horse's hooves anymore. In a desperate attempt at security, you leave the route, sitting on the nearby grass within the shadow of the trees.

You're already witnessing some stereotypical horror story not even five hours in. At least you didn't have to call the emergency number. Maybe in an hour, you can wander back to your settlement and go back home. You missed your bed; your wonderful bed.

"Hey...Are you ok?" A distant voice called, bringing you out of your thoughts.

You blinked and glanced behind your shoulder, deciding whether the voice was a threat, or not. It didn't sound hostile in fact, it felt familiar. Like someone you knew. You stood up, the slight ache in your knees more prominent than ever.

"Are you lost? Hurt?"

You slowly climbed the hill, eyes wide in curiosity as you approached to the source of the voice. You weren't lost or hurt, but something strange and eerie about the calling made you want to see the person behind it. You heaved yourself up the hill, using your abilities to your best. You aren't an athlete, nor an athletic person. You're a painter for fucks sake.

After a few moments, you call out, responding to the message, "Hello? Is someone up here?" You don't know exactly what you were doing, but you hoped for the best. The scare you had earlier made your heart crave comfort. This stranger probably just had a similar voice to someone you knew, but in a way, your body automatically wanted to go towards it. You notice a figure through the thin silhouettes of the trees. Your pace picked up a bit as you waddled through the grass.

The person turned their head, making a lovely smile. They were in a perfect pose, sitting on a spacious boulder underneath the moonlight. The sight was almost like a perfect shot from a movie. Your eyes picked up the shade of Rouge painted across their lips. The deep red highlighted their features nicely.

But in a flash, the person disappeared. Before you could even utter a word, your body tumbles back down the hill; bumping into every rock and twig in sight. It was painful at every impact. Your spine and head pounding terribly. What had happened? You couldn't muster any thoughts. All you could remember was the image of the lipstick.

You landed on the flat ground not long after. You're too exhausted, too out of it to bother sitting up. You just mindlessly stare at the sky, a few twinkling stars laughing upon your pitiful state. Wow, the phrase "Karma is a bitch" has never been more apparent than ever in your life. You should have listened to your close ones about not going out to the wilderness alone. Well, what could you do? You hoped no serial killer would hunt you down. You're tired. You need sleep. Getting murdered can happen another day for you.

You close your eyes...

——————————————————

WOWWW I ACTUALLY GOT SOMETHING DONE FOR ONCE-

Literally this is probably more confusing and disorganized than it is logical, but hey- my little brain tried lmao

Originally, I was gonna make this a much longer part, (as in including Mikey's introduction) but because of how busy my weekend turned out I had to cut it short.

Fun fact: all the weird shit that goes on in this part is a foreshadowing of the upcoming weirdos haha- I'm so smart /sarc

Well- that's all I got for now. Goodbye world as I turn dead for a whole week and come back to life later-

- Celina

#rottmnt #yandere rottmnt #yandere x reader #rottmnt x reader #yandere tmnt #tmnt x reader #yandere #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #bullshitting is so real homie

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 2 months

Text

Building Castles in the Sky

cw. pre!release, gn!reader, step 2, hurt & comfort

pairing. tamarack x reader

notes. this has been in my head since the step 2 demo inclusion first popped off and with frederick and nichole's design and info being released, i wanted to write this even more. i have so many OL thoughts but i wanted to get this one out first

It starts when you hear the tell-tale sound of pebbles hitting the rails of your window.

It's a school night, Thursday to be exact. Or at least it still should be, it could be Friday now. And while you're no fan of Riverview Peak High, every high school student loves Friday. Once those school bells rang, you'd be free to spend the rest of your weekend as you chose.

Maybe you'd laze around in bed all day.

Or maybe you, Tamarack and Serenity will spend a good chunk of it together, gossiping all the while.

The tinge of sleep had just begun to take you when the sound of soft clicks against your window started up. Sleep had left you easily in exchange for warm excitement, there's only one person you knew who hit the rail of your window that accurately.

You climb out of bed and open your window, unsurprised to see Tamarack sheepishly waving at you in the darkness. You wave back with a smile of your own.

Even if it was dark with the moon barely visible through the clouds, you feel like you can still see every feature that makes Tamarack Baumann 'Tamarack Baumann'.

You know she's wearing her dark blue pajamas covered in moons and stars. You see her berry-red eyes and even if it is dark you know her hair is still shining the autumn gold it's shone ever since you were children. Tamarack Baumann is one who has been painted in the colors of autumn ever since you were children, maybe even from before you've known her. You've loved her from the very start.

"I met a girl I'm gonna marry!" You remember telling your mother the very first day you moved to Golden Grove. While your mother brushed it off as puppy love in her amusement, that vow exists even now.

Tamarack Baumann is going to be your wife one day.

Thoughts of weddings and old promises are swept to the wayside when you see Tamarack's gesture to a pair of paper cups in her hand. You nod and prepare for her accurate-as-always toss. The cups were her idea when you were still young elementary schoolers and Tamarack was more wild child than nervous.

4 years later, you have yet to grow out of them.

When the cup that has your name crudely written across it in fading crayon reaches your hand, you smile fondly. "Why hello, Miss Baumann," you begin poshly yet softly, much like how Qiu used to format their introductions. "What are you doing up this fine autumn evening?"

Her giggles are music to your ear, "why I could ask you the same thing."

"This isn't about me," you chuckle softly. Maybe you found yourself a bit distracted playing Pokemon White Version to fall asleep. The grind to become the very best like no one ever was never stops, not even on a school night.

A comfortable silence falls over you both and you sigh, content. Until you notice Tamarack's fidgeting, her index finger and thumb rubbing against her hair. A nervous tick you've noticed since you were 11. "Is something up?"

"No, everything's okay," Tamarack replies almost immediately. It's a bit too quickly for you to be reassured in any capacity. "I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all."

"Tamarack," you look at Tamarack from where you stand, slouched over your window sill. You see her clearly even if she's mostly obscured by the gloom of the night. You know she is wearing her dark blue pajamas covered in moon and stars. You know her shining autumn gold hair is pulled into pigtails with soft, pastel blue bobbles. And you know her berry-red eyes don't have their usual shine. "What's wrong?"

There's a pause and you see Tamarack shuffling, unsure. You remain silent, patient as ever while you wait for your friend to find her voice.

"My parents are coming to visit," Tamarack says at last, voice thick with emotion. Your blood feels as chilly as the autumn wind. Six words packed with more pressure than any unsuspecting person would realize. "I heard Omi arguing with them on the phone again."

Tamarack's living in the cozy town where everybody knows everybody has always meant to be temporary. It's been that way from the very beginning, noticeable even when you were young children.

Tamarack's room has never been her room. It's just where she sleeps at her grandparents'.

The house she has spent the past 4 years living in is just that, a house. Not a home.

Because at some point in her stay, Tamarack's parents will come to Golden Grove and take their daughter back to the big city. The only reason she hasn't yet is simply because something always came up in the pursuit of her parents' academics.

