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aeoris4lovers · 10 months

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the quiet tragedy of verin being the one who never quite made it out.

for most of their lives, essek was the one who was entrenched in expectations, in the politics of their den. while verin was stationed far from the heart of the dynasty, ostensibly free from the eyes of his elders, essek was sitting beside their mother in court and speaking before the queen. and it made sense, because essek had always been better at all of it — the posturing, the sweet-talking, the ladder-climbing. his brother the black sleep was still his brother the prodigy; his brother the heretic was still his brother the shadowhand.

but then, essek meets new people and they get through to him and change him and make him softer, make him better (and why them? what is it about them, that they could do what verin never could?) and he runs. he gives up the title and the status and the power and leaves it all (leaves verin) behind.

suddenly, verin is the lone newsoul of den thelyss, the one with all eyes on him, with the expectations meant for two brothers falling squarely on his shoulders and only his in the absence of their other target. he is still the youngest of his den, the one they all watch and wait to be disappointed by, but there is no one to share that burden with anymore and all at once it becomes painfully clear that distance never really was freedom.

essek has a family, then — not a den but a family, with love and trust and care and warmth and all the things essek once called verin childish for craving — and a welcoming home to go to with someone who loves him waiting there and a garden in the front yard, and verin is left still fighting demons under the banner of a god (of a family, of a home) he only half-believes in.

and maybe they see each other more often then. maybe bazzoxan is remote enough that it’s safe for essek to visit in disguise. maybe essek’s friends come too and are kind enough to offer a taste of what essek has now and verin can almost believe it’s his too. maybe essek doesn’t even fight it anymore when verin insists on hugging him. but how much can that really fix? how much can it really change?

an unloved man leaves no one behind when he finally makes a better life for himself, but essek was never an unloved man. not really.

#listen i have a lot of feelings about verin #hes the kindhearted himbo of the family yes but he also is A Thelyss and weve seen the baggage that comes with #i think on the surface hed be thrilled for essek and love the nein #but it definitely wouldnt be an easy thing to stomach #i imagine its like the feeling of your sibling going to college and leaving you with your shitty parents but like. times a hundred #like ‘im so happy for you but i want to be happy for myself too and you getting out mightve just locked me in so where do we go from here’#fuck man sibling relationships are so messy im going feral #we never even get to SEE verin but he haunts the entirety of essek’s arc and im incapable of being normal about it #cr meta #verin thelyss #essek thelyss #the thelyss brothers #den thelyss #the mighty nein #c2 #critical role #critical role meta

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heliads · 7 months

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Hey! I love your writing sm

could you pls do an f1 soulmate au with charles x carlos?

maybe whatever a person writes on themselves shows up on their soulmate so they write each other cute 'good luck' notes or jokes before races and maybe they realize they're soulmates when one of them gets a podium and the other person sees their drawings :)

i understand that you wanted this to be cute. however have you considered that they could be insane instead. have you considered that there could be mind games, bestie. think about the mental warfare (i am)

masterlist

Carlos Sainz believes that his secrets come out the fastest when he’s drinking. Doesn’t even have to be alcohol, his favorite ruiner of silence– he’s let out contract details and personal opinions just as freely with isotonic water after a race as with a shot someone hands him two hours into a post-race celebration. It’s easy to let your guard down when you think you’re with a friend, when the stakes don’t seem high, when he knows better but doesn’t want to admit it.

That’s why he feels a rippling wave of panic when he sees Charles walking across the Ferrari hospitality, two cups of coffee in his hands. Charles sits down at an empty table for two, places one cup in front of himself and one at the empty chair, and looks pointedly at Carlos. Carlos thinks to himself, this can’t be good, and mentally reminds himself to book an appointment with PR sooner rather than later.

He takes the seat. Some things, you can’t fight. Charles still smiles anyway, pleased, and says, “I got you coffee.”

Carlos had noticed this, surprisingly. It was difficult to ignore. “You’re being nice,” he remarks, blowing into the hole on the lid to cool down the liquid inside.

“I am nice,” Charles protests. His accent comes out more when he’s unhappy, it makes the syllables bunch up together like pleats of fabric.

Carlos arches a brow, and takes a sip of his coffee instead of answering. Scuderia Ferrari loves to claim that they adore the art of coffee just as much as their mother country, but every time Carlos gets coffee from hospitality it’s either flavorless or burnt, depending on who serves it. Charles’ attempt isn’t terrible, but he doubts Charles did anything more to prepare it than just put in an order. It’s a nice gesture, though. Just like Charles said.