Frederick and Nichole Baumann are anxiety-inducing anomalies in the peaceful life you've built in Golden Grove. They are scholars first and foremost and that takes precedence over everything, even their own daughter to a considerable extent. They love Tamarack, you know this. It's why they had her in the first place, that's how parents work.

Mr. and Mrs. Lin wanted a child to love so they had Qiu.

Your mother wanted a child to love so she went and made it happen on her own, no partners needed.

Dr. and Dr. Baumann, as they insist on being referred to, wanted Tamarack too.

So the logical part of your brain knows it's fair for them to decide on a whim if they want to take Tamarack back. At least, that's the conclusion you forced yourself to come to after listening to your mother and Mrs. Lin talking about the Baumann family drama in private. Tamarack is the girl you know you'll marry in the future but she isn't yours, not truly.

She can't be taken away from you if she wasn't really yours to begin with.

Yet it still hurts to think that one day you'll wake up and that will be the day Tamarack's parent decide is the day. That you'll see their car you now know fearfully to well after so many visits and see Tamarack's bags being shoved into it. That the last time you'll see Tamarack in person, it will be Tamarack waving tearfully from a car window while you try not to cry yourself.

If that thought is scary for you, you know it's doubly terrifying for Tamarack who grows more and more unsure of her place in Golden Grove each year. Does she adamantly demand to stay in Golden Grove when she knows it's meant to be temporary? Does she leave with her parents even if she doesn't feel like that's the right choice either?

This is the fork in the road she's been stuck choosing between since she came to Golden Grove. Which path should Tamarack Baumann take if she herself doesn't know what she wants?

Tamarack loves her parents and she loves her Omi and Opa. But through the Baumanns, you've learned sometimes loving someone isn't enough to make everything magically better.

The sound of Tamarack's choked sobs only serve to make you more sure of your theory.

"I'm coming over," you tell her.

"W-what?" Tamarack sniffs in surprise, but you're already throwing your cup back in her direction and running to grab your shoes.

This isn't the first time you've snuck over to Tamarack's home and this likely won't be the last. So you stick your leg over your window sill, cautiously stepping on the asphalt shingle roofing of your home, lowering yourself enough that you can drop to the ground. You ignore the minor ache of your ankles and press on. Leaves crunch under your feet and you shudder from the sudden lack of warmth.

Once you reach the tree on the side of the closest to Tamarack's side of the house, you carefully climb it. Every placement of your hand on the cool bark familiar, every knot you push off against as stable as it was the last. All until you finally reach Tamarack's window where she's made room for you to let yourself in.

You latch onto each other, the chill of your favorite season still in your bones but the warmth of Tamarack's body against yours is an immediate neutralizer.

Her fingers dig into your back with a frightening grip, nose buried in your shoulder, "what if it's serious this time?"

"It doesn't matter," your voice is more sturdy than you actually feel. Your palms are sweaty and your mind is racing a million miles per hour, your heart even more so. You hope she can't tell how nervous you are as you try to be brave enough for the both of you. "We promised, didn't we?"

Back when you were 10 and you saw Tamarack's loneliness bare and raw for the first time.

Back when the sky cried alongside her.

"I care about you and you care about me," you hug Tamarack tighter. "And it doesn't matter how we change or how old we get, we won't leave each other behind. Not even if you have to move somewhere else." It would be hard but you would make it work. Maybe if Tamarack moves, your mother will finally be compelled to buy you a cellphone.

You'd call and text everyday and count down the days until her next weekend visit. The weekends where it's impossible for her to come to Golden Grove, you'd simply go to her even if it means begging your mother weeks in advance.

"You promise?" It isn't so much a question as it a desperate plea.

"I've got you," you promise, resting your head against hers. If Tamarack is a princess, you are her knight. It's what you decided you'd be a long time ago. "I've got you."

Extra

If I had to pick a favorite lead in OL2, it would have to be Tamarack no question. So if I'm going to enter into the Halls of Writing OL fic, it's gotta be with her

Frederick and Nichole are hot but damn they are terrible parents, I look forward to seeing how they rebuild their relationship with Tamarack in the game!!! And Imma need Tamarack's grandparents to start holding their son more accountable it ain't just Nichole U.U

Anyways, I personally hc that my MC's room faces Tamarack's and there is at least one window they use to communicate. Yes, she has a stash of pebbles saved just for getting your attention

Feel free to spam my inbox with OL stuff I need more people to talk to about it

#look she's writing #our life #our life: now & forever #olnf #our life x reader #ol x reader #tamarack x reader #tamarack baumann x reader #tamarack baumann #my in-laws are hot but man are they terrible parents #there is so much room for growth tho and i look forward to seeing how they develop between steps

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229zmi · 1 year

Text

ONLY FOR YOU

PAIRING: Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader

CONTENT: established relationship, fluff

WORD COUNT: 0.9k

Iwaizumi thinks there may be something wrong with you. Way wrong with you.

Because it’s winter, when remnants of last night’s snowstorm still loom over you from the bare branches of the trees like a soft yet fragile blanket, collapsing at the slightest of movements as the two of you walk along the icy pavement, hands intertwined tightly with one another. It’s winter, when there’s a harsh wind that never seems to go away; that wraps around you, tugs at your exposed fingertips, bites at your cheeks relentlessly until they’re numb and frigid and cease to move even when you suddenly grin and point with your free hand at a flock of birds as they pass by in a V-formation.

“Birds,” you say ominously as if you’re the narrator of a wildlife documentary. Your boyfriend simply nods at your astute observation and says nothing to the matter.

Iwaizumi thinks there’s something seriously wrong with you, not because you appear to be so amused by something so ordinary, but because it’s winter and it’s freezing, yet here you are walking alongside him, wearing no other outerwear besides a flimsy jacket for the sole reason that it was the only thing in your closet that matched your outfit for the day and you weren’t going to let some big, ugly winter coat ruin it for you.

“Are you not cold?” he asks you, side-eyeing your attire. Though you seem unbothered by the low temperature for the most part, he can’t help but grow increasingly concerned for you.

“Cold?” you echo. You huff and puff before breaking into an awkward laugh, foggy clouds escaping from your lips and disappearing into the darkened sky. “Why would— why would I be cold?”

“It’s literally freezing out here.” A hand reaches out and pinches the flesh of your cheek teasingly. You’re quick to retaliate and swat his hand away like you would a fly. “Is the snow seeping into your brain?”

“No,” you snap and then you falter, “though I guess it is a little cold… but it’s nothing I can’t handle! My outfit’s cool ‘n that’s all that matters.”

“You can’t be serious,” he says with skepticism laced in his tone.

“What, are you saying it looks heinous?”

“No, I’m saying that there’s no way you’re only a little cold wearing that.” He gestures to your jacket.

“Why not?”