When he looks up and the steam properly clears from his vision, Charles is still pouting at him. Carlos shakes his head, smiling to himself. He makes it so easy sometimes, to mess with his head. It’s kind of fun. Poker, but with a far prettier deck of cards.

“Alright, fine,” he relents, grinning so Charles knows he’s in on the joke, “I’m just teasing. No need to get mad, cabrón.”

“I’m not mad,” Charles says, a hint of a smile on his face although he stubbornly tries to shake it, “just interested in defending my honor.”

“Your honor?” Carlos asks, laughing in earnest. “So lord-esque, that is what I have been telling you. Of course Lord Perceval would defend his honor.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You can deal with my honor, mate. I got you coffee.”

“And I am grateful for it every time you bring it up,” Carlos says, and takes a sip to prove it.

Charles does the same, but his eyes remain on Carlos the whole time. “So? Is it true what they’re saying?”

Carlos wants more than coffee for a conversation that starts out like this. “Who’s saying what?”

Charles gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Everybody. They say you’re going to leave Ferrari when your contract expires.”

Ah. That. “People love rumors,” he says absentmindedly, “I never thought you’d pay attention to them.”

“I don’t usually, but I was interested in this one,” Charles admits. “You’d tell me if you were leaving, right?”

“I’m not leaving,” Carlos says.

Charles sets down his cup. “But you’d tell me, right?”

“I would,” Carlos says. Pauses. Starts again. “What’s gotten into you, man? I never took you for someone to fall for theories like this.”

Charles shakes his head a little too quickly. “I’m not. They just seemed to believe it.”

Carlos shrugs. “They believe a lot. My contract doesn’t expire until next year. They won’t worry about me for a while.”

“Should I?” Charles asks. “Worry about you, I mean.”

Carlos looks at him, really looks at him. The tense grip of his teammate’s hands around his coffee, even despite the heat still emanating through the cup. The furtive glances he keeps sneaking towards Carlos, then abruptly looking at the cup again when he gets caught.

“I’m not going,” Carlos says gently. More gently than he’d answer any interviewer, anyway.

Charles nods quickly, his head bobbing like a doll on a string. “Of course. Besides, I have too much interest for you to leave yet. Not until we figure out your, ah–” A pause. Delicate, but not at all from a polite inclination, no matter how it might seem to any outsider.

Carlos groans, exasperated. “My soulmate? My God, Charles, you have to give this up at some point.”

If it were not enough to have an overly inquisitive teammate, one that’s rather good at using his eyes and smile to get what he wanted, Carlos has been cursed with a racing partner that’s unnaturally interested in his missing other half. Carlos himself wants to figure out who his soulmate is, obviously, but at this point he thinks Charles is even more invested.

They all have soulmates. Supposedly. There’s probably at least a couple people out there who skipped that universal drawing of lots, but Carlos knows for certain that he is not one of them because his soulmate contacts him almost every day. Some people go weeks or even months without finding so much as a scribble appearing out of thin air on their skin, but Carlos blinks and there’s a new sentence on his forearm, bruising his knuckles, curling around his ankle. Whoever his soulmate is, they don’t care much for being ignored.

Neither does his teammate. Charles huffs out an exasperated breath. “If you will not be curious, I will be curious for you. You’re always so cagey about it, anyway. I know they write to you. Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course I want to know who they are,” Carlos scoffs. “What I don’t get is why you want to know. Why don’t you focus on your own other half for a change?”

Charles just leans back in his chair, grinning coolly. Ah, yes. Carlos has suspected for some time that Charles already has an idea as to who his soulmate is, but for some reason Carlos has never seen her around the paddock. It could be that Charles is just keeping their relationship private, but he doubts it. Charles likes his trophies visible and his games extensive. More likely than not, Charles has his soulmate engaged in some kind of cat-and-mouse game so they figure it out without too much help on his end. It’s hellishly manipulative, but he’s charming enough that they all let it slide.

Even Carlos, although he at least tries to put up a fight. Sometimes, he thinks Charles is amusingly aware of that, and doubles down on his efforts to get Carlos to cave until both of them are locked in some sort of affectionate stalemate.

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Charles hums, pleased that he’s got the other hand. “I mean,” he says, leaning forward abruptly to seize Carlos’ hand in his own, “Don’t you want to know about yours? Aren’t you curious?”