“Because this fabric’s almost as thin as paper,” he tells you, frowning as he punches the clothing between his forefinger and thumb. “Meanwhile, I’m the one wearing a thick winter coat, yet I still feel like my arms are going to fall off.”

“Hmph. Sounds like a skill issue to me,” you taunt. You start to quicken your pace and walk on ahead, seemingly resolute on not listening to whatever lecture you assumed he was about to give now.

“[Y/N],” he calls out to you. Moments later, you feel his hand wrap around your elbow, gently guiding you back toward him until you’re close enough for him to hook an arm around your shoulders. He zips up your jacket all the way and pulls your hood over your head before muttering into your ear, “You need to put on something that’ll actually keep you warm.”

“This is warm. You’re just a hater.”

He holds back an eye roll. “Let’s go back home, I’ll grab you a coat. I’ll even give you one of my coats so you can blame me if it doesn’t match your outfit.”

“But we’re almost to the restaurant…,” you grumble, shoving your fists into your pockets with your shoulders up to your ears. He isn’t sure if this is your way of expressing your frustration or if this is you trying to keep yourself warm as a particularly icy breeze slips by, but regardless, he pulls you further into his side and hovers a hand over your face to shield you from the brunt of the wind.

“…home is so far away,” you continue to complain. “I’ll probably be a block of ice or something by the time we get there.”

He raises an eyebrow, and the corners of his lips curl. His response comes quicker than you can realise your tragic mistake. “Doesn’t sound like you’re a little cold to me if that’s the case.”

You come to a stop once you register his words, and you’re left blinking at the pavement as though it’ll somehow turn back time a couple seconds.

“…Whatever,” you say after some moments, intelligently. “So what if I’m cold!”

“I don’t want you to get sick.”

Suddenly, he steps away, and before you can start to question him, you hear the sound of a coat being unzipped. His hands pull you to his chest, allowing you to revel in the newfound warmth that you were unable to find wearing your own jacket, and as you lean closer to him and place your cold hands against his waist to warm them up faster, he zips up the coat behind you, thus trapping you between him and the clothing.

“This is so romantic,” you comment uselessly, though your eyes almost sparkle when you gaze at him as if he’s just done something impressive. A cheesy grin makes its way to your face, and you bat your eyelashes at him in an overdramatic, flirtatious manner. “You’re so romantic. You hot, handsome hunk of a man.”

“Only for you.” A hearty chuckle escapes him, his usual constipated expression melting into a smile as one of his strong arms snakes around you while the other reaches up to graze your cheek, calloused thumb rubbing the skin underneath your eye soothingly before pulling you in for a gentle kiss.

Ignoring the fluttering in your heart, you let out a small laugh once you part, and he swears the sound of it alone is enough to thaw the snow.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #haikyuu oneshot #haikyuu x you #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi x y/n #haikyuu fluff #229ZMI

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freckle-face-ace · 24 days

Text

Portgas D Ace X CisFem Reader

Gravel crunched under your boots as you made your way to the '72 cream beetle that sat in the drive. You unlocked the driver's side opening the door for Kuma to hop inside. Ace followed quietly stopping short of the vehicle eyeing it with some uncertainty.

"No cars like this where you're from?" You guessed.

He shook his head slowly.

"Well hop in." You nodded toward the passenger door.

He opened the door and slid into the soft leather seat. You did the same showing him how to buckle his seatbelt.

"All set?" You asked bringing the old diesel engine to life.

Kuma woofed from the backset as you shifted gears lurching forward following the gravel path that stretched passed the house and framed the nearby forest.

"Where are we going?" Ace shivered.

"You'll see when we get there. Sorry, she's old the heater takes a while." You answered fiddling with the dials on the dash.

He shivered again as a blast of cold air hit him and began to slowly change temperatures. In his world he could take advantagde of his devil fruit to keep himself warm. Humanity seemed more fragile here.

"Missing your devil thingy?" You asked glancing at him sideways.

"Devil fruit." He corrected, "And yeah. It's weird being cold."

The sun was high shrouded in a veil of wispy clouds. Ace watched the scenery on the right slowly drop out of sight revealing an endless choppy sea. He'd known it was nearby; though the air was cold he could smell the hint of salt in the breeze but based on what he could see from your property he hadn't guessed it would be so close. It was hard to resist the urge to hop out of the vehicle and take it all in.

"Almost there." You smiled as if you'd read his mind.

He hadn't spent much time with you but it seemed your smile only made special appearances.

The little bug sputtered to a halt. You locked the e-break in place and unbuckled nudging Ace to do the same. Yawning and stretching you climbed out of the car turning to fold the seat down for Kuma and removing the blanket you kept in the back seat. Ace stood in awe of the view of the bay from the bluffs. Jagged rock formations jutted out of the sea almost reaching your perch. It was something most people only saw in pictures. The sound of the crashing waves filled the air broken up by the call of a few guls that refused to migrate.

You spread the blanket out and dropped down tightening your coat. Ace tossed a stick for Kuma before taking a seat beside you.

"I thought you'd appreciate this even though you were cursed by the sea." You pointed a gloved finger toward the view.

"Even though it's freezing...it feels a little like home." He smiled widely, sending a rush a of heat to your cheeks.

"Tell me about it." You rubbed between Kuma's ears as he rested his head in your lap.

"About home?" Ace quirked a brow.

"If it isn't too painful I mean." You lowered your gaze.

It was unlike you to take interest in anyone, and any sane person wouldn't have taken this complete stranger in especially after witnessing how he entered this world. But you felt comfortable. If he was going to try something he would have by now, after all he just spent the night in your bed.

He began telling quirky stories about his brothers on the Whitebeard crew. Most of their antics were ridiculous and if you were being honest a little impossible. But nothing was a crazy as the stories he had about Luffy which lasted the drive home.

"Pirate King?" You gave him an incredulous glance, "Like... The King of all pirates."

"That's the idea I guess." Ace nodded.

"So, like, would he get to tell everyone else what to do?"

He looked at you unsure of how to respond, "I'm not entirely sure... I think it would be more of a - no one can mess with you - sort of thing."

You hummed not completely satisfied with his answer.

"I'm starving." He sighed.

"I just got paid... We can drop Kuma off and go get something in town. I-if you're up to it." You suggested.

"If you're up to it." He emphasized, "You don't seem to like people much."

"I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

_______________

After dropping Kuma off you and Ace headed into town. You figured you'd be alright as long as he was with you. His calm energy seemed to help your nerves much like Kuma's.

The sun had long since set in the late autumn sky when you pulled up and parked in front of a restaurant that had recently opened in the center of town.

Both of you welcomed the warmth of the building after sitting outside for so many hours in the cold sea breeze. A chirpy young woman stood at the hostess station smiling widely with a slight blush as you walked up with the adorable raven.

This was your first time in public together and you hadn't really thought about how other people would react to him.

"One or two?" She asked sweetly brushing a lock of her purple hair behind her ear.

"Two." Ace replied politely.

Her smile disappeared for a fraction of a second as she grabbed a couple of menus and lead you to an empty table near the large open kitchen. Taking your seats and glancing over the menus you placed your orders with the server and continued to chat.

The chefs and kitchen staff were working feverishly with their backs to the patrons. You were a bit puzzled as Ace fell silent gaze now fixed on the staff.

"You ok?" You asked lightly touching his knuckles.

He nodded slowly turning back to you, "I'm fine."

"A-ace?" An unfamiliar voice caused both of your heads to snap back to the double doors leading to the kitchen.

#fem reader #he fell from the sky #isekai #lyndsyh24 #portgas ace x reader #mdni #portgas d ace #whitebeard pirates #x reader

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eppysboys · 8 months

Text

Can you tell us about the film Harry and Ringo’s Night Out? I don’t think it’s ever been released, and plot details seem scarce. Why was it shelved, what was it about, and how were your artworks to be incorporated with the live-action footage?

"If you look it up online, it’s described as being a documentary film about Harry and Ringo’s wild night life. It wasn’t.

Harry and Ringo had done a movie called Son of Dracula. They had so much fun, they thought they’d like to do another. I wrote a synopsis of a movie I thought would work with who these guys were and the rapport they had. To be honest, I don’t remember where the title came from. They liked the treatment and asked me to write a full script, which I did. They made some changes, I made some changes, they made some changes, and after a while, we had a script everybody liked.

Early on, they decided they wanted it to be a live action/animation movie. Let me say, right from the start, I was way in over my head. I had no film experience. But they had faith in me and that was enough to make me believe I could do it.

The story – the short version – involves Ringo and Harry being sucked into an alternate reality in a place called Rockland, populated by a bunch of famous rock stars. Music is dying and these two were on a mission to save it. When they entered Rockland they acquired sidekicks. Ringo’s was the cherub and Harry’s was a wisecracking crow. Harry did the voice of the cherub and Ringo did the voice of the crow.

I designed the characters and painted the backgrounds. We contracted a couple of animators, on the sly, who worked at Hanna-Barbera to do the animation. The live action was shot on a Paramount sound stage in front of a blue screen. I directed the live action.

The sky, throughout the full three minute pilot was speeded up live action cloud formations, which was very cool. When it was complete, Harry and I went to Warner Brothers after hours and he worked on a moviola, editing the piece together. Harry picked the sound track, and we had a film to shop.

It went to a few studios but there were no takers. A live action/animated movie would have been a major undertaking and an expensive one at that and no studio wanted to bankroll a film starring the Beatles drummer and a pop star that had never performed in public… and the project was dead. I think the finished pilot went to Harry. I still have most of the backgrounds, cells and live action with some bits and pieces.

It’s never been seen in public and never will. I think no one will see it because nobody cares. It was done and over. I’m only guessing it’s with Harry’s family. It also might be with Ringo or Michael Viner (who died in 2009) who funded it. Whoever has it, it has been over 40 years and that ship has sailed." (Artist Tim Bruckner, 2015)

Eppy's Note: You can see a teeny tiny clip of promo for it here, and please take the time to scroll down to the comment section, there's very delightful exchange between two commenters.

#my personal burning of the alexandria library tbh #bro..what if we made a movie where we're best friends...and we each have side kicks...that are also played by each other..#Ringo Starr #Harry Nilsson #Tim Bruckner #quotes #Ringo #Art #'I had no film experience. But they had faith in me and that was enough to make me believe I could do it.'#once a beatle always a beatle <3 #Films

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totally-not-deacon · 4 months

Text

WIP Wednesday - Time for something a little different!

Tagged by @dalishthunder! Gonna tag... @singleteapot, @throughtrialbyfire, and @electricshoebox, if ya wanna.

I finally have something this week! It's... not fic, though, but a little story I'm working on for future Follower-Marasa to (drunkenly) tell the player, should they ask for one. It's still a little rough, and formatting looks a little odd rn, as I was making sure the line lengths would fit in the CK properly.

Under the cut for length!

Player: Can you tell me a story? [INN ONLY]

Oh, you want a bedtime story now? Fine, how about this? [NIGHT]

Huh, not many people want me to talk more. Well, alright then, how about this? [DAY]

You ever been to Cyrodiil in autumn? Stomped around the Great Forest to see the pretty leaves? Don’t. It’s cold, it’s wet, and it’s miserable.

So, imagine you’re me – you’ve been marching since the Dawn Era, it’s pouring rain, and you were dumb enough to drop your day’s rations in the mud.

As you can imagine, I was having the time of my life.

So we’re marching. And marching. And – you guessed it, marching. All damn day, and we don’t even find any Imperials to kill!

Then all of a sudden, like being blessed by the gods, the clouds part and our superiors finally tell us to start setting up camp.

I could’ve kissed them, I swear. Well, if I could’ve reached, that is. And if I didn’t value my life.

You think the Justiciars here in Skyrim got sticks up their asses? You haven’t seen nothing.

Anyway, we all go about setting up tents and whatnot.

Takes forever, the whole ground feels like it’s nothing but rocks with a thin layer of leaves on top. I’m telling you, place was miserable.

We knew none of us were gonna sleep comfortably, not that any of us cared at that point.

Really, you could’ve strung us up by the toes if it meant we’d get a break from officers barking out orders.

Player: Can we come back to this later? [EXIT]

Wow, alright. I’m sure we can come up with a time that’s more convenient for you.

Player: Are you going to get to the story part soon?

Okay, rude. As I was saying, before being interrupted, these weren’t just rocks under the soil. They were bricks.

We were setting up camp on top of some old town, or something. Wasn’t on our maps, so it must’ve been gone a while.

Lots of places got wiped out by the Oblivion Crisis, so it was probably just one of those, right?

Still didn’t stop a few of us trying to scare the new recruits making up ghost stories about the place, haha.

One of em swore up and down, he knew the name of the place. I can’t remember what he said, though.

Something about dirt, I think? I have no idea. Guy probably took one too many blows from a warhammer to the skull.

As luck would have it, I found what seemed like the one flat spot in the entire clearing. The second my canvas was up, I was out.

Surely I’d sleep straight through the night, right?

Wrong.

Player: Was it the Imperials?

Was it the – who is telling the story? Huh?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. Hmph.

So I wake up all of a sudden, cold sweat and all. It’s still dark out, almost dead silent, but I knew something was up.

It felt like there were eyes on me, from – from every direction. I’m thinking we’re about to be ambushed, but I can’t even reach for my sword.

In fact, I can’t move at all. It was like I’d been paralyzed, but this was no spell. At least, I don’t think it was.

So I’m stuck there, waiting for what must be the Imperials about to storm from the treeline at any moment.

But that’s when I hear it…

Whispering.

At first, I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. It felt close, really close, but I still couldn’t make out the words.

It didn’t sound like it was coming from outside the tent, or even gods forbid, in the tent, but… beneath it.