Whoever sat at their table before them left a Sharpie behind by accident; Charles picks it up now, uncapping it with the same hand without letting go of Carlos. “You could just ask them right now, who they are,” Charles muses. The tip of the Sharpie hovers millimeters above the curve of Carlos’ palm, waiting.

Carlos stares at the black ink. It’s easier to focus on the skin when he mumbles, “They wouldn’t answer.”

You’re not supposed to. Unspoken rules. He’s never liked that sort of thing, and neither has Charles, who knows this and smiles unkindly anyway. “You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” Carlos asks, mostly to himself. Charles doesn’t appear to hear him. The Sharpie dips lower until it touches Carlos’ skin. Immediately, the black ink flowers into his palm. Carlos waits for Charles to keep writing, to scrawl a question like who are you or can I fly you to a Grand Prix paddock, asap but instead Charles flinches, slams the palm of his own hand down towards the table, and covers up the pen again.

“Maybe you should do it yourself,” Charles mutters by way of explanation.

“Maybe,” Carlos says. He’s not sure if he’s agreeing or not. It would be easier, he thinks, to have Charles take the wheel again. It would also hurt more. Carlos caps the pen when it becomes obvious that Charles will not. “Drink your coffee,” he says. “It’ll get cold.”

Charles does as told, which is sort of surprising. Usually, he likes pushing the envelope until someone tells him to quit it. It appears to Carlos, though, that they have reached an unspoken limit, a line drawn out in black Sharpie on tanned skin that will not be crossed again.

A few minutes pass. They’re both quiet. Charles whispers into the condensation of his cup, “You’re not leaving, though, right?”

Carlos smiles. “I’m not.” Contracts change, obviously, but he’ll try to fight it. They all try.

They leave not long afterwards, race week means that they don’t have a lot of time to sit around. There’s always something to be filmed for media duties, an interview to conduct, checks to run through with engineers. Still, Carlos is somehow calmer than he was before, even despite the additional caffeine.

Charles, by contrast, seems jumpier than usual as they head towards the exit.

“Did you enjoy your coffee?” Carlos asks pointedly.

Charles glances quickly over both shoulders, then groans when he’s sure that no one can overhear him. “No, God. It’s terrible.”

Carlos chuckles. “But you went to so much trouble to get it. Surely you can pretend it’s more than just terrible. You drank, like, all of it.”

Charles gives him an appraising look. “It’s better with someone else.”

It occurs to Carlos, as he walks back to his driver’s room, that they may not just have been talking about coffee after all. He’s stopped by one of his PR advisors on the way back– apparently there’s a new TikTok trend that would be just great for him to do– and although he doesn’t feel that shaken, he must look it, because they only get halfway through a discussion of trending sounds before the agent asks if everything is alright.

Carlos scoffs. “Of course I’m alright.”

The agent arches a brow. “Are you sure? You look a little unsettled. Don’t tell me you were talking to George about track times again, he has that effect on everyone before qualis.”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, I didn’t see him. I was speaking with Charles, though, about nothing in particular. Just coffee and soulmates and stuff.” Unable to stop himself, he leans a little closer, drops his voice until it’s more of a whisper. “He’s found his soulmate, hasn’t he? She’s got to be around here somewhere.”

His PR agent, surprisingly, shakes their head. “No, he’s said nothing about it to us, and we’ve asked loads of times. Are you certain that they’re a she, though? That wasn’t the impression I got.”

Carlos stands utterly still. He thinks his blood may have cooled in his veins, congealing into a solid. He is not sure he could move if he tried. “Charles told you that?”

“Once,” the agent says offhandedly. “He got sick of us asking about his mystery woman. I don’t think he meant to let it slip, but you know how he is with secrets.”

They’re laughing at that. Carlos tries to chuckle along with him, but he can’t really do more than nod, because now he’s thinking about Charles’ soulmate being a man. It’s the driver in him, he supposes, the dreamer, that if he can imagine any scenario he would also imagine himself in it, and so it follows that now Carlos cannot stop thinking about the man on the other side of Charles’ heart being him, being Carlos. The picture fits a little too well.

Carlos had never pictured his soulmate and thought of a man, but sometimes he’ll be up on the podium with Charles, champagne high and bright in the air, and he thinks maybe– maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, not having a girl like that. He already knows what it’s like, anyway, to be at the top of the world and have another man standing there with him. If God did not intend for us to be with someone of the same sex, then why would He make it feel so natural?