Player: Now I know you’re making this up. [1]

Look, I know how it sounds, but for once I’m not messing with you!

Player: How much did you have to drink that night? [2]

Dead sober, sadly. We were all still pretending to have some level of decorum within earshot of the officers.

Player: Then what happened? [3]

Finally, someone actually listening for once!

… [cont.]

As you could guess, I didn’t do much sleeping that night. I was already packed by the time the sun started to rise.

Couple of the others were up as well. I think we could all tell, none of us had to say it.

Weird thing was, we were all spread out through the camp, but somehow we all heard the same thing.

Once we were about to move out again, I look back to where my tent was to make sure I got everything.

That’s when I see one of the new recruits walking my way. And then… I didn’t.

Guy was gone. Apparently fell through some rotten boards and down an old well. Right where my tent had been all night.

Someone threw a torch down, trying to see how far down he was, but…

It never seemed to reach the bottom.

#wip wednesday #tes #skyrim #oc marasa #marasa mosshollow #yes she's a chatty drunk and no she won't apologize for it

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gerbiloftriumph · 1 month

Text

Floating Castle Liveblog (second read)

Turns out I just can't stay away from this book, or stop myself from doing live updates on Goodreads, probably to the irritation of my followers there and to the chagrin of the website itself, which is now overwriting old updates with newer ones, thus, my need to post them all here. For posterity.

And because I love Telgrin just that much.

March 17, 2019 –

page 0

I feel a sad reading funk coming on and the only way I can think to save it is with my boi, the greatest sassy villain ever, Telgrin. Awww yiss (I don't feel the mood for Princess Bride for once, so next step down it is). Feel free to follow along as I keysmash glee about this doofy lame villain and his impractical floating castle (usingthekqreddit's.pdfshackcoughahhhhkkk you didn't hear that from me.)

page 3

It just cracks me up to see a literal castle sailing by in the storm. Alex can pretend all he likes that it’s just a cloud formation—it’s still dang wacky and impractical.

page 8

Graham: Did you see anything weird out there? Alexander: Well, I mean. A literal floating castle, probably? Graham: Yes, that sounds sensible. Carry on. I’m grinning like a fool and I’m not even ten pages in. This book is my flavor of perfect delight, glossy purple prose and all.

page 11

The fact that Telgrin's castle is in a perpetual thundercloud? He's the sort of dude who would, in a modern au, just listen to the rainymood app constantly. I feel it deeeeeeep in my soul. The anticipation of the plot points has me positively grinning and I keep telling myself, "No, slow down and enjoy. The kelpie and troll and frog and tree wizard and all aren't going anywhere. It's okay."

page 14

I want to scoop Graham up in a big hug. He seems like a great person, such a strong king. Showing nothing but peace and respect to everyone, regardless of social status, who comes in talking about that Spooky Castle, and he's completely chill *until* he's alone with Alexander and can finally drop that mask and honestly show his fear. Even if you're unfamiliar with the source material, this is good character detail.

page 17

"A strange castle has intruded upon the peace of Daventry. I think it fair to assume that only a powerful magic could have transported it here." No, Graham, flying castles are perfectly normal things. Like birds. (here comes telgrin the sassmaster i'm so exciiiitedddd)

page 18

"While Graham occupied the throne, what misfortune could long hold sway over Daventry? What evil could prevail?" cough foreshadowing cough cough hack wheeze

page 19

I still believe with my whole heart that this bearded and blustery and large Sir Brian is a reference to Brian Blessed and I don't care what anyone else thinks.

page 21

Heeeeeeere's Telgrin! Struttin' in, debris from the door all in a cloud, swinging that stupid crystal staff in step with his walk, and freaking "pleased by the dumbfounded reaction his appearance had caused." My melodramatic diva. Let's do thiiiiis.

page 22

Graham, furious, demands to know why Telgrin's here. Telgrin flings back his head and cackles: "'Who am I? Why, I am your new neighbor! Have you not seen my castle there in the distance?' The man paused. He seemed to expect Graham to say something then, but the king simply stared at him. This seemed to unnerve the stranger somewhat" because how do you banter in silence? You can't be the sassmaster if no one plays! :3

page 23

Telgrin wouldn't come to the castle to announce himself as Ye Olde Villain until Graham had summoned a full contingent of knights. Telgrin, Sassmaster and Diva, requires a proper audience before strutting around. <3

page 23

"Do you seriously believe that simply declaring yourself king will make you king in truth?" "*Believe* it? I know it. It is a fact. Who can dispute it?" Graham rose slowly from his throne, straightened to his full height. Unblinking, his gaze was fixed upon Telgrin. "*I* can." "You dare defy me?" "I do." A twisted smile tugged briefly at the corners of Telgrin's mouth. "Good. I was rather hoping you would." Sassy.

page 25

Telgrin is so blissed out on his own sassy triumph that we could SO EASILY dropkick him and snap that stupid crystal staff in half and we'd win and the book would be over in a mere 30 pages. I swear, he's not watching his back at all. Alexander, take him out at the knees! ...or, don't. That's fine. We contracted a full novel from Sierra. I get it.

page 32

I want a Valanice book. I want this series to be a quartet instead of a trilogy. I want this so deep in my soul.

page 32

TREE WIZARD. I can't stop grinning; I love tree wizard. He's trying to nod and shrug and he doesn't have shoulders so he can't, because he's a TREE.

page 40

"Telgrin is a stealer of souls." "A stealer of souls? What's that?" Alexander, the name is on the tin. It isn't hard to figure out.

page 41

I know I should stop updating every few pages. I'm spoiling things and probably being annoying but it's been a long weekend and this is Exactly my flavor of comedy: tree wizard is offering Cyril to Alex, since he "'does all those things that I can no longer do for myself. And he is very good at keeping the woodpeckers away.' This did not sound like the sort of help that Alexander was looking for." Be polite, Alex. :3

page 45

Of all the things I remember from reading this book a year ago, Tree Wizard and his Tea is one of my top favorite mental images. Doesn't matter that we're slowly turning into a tree. Tea time is very important and we will Not miss it. There's even fanart of Tree Wizard and his tea on Tumblr, that's how important it is.

page 45

Alexander (paraphrased): "Sooo...do you know how to stop being a tree?" Morowyn: "Oh, yeah, totes figured that out. Could do it whenever I wanted. Kinda has a drawback, though." Alexander: "Yeah? What's that?" Morowyn: "I would immediately die." Alexander: "......yep, that's a drawback."

March 19, 2019

page 57

“Do you know where to look for a soul? Have you ever seen one?” One would assume it’s glowy and vaguely Graham-shaped.

page 64

I can not believe I forgot about this Literal Ringwraith character. It’s...just a Ringwraith. Pure and simple and obvious.

page 74

I did remember the Literal Lembas Bread, though. Fantasy tropes! *jazz hands*

page 78

One of the classic fantasy tropes is doing a long walk from point a to point b. I’ve got to give Mills credit: I don’t think I’ve read any other book that fills its protagonists up with magic bread that induces energetic power-walking before.

page 80

I remember being annoyed by this conversation the first time, but that was before I realized I held a Masterpiece of High Literature in my hands: “Good apple,” Cyril said. “Very good.” “Sweet.” “Mmm.”

page 87

“A rope, some apples,” Cyril said, frowning. “I still don’t see what you’re planning.” It’s called A Sierra Solution, Cyril, and they only make sense half the time, because this game series is haaaaard.

page 90

Kelpie rodeo. In what sensible fantasy novel would this be allowed? None, man. I love this book. [gerbil note: this scene also has fanart, because this book is amazing]

March 19, 2019

page 97

Alexander: Ho there! Sir Ogre! Ogre: /what did you call me/?! At least, that’s how it should go.

[gerbil note again: i did totally steal this very lame joke for captive crown later on and i'm not even sorry about it]

page 100

I didn’t quite realize how dorky this was the first time, but now I’m paying attention I’ve realized: Telgrin has exactly One lone storm cloud that occasionally spits out a lightning bolt, just hovering over the tower. In my head, this looks like a Winnie the Pooh cloud. Is that all the magic he could summon? One tiny cloud? Lame, and yet So On Brand for my sassmaster.

page 107

We've now entered the Road to El Dorado sequence of the book and I'm perfectly content. Barrel scene eheheheheeeee

page 112

Once again, the book stresses, it is but *one* cloud. One very black and lightning filled cloud, but a single cloud, nevertheless, providing all the ambient noise and mood. I find this bizarrely hilarious. It feels like Telgrin's equivalent of keeping his phone on low battery mode so he can keep using the Rainymood app.

page 120

The sassmaster's lair is just the most Extra thing. It's like he read a book on what villains are supposed to do, so he did it. He's got it all: high ceilings that vanish to dark, ludicrous amounts of moldering velvet curtains, "hideously ornate" braziers, and a perfectly silly black throne. Telgrin, pleaaase this is so unnecessary and not remotely sensible. You've copied someone else's homework, and badly. ilu.

page 121

And Alexander refuses to play the game. Telgrin has all these expectations on how this conversation is meant to go, he's basically reciting a script, and Alexander's just like, "Uhhhh....what?" So Telgrin moves on to Cyril, like Cyril will play along properly. I just can't. I love Telgrin to unfeasible levels of nonsense.

page 122

(Incidentally, I'm still kinda salty that Graham's soul isn't in the throne room, wedged in Telgrin's overly-flashy staff. It just feels more right than where he *actually* is.)

page 123

"You are an evil man." "So it has been said." Telgrin shrugged. "Personally I've always found that such abstractions do not apply well to life in the real world. They make matters that are by their very nature complex seem rather too simple, don't you think?" "Evil," Alexander repeated. Telgrin sighed. "I can see that you're really not up to a probing and dispassionate philosophical discussion" Modern AU: he's a Bro

page 125

I'm fairly certain this reference to Alexander having a hard time with stairs is a reference to the older KQ games in which if you misstep, you're going down, and if you're more than a few feet up, you're a dead man and you've got to reload a save. :)

March 21, 2019

page 129

Out of curiosity, I googled a Barikar to see if this was a real fantasy creature, but the only actual result is from the King's Quest Fanwiki to tell me that, yes, Telgrin owns a Barikar. ....nice, I guess.

page 130

By all technical and decent writing standards, this book is probably awful. Er. I mean, awfully great. High literature, deffo. But it *feels* like a King's Quest game. Every new place is described with just enough detail that you can so easily picture it in those stark, retro early gaming colors, or that pixel painting KQ5 style. I super love it.

page 131

The King's Quest fanwiki tells me that Telgrin owns the only Barikar in all of the entire canon of all fantasy, but it doesn't tell me if Telgrin *loves* his Barikar. I hope he does, because no one else possibly could. What a hideous beastie.

page 134

You boys should be ashamed of yourselves, disposing of a barikar. There was only one in ALL of fantasy EVER and now there's none.

page 139

I hate how funny I think it is that Alexander isn't even pulled together enough to answer his own mental questions. "Yes" is not always the correct answer, sir.

page 143

sassmaster diva telgrin's tragic childhood backstory-----OH WAIT NO IT'S NOT TRAGIC HE'S JUST ALWAYS BEEN A PUNK. I love him.

March 27, 2019

page 143

I wonder what Telgrin’s first thought was when he, A Pathetic Scullery Boy (tm) chopped Owen’s head off, presumably with a Vaguely Magical movement because clean-one-chop head removal is hard even with the help of gravity, man, and Owen’s head just started swearing at him from the floor. Like. That’s a dang weird mental image.

page 144

He holds his own head under his arm like it’s a football and it cracks me up. It’s meant to be serious and scary, probably, but I just love this headless ghost.

page 146

The most over the top baby monitor ever created

page 152

In fairness, this part is one of the most like the game-version would probably be, and it works the least because Alexander is working from information we don’t have. As a gamer we would have heard all Owen’s instructions and had to replicate them perfectly to avoid nasty game overs. As a reader it would have been repetitive for Owen to tell us, then watch Alex act, but there’s a disconnect now.

page 156

“After allowing himself to wallow in depression for a short while”—like, twenty seconds, if that.

page 180

Sinofas (paraphrased): Sooooo.....about that magic flying leap out of the tallest tower. What was that about? Alexander: We had a pressing need to leave the castle. Sinofas: Ever heard of a *door,* sirrah? (do note that I haven't stopped smiling for like twenty pages; this book's greaaat)

page 181

Alexander, paraphrased: So....you're not...friends with Telgrin, are you? Sinofas: He put his Giant Castle in my front yard and won't move it. What do you think??

page 183

I can't believe Mills feels he has to point out that Alexander makes for one Handsome Frog. A "rather large and handsome frog," indeed. Ffff.

page 183

And, I quote, "Did you speak, Sir Frog?" "That's Prince Frog, to you." Alexander, *please* reign in some of your sass. It's not helping matters.

page 198

I feel like the further this book goes, the stronger Alexander's sass gets. It'll never be Telgrin levels of sass because that man is the Sassmaster Diva, but it's dang good.

page 212

Sassmaster Telgrin *still* can't get anyone to dialogue properly with him. Graham's just as obstinate as Alexander and is really good at One Syllable Responses. My gorgeous royal family.

page 223

"At that moment, her second head . . . appeared to wake. It opened its eyes, blinked, and said, "Hmph. What's happening? Where am I?" "It's all right, dear," the first head said. "Go back to sleep. I'm just going to kill this man here." "Oh, that's all right then." I adore this book in ways I cannot express.

page 225

I'm so glad magic in this world, with this staff, works by wishing. So, basically, Telgrin must have said, "I wish King Graham's soul was mine" and so it was, and "I wish I had a fireball to kill Alexander," and bam. It's like he's making little birthday cake wishes, but Horrible Magic happens instead and it's kinda hilariously great. :3

page 230

Telgrin, through a magical hologram because this book is great: "Oi! There you are!" Alexander, exhausted and annoyed: "Whaddya want, Telgrin?" "What do you think? You've stolen my staff. I want it back." "That's too bad. I'm fairly sure that I don't want to give it to you." Now is not the time to start having a holographic fight. Pull back that sass, kiddos.