Carlos somehow manages to end the conversation, to slip back into the relative safety of his driver’s room and lean his entire body weight against the door. He stares up at the ceiling, hands fisting the red fabric of his Ferrari jacket at his sides, and he lets himself, for the first time, wonder if his soulmate might not be a man as well. Anything Charles can do, Carlos can too, or so the commentators have started to say. Anyone Charles could love, Carlos could too. Anything his would be theirs.

It is a risky thought. Pessimists will tell you that soulmates are good for nothing but getting your hopes up. Carlos does not know who his soulmate is nor, odds are, will he ever. It does no good to think about what he wants until he already has it.

Later that day, Carlos tells his soulmate in non-descript block letters, All things must end. He caps the pen and covers his hand for the rest of the day. He sees Charles some hours later, looking pale and frightened. Carlos cannot, will not, imagine why.

He tries to push it from his mind. They are not hiding in Ferrari hospitality for the thrill of it, after all, but to prepare for the race ahead. Qualifying comes and goes, nothing to write home about but at least they should be decently in the points. One of them might be able to make it to a podium if they can give Lando Norris the slip. The best case scenario is that Checo will bin it so they could get a 1-2, but who knows if they’ll have any semblance of luck today.

Carlos qualified one position ahead of Charles. Fred Vasseur is already starting to eye him like a lamb to the slaughter, and Carlos makes a mental reminder to continually ask his engineer for Charles’ times during the race. He has a feeling that team orders might be given.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t make Carlos angry towards Charles as much as he thinks it should. He is irritated by Ferrari, of course, for picking one driver over another, but that’s expected in any given scenario in which the cars are swapped. Usually, though, that sort of thing happens enough times that you start directing your ire towards the other driver, but Carlos cannot manage that. In fact, he never has. Hating Charles is unthinkable. It would be easier to hate himself. Right?

Getting ready in his driver’s room before the race that Sunday, Carlos is struck by a sudden, unthinkable idea. He rummages around in his belongings for a while before coming up with a pen. Dark, thick, the kind you use for autographs when the hapless fan forgets to bring a writing implement of their own. Carlos uncaps it, stares at his skin, then starts to scribble. Words, underlined, circled. Do well. Good luck. Please.

He doesn’t know if– but he could, maybe, if he saw. Carlos loses himself in a frenzy, then snaps out of it just as quickly when his palms get covered in writing. The sound of footsteps outside his door makes him flinch, and he tugs on his gloves as fast as he can, smearing the ink even more than before. It doesn’t matter. Odds are nothing will come of this anyway.

The race goes as expected. Checo does not crash, much to the chagrin of all other teams, and Carlos gets stuck behind him long enough that they start talking about switching him with Charles, which happens around lap forty. When the checkered flag waves, Charles is third, Carlos fourth. He parks quickly and hurries over to the front. By the time he gets there, Charles has already withdrawn inside the cooldown room but Carlos can shoulder in with the other Ferrari crew and shout and slap each other on the back and that’s good, too, it really is.

He will tell himself that it is. Carlos, by now, has gone to a lot of teams and learned about a lot of strategy choices. He knows how to convince himself that something is fine, that the decisions of the team are ones he agrees with. He can idle with the crew and stare up at the podium with a fixed smile on his face, because Carlos is a Good Teammate and Good Teammates show up for each other. They accept team orders when they come their way. They do not stand in the shade of someone else’s idol and think, this isn’t fair.

Of course it isn’t fair, it’s motorsport. Charles is the one they love the most, even when he’s erratic and crashes every other race. Charles is the pretty boy, the golden one, Il Predestinato. Carlos is merely his father’ son.

Charles, who figured out the whole game of soulmates months before. He guessed, at least. Told that to Carlos one night, grinning, drunk, spiraling after another lost podium. Charles had waited with wide eyes and a frozen smile as if waiting for Carlos to put something together, but the other shoe never dropped and eventually the moment ended, both of them pulled apart by other friends, downing other drinks, pretending they never existed.

Carlos thinks of it now. He watches Charles emerge from the shadows of the space behind the podium to stand in the blinding sunlight, waving down at all of them. One of the mechanics is elbowing him in the side, speaking in that low voice they all get when they do the boy’s club talk, you know, someone’s soulmate likes him well enough, obviously, and Carlos has no idea what he’s talking about until he looks up and sees. Sees Charles, his palms dark with ink. From up here, it’s too small to see what is written. The Catholic boy in him thinks stigmata which is wrong, obviously, because there is no great divine mystery here, not when Carlos knows what happened.