April 2, 2019

page 231

"The fact that this book is about the same size and heft as my Nintendo Switch tablet with like a pt 14 font, and the fact that it's still taken me into week three to read it, means I'm nice and deep in this reading slump. This should be a six hour read at *maximum*. Telgrin, take me away.

page 236

Alexander, you can't just order princesses to do what you want with magic. that's so rude.

page 237

To be 100% clear, Alexander, Telgrin learned literally everything he knows from Owen, and we can see how Telgrin turned out. One miiiight assume that Owen himself is not the most Noble of nobility.

page 240

"Alexander looked long upon the poor, filthy, shabby, beheaded, half-crazed man" -- I dunno, Alex, I might have led with the Beheaded part. Just sayin', seems the most important part.

page 248

"Alexander thought that it would be inappropriate to express regrets for the incident, since those regrets would not be deeply felt." Alexander, be polite. Don't start snarking with the villain, now.

page 250

"Lydia, Lydia, don't you understand? A man wants to idealize the woman he is to wed. This becomes extremely difficult *when she keeps bloody carping at him.*" Telgrin's breakdown from Eloquent Bro is the best thing ever.

page 260

Since the fight is taking place off screen, it reads most hilariously, with each combatant yelling, "Oh, yeah, that was okay, but what about THIS" followed by just basically a stream of sound effects. It's like reading an anime battle where they would normally shout out their attack names and I'm so into it.

page 266

Can I also add that I find it Entirely Hysterical that this HUGE FLOATING CASTLE is literally pinned into place? With like, a big bobby pin driven into the ground? And that's *it*? This is so impractical on so many levels, Telgrin.

April 3, 2019

page 267

Alexander actually expected Telgrin to win that fight, hah. Good confidence for the Good Team, I guess (Owen's placement on the Good Team being...sketchy, at best, of course).

page 273

See, Graham, Cyril remembers HIS adventuring rope when he goes off on missions. Take notes; it'll help you out in your 2015 voyage.

page 278

Cyril, you stud muffin.

page 283

"How did you find this?" "I got lost." Bab.

April 16, 2019

page 289

Graham Dying bedscenes are like, a favorite staple of this series, innit? And then KQ9 just had to go and take it allllll the way. Hhhh.

page 292

Come on, come on, someone say "a heart is a heavy burden" at Graham. Make this book perfectly complete. No? Okay, fine.

page 293

"I have much to be thankful for. I have escaped the torments that Telgrin thought to inflict on my spirit. I am in my own body again, in my own home, safe and surrounded by family and friends. But what makes me most grateful is that I am able to look upon your face once again, my dear one. For that is everything." Valanice laughed softly, and said, "Rest. You are delirious, I think." My FAVORITE royal couple hhhhhhh.

April 16, 2019 – Finished Reading

Five stars out of five stars. Again.

#there is at least one more goofy liveblog to look forward to #so look forward to that and that's an order #king's quest #kings quest #king's quest novels #telgrin #king graham

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distant-velleity · 6 months

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okay i'm not gonna do the full formatting thing but basically this was a prompt fill i did for twstober, for the prompt "save," and i'm posting it now bc i want to talk abt chrysos lol

it's based off the idea that in my version of book 4, he's part of the plan to expose jamil, helping to deceive him through use of his signature spell... which generates a lot of blot... hahaha. i promise he wont overblot yet. anyway. i can talk about all that in another post, but for now, enjoy :)

This can’t keep going on.

That’s the mantra in Chrysos’ head, furious and bitter, that’s been going through his head the whole time. Whatever Jamil’s pulling (is something Chrysos wishes he could do against the royal family sometimes) needs to be stopped, but their efforts so far have been relatively fruitless.

Maybe it’s time for him to pull out his signature spell again. No, not maybe—he can pull it off again, he has to. If it can catch Jamil off-guard once, another aspect of it can do that again.

Chrysos steels himself as the Phantom behind Jamil winds back a robed limb to strike him. He hears panicked yells from around him, but focuses on only his magic while the Phantom swings at him—

Think of the hunger and thirst that can only truly be discovered on land. Think of the golden dust that robs people of everything. Think of the scorching sun that dries up everything under its light!

—and points his magic pen forward, reciting, “When crops wilt and seas dry up, all that is left is the ever-consuming sand. 「All or Nothing: King’s Roar」 !”

The Phantom’s entire arm turns to sand, fine grains of it, causing both it and Jamil to cry out in agony. Azul, Jade, and Floyd take advantage of this opportunity to fire more synchronized spells at it.

Chrysos’ shoulders sag in relief, before the exhaustion and nausea of replicating such a powerful signature spell hits him. He staggers backwards, vision failing him momentarily, and doesn’t even notice the ball of potent, violent fire magic flying straight at him.

“CHRYSOS!”

Someone tackles him out of the way, sending them both rolling a few meters away. Chrysos gasps and fumbles to stop them, before realizing it’s Santiago who just inelegantly saved him from uncertain death.

“Stupid fish,” Santiago pants, peeling himself off of Chrysos, “I had to run all that way to save you, y’know? And—look at your magic pen!”

Chrysos looks down at his pen, clutched in his hand like a lifeline. His heart almost stops when he sees the inky blackness clouding up more than half of the lavender gem at its end.

What the hell?!

“It’s fine,” he rasps through a dry throat, forcing himself to stand up. Then he corrects himself. “I… thought it was fine.”

Santiago is oddly incensed, though. “No, it isn’t, you idiot. Stop using your signature spell! We don’t need another Overblot.”

Something tells Chrysos that’s not all there is to it; that something being the unexpected, unfamiliar concern and anger in Santiago’s eyes.

“Okay, okay, just—I’m fine now. I get it,” Chrysos insists, the words spilling out quickly. “I won’t use it anymore.”

Santiago purses his lips, brows furrowed, and reluctantly nods. He then turns around to rejoin the battle, oddly enough to the Octavinelle student.

Why isn’t he asking for anything in return? Chrysos wonders. I owe him now, but… Could it be… No, I’m sure it’s just urgency.

“Thank you. For saving me,” he adds quickly, before Santiago is out of earshot.

“Don’t worry about it,” Santiago replies, tone sounding off. “Just… don’t die.”

Ah. Is he… seriously that worried? About me?

Unsure what to do about this revelation, Chrysos huffs a laugh. “I can manage that. You don’t need to ask.”

“I’m not asking,” retorts Santiago, although he seems relieved nonetheless.

They dive back into the fight together.

#kai's writing #twisted wonderland #twst #twst oc #chrysos pendentif #santiago parro #some other characters mentioned

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jeonstellate · 4 months

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sunsets & silhouette dreams — range iv

johan spends time with her father.

⚝༄ platonic!tony stark x original character

⚝༄ language

⚝༄ paragraph format — 1.3K words

masterlist | s&sd masterlist

[gif’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

Johan Anastasia couldn’t dissuade Sergeant Barnes from picking her up for dinner. Then again, she wasn’t successful on asking him to tell either Jess or Luke that she’d take the last train to Harlem tonight, either.

Instead, she had to compromise. (Mostly because he didn’t give her much choice.)

With his specific instructions not to leave where she currently was, Johan was essentially left with no choice but to stay on the rooftop she found solace in.

Rather than continue her talk with the clouds, she opted to actually finish up her little project before the sky lost light. Admittedly, it wasn’t an ideal place to tinker since there wasn’t even any table, but it’d have to do.

Good thing she impulsively decided to buy spare tools when she bought new parts earlier. Or else she’d be forced to tinker with her hands, which would be difficult considering how tiny her project was.

Johan wasn’t sure how long it had been since Sergeant Barnes told her they were on the way. The only thing she knew for sure was the sun’s lower position in the sky and her apparent lack of progress in her project.

"Do you need help?" When she heard a soft thud minutes earlier, she paid it no mind. It didn’t alert her senses, so whatever made that sound must’ve meant no harm. More likely than not, it was probably just a toy poorly aimed by the kids playing below.

It’d be a lie to say she expected it to be a person. However, on the other hand, she wasn’t surprised to see someone standing over her, either.

Johan took the flashlight out of her mouth before addressing her newly arrived companion. "If you don’t mind."

When the Tony Stark merely claimed a spot across from her without another word, she took it as signal to hand him the tweezers and the pen knife she was holding. Once they were out of her grasp, she shifted her hold of the flashlight and shined it on the part of the device that still needed fixing.

"Hold it a little higher," he told her before he folded himself like she had earlier. It wasn’t like they had any other way to be as close to device as needed, given that they were literally on an inaccessible rooftop.

Except for her occasionally giving him instructions and him occasionally asking if he was doing it right, they were relatively silent. Technically speaking, this would mark their third time seeing each other. Yet, despite that, they still seemed to be unsure of each other.

In Johan’s defense, she actually had a lot of questions she wanted to ask the man in front of her. However, she didn’t want to force him to have a conversation with her just because they were alone. So she just kept quiet.

To no one’s surprise, the vehicle containing most of the Avengers — who were supposed to eat dinner with Johan — got stuck in traffic. She didn’t mind the extra wait, mostly because she wasn’t the one who wanted to go to dinner in the first place, anyway.

"You must miss your mother." Having finished the transceivers for her guardians, her and Stark worked their way to address the elephant in the room. "I’m sorry I don’t have many memories of her."

"You don’t need to apologize," she rejected his apology. "I figured you’d only have one memory of her at most, so everything you told me was already more than enough."

Frankly, Johan was surprised he even initiated a conversation. She was more surprised that he opted to fly using his nanotech suit just to arrive ahead of the rest, but it seemed out of her business to ask why. Thus, instead, she just followed along whatever direction he appeared to be leading the conversation to.

"I don’t know how much S.H.I.E.L.D. told you, but I don’t understand feelings and emotions that well," Johan continued. "Missing someone . . . I don’t know what that feels like."

"What emotions can you feel, then?" Why did you ask about your mother?

"Curiosity. Grief." She listed slowly, counting each one with her fingers. Stark quietly hanged onto her every word, almost as if he taking note of them for a reason. "Contentment. Fright. Indifference. Relief. Confusion. Boredom. Resentment." He looked away when his focused stare seemed to have bothered her. Still, even with his head turned away, he continued to intently listen for her next words. "Those are the only ones I understand."

He waited a moment before commenting, "Good job, Kid. That’s a lot of emotions."

It really wasn’t an easy feat. It was something that did deserve a praise — or be celebrated, even. However, Johan merely shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. "I still have a long way to go before I perfect being human."

"Being a human can’t be perfected," he told her. "Even I struggle with it all the time — and I’m way older than you." He turned his head back toward her, just to see her eyes already on him. "You’re doing great, Kid."

Johan didn’t reply right away. "Thank you, I guess." It was her turn to look away, but not for the same reason he did moments prior. She deliberately focused her attention on the butterfly knife she was fidgeting on her hand.

Hearing him refer to her as ‘Kid’ — not as an endearment, but rather like a name — made her realize she had yet to introduce herself properly. She knew the Avengers already knew her as Johan Collins, the kid assassin made by HYDRA that was currently under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s custody. Yet, still, he — and presumably the rest of them — kept up with directly addressing her by what she preferred to be called.

As much as she appreciated their conscious effort, it also meant she would have to give them a similar notice that she had previously given Sergeant Barnes. Hopefully, this would be the last time she’d give the notice one-by-one.

"You know," she started with her eyes still on the knife, "my mother gave me your name."

"What?" Stark blurted in surprise. She could hardly blame him. S.H.I.E.L.D. strictly controlled every information they release about her for her protection. She didn’t even have her own database file until recently, following her thirteenth birthday. But even then, most of the information in there were either undisclosed or falsified.

Johan stopped fidgeting with her butterfly knife. She met his stunned stare with her dead serious one. "Your name is left blank on my birth certificate, but my name is registered as Johan Anastasia Stark." She gave him a moment to digest her words before she continued on. "I don’t know why my mother gave it to me, but I— I’m not going to force you to take your role. Or any role, for that matter.

"I don’t know if we’ll cross paths after tonight; but, if we do, give me a sign then on what you’ve decided."

She watched him nod slightly, although it looked unconsciously done. "A sign? Can’t I just tell you?"

"No," Johan’s response was almost immediate. "Flat-out rejection tastes bitter. And I like my coffee with a shit ton of sugar."

Stark didn’t even register that she just cursed. "You think I’d reject being your father?"

"Why wouldn’t you?" She challenged, tilting her head slightly. "It makes more sense."

He searched for something in her eyes. She had no clue on what it could possibly be, since she knew her eyes gave nothing away. Nevertheless, he seemed to have found whatever it was that he was looking for. "May I give you a sign now?"

"No," she rejected once more. "You need to at least pretend to ponder on it for a long time. I don’t have the emotional capacity to deal with regrets."

I need a definite answer, something that you won’t take back later when you change your mind.

"Okay," he eventually agreed. "Next time, then."

#tony stark imagines #tony stark scenarios #tony stark oneshots #tony stark fanfics #tony stark fics #tony stark #iron man #marvel #mcu #avengers #iron man imagines #marvel imagines #mcu imagines #platonic!tony stark x reader #tony stark x daughter!reader #marvel x reader #mcu x reader

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