Not when Carlos was the one to write all of it earlier that day. He’d almost forgotten during the course of the race, but it all comes flooding back now. That’s his ink on Charles’ hands, and that means– That means Charles is his soulmate. Always has been. Always will be.

Carlos stares up at him. Charles looks down, and although he’s been grinning with victory this whole time, the smile that slides onto his face upon seeing his teammate is different than before, it’s knowing. Charles knows that Carlos has figured it out at last. He’s been waiting for him to do it all this time.

It’s almost obscene, how close Charles must have come to telling him about a thousand times. Who would risk it like that? No one. Charles would. Carlos pictures him with the Sharpie earlier that week, black tip poised above his skin. How he’d caught himself before giving himself up. Perfect timing, a driver’s reflexes. Like managing to right yourself right before sending your car into the wall. Or, better, like doing it anyway. Like accelerating before you go. Like leaving your hands on the wheel so your wrists can break, too, not just your heart.

Yes, Charles would. Charles Leclerc would. Charles, so impatient for his first championship that he’d give up his current chance by overshooting every corner, by doing too much until he ends up in the wall time and time again. This is the man who would expose his soulmate like a throat to a knife, and Carlos has known this about him for years.

The Ferrari section of the paddock is insane after getting a podium, so no one notices when Carlos fights his way through the crowds to let himself into Charles’ driver’s room. It’s empty when he arrives, Charles must have many more people to get through, so he paces relentlessly back and forth until Charles shows up.

Charles bursts through the door, still talking to someone down the hall. His exuberance crashes to a halt the second he sees Carlos waiting, and he hurriedly tells whoever is there not to wait up. Charles carefully closes the door behind him, locks it too, and then it’s just the two of them and this great and all encompassing secret for company.

Charles swallows. “You know.”

Of course he does. Friends show up at each other’s driver’s rooms all the time, but this isn’t just on the order of congratulations for a good race result. They would not be hovering on the edge of this great precipice if it was just that.

“You knew earlier,” Carlos challenges.

Charles ducks his head in a nod. “I did.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Carlos asks.

Charles’ gaze is shifty, it flicks from ceiling to floor to walls, anywhere but Carlos himself. Charles has always been a daredevil for the risks, but he’s never had the stomach for what becomes of them. The consequences are always a thousand times worse than the actions.

“I didn’t think you would want it. Want me,” he corrects, almost whispering.

This is so absurd that Carlos almost wants to laugh. Almost, because the look on Charles’ face is so pitiful that he can’t even smile. “Why wouldn’t I?” Carlos asks.

Charles blinks in surprise. “Because you were never even that interested in finding out who your soulmate was, mate. Always said it would just be some girl you didn’t know. I didn’t want to see your face when you realized you didn’t even get some girl but me.”

“I didn’t want to look too much into my soulmate because I was afraid it wouldn’t be you,” Carlos says in a rush, and as he admits it he knows it’s true.

How could it be anything but that? Carlos could have picked any team, but he went here. A hardheaded (formerly red) bull chasing not just the scarlet flag but the matador himself. Charles, all along.

Charles’ eyes are wide, lashes darker even than the ink still staining his palms. “So you’re not mad, then?” He asks cautiously.

“Not mad and not leaving,” Carlos reiterates.

A ghost of a smile flickers over Charles’ lips. “You cannot blame me for wanting to be sure, I didn’t want you to go until I managed to tell you.”

“You certainly took your time about it,” Carlos comments.

Charles rolls his eyes. “Just because we are racers does not mean we have to do everything fast, Carlos. Be patient.”

Carlos arches a brow. “You are telling me that?”

Charles has the grace to look at least a little ashamed. “Yes. Well. I can be patient now.”

Of course he can. They both can. Most people spend their entire lives searching for the answer to a question that is no longer a mystery to either of them. Time is all they have, time and sweet-sticky champagne and the sensation of being at the top of the world. Nothing will change them. Everything will. For once, though, the change does not scare him. It’s not bad, all of the time.

Sometimes, it brings him Charles. Sometimes, it brings him this. No, not bad in the slightest.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy, @juphey

also: @quill-of-a-sparrow

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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revvethasmythh · 2 months

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“Okay. Well, hi. My name is Nott the Brave and I am a little goblin girl. But, once upon a time, I was Veth, a young halfling woman and before that, a halfling child who grew up being told that she was not pretty and not brave and not coordinated and not smart, and just…not” MONOLOGUE OPENER OF ALL TIME

#I am climbing the walls and chewing on shoes and I’ve SEEN THIS BEFORE #tbh cannot imagine how wild this whole thing must have been to watch live #yes another c2 rewatch #cr2e49

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captainofthetidesbreath · 3 months

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not to be like this but all of the posts (and there are many across multiple platforms) right now going "I mean obviously I'm not mad or whining or anything but it sucks that there's all these three week breaks, how am I going to survive, this is awful, I cannot believe this is happening to me" like, it does in fact come off as entitled no matter how many qualifiers are put onto it

and the a smaller subset of THAT going "CLEARLY C3 isn't a priority for the studio" or "they're obviously trying to kill C3" or even posting stuff that comes off as "um, don't they know that if they keep doing this I won't shop here watch anymore", like, come on

as a tangent, genuinely, I feel like a lot of people have trouble admitting that they don't actually like C3 so they get existentially worried about them losing interest over a slightly longer break because it'll force them to acknowledge that they aren't actually interested, but it's fine not to be interested!

#I will not be engaging with any asks or replies about this #yes I AM cranky in general in life today so that cranky tone is not imagined #like frankly I'm not *as* invested in C3 as I am C2 but like I AM interested in it so the break isn't killing me or my interest so it's ?#like come on I've waited longer for cable television shows. Candela fans wait this long. Don't get me started on British TV.#I'm a D.Gray-man fan and that releases QUARTERLY. Monthly comics. Novels.#Why are we all having hyperbolic breakdown posts over three weeks. Truly I do not understand this culture that's developed around C3.#every time there isn't an ep this week (incl for the regular week off) there's an outpouring of hyperbolic “i'm DYING” posts and I'm like ?#also the break between episodes 40 and 41 was a whole month (November into December 2022)#the break between 8 and 9 was three weeks (December 2021 into January 2022)#Like were you people not here for that?#Critical Role things

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laurasbailey · 10 months

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sometimes i think about how jester’s silly little pseudo-religious gathering on some random island not only led to keyleth’s mother being found but a successful divine intervention from taliesin’s character caduceus which granted a vision from an abberation about a hivemind city in the astral sea that just happened to be heavily connected to taliesin’s other character that died early in the campaign as well as the number nine which has stalked the party since day one and how there was no way in hell that series of events could’ve been pre-planned or predicted by either the dm or the players so yeah campaign 2 is definitely surrounded by spooky eldritch magic above table (and it’s no surprise taliesin is at the centre of it)

#c2 rewatch #matt would've created rumblecusp a million years ago when coming up with vilya's story #i imagine just in case vox machina went digging #and he would've linked it to lucien's story via vokodo #but that's as far as he could've possibly orchestrated that lmao #he couldn't have predicted travellercon or molly's death or the divine intervention #or marisha's giant brain that pieced it all together

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railroad-migraine · 1 year

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I got a migraine, thought about Kingsley for a second, and it went away. I just felt like this was important to share. He's A+ pain medication now and I think he should give me kisses until I'm totally sure the pain's gone-

As someone with chronic migraines, I wish a Kingsley thought would help me out 😭 Hope you feel better now sweetheart x

Whoops I slipped and this happened 👀 Fluffy cuteness

~ Poet

Pain Relief

-> Kingsley Tealeaf x GN!Reader

"And you're sure there's nothing - anything at all - that I can get you?"

You peep out from under the soft quilts of the bed, the closed drapes by the window casting the room in a warm sepia tone that's gentle on your sore eyes. The captain of the ship stands beside you with his hands on his hips, peering down his nose with a concerned crimson gaze that sends a flutter of affection through you.

"More water? A sleep mask, perhaps?" Kingsley suggests, running a hand through his untamed curls. "I can fetch the healer for you, it's no problem at all, love. You have to listen to what your body needs."

You purse your lips in a playful pout. The aching throb in your temple has lessened considerably since the ship had docked and your lover came to check on you in your shared quarters. It is still present, a little constant pinch, but far kinder than the wave of sudden pain you experienced a few hours ago. Taking his hand in yours, you give it a comforting squeeze. "You worry too much about me."

"I worry because I care about you," he says, easy as breathing. He hunkers down at your bedside, smooths the blanket over your shoulders and gives you a half pleading half exasperated look. "Come on. Ask, and your wish is my command."

You know he's got errands to do, deals to make and contacts to cheat on shore. But you also know he won't leave your side until he is completely sure that he's done all he can for you.

He wants to be useful.

So, you make him useful.

"Kiss me."

He tilts his head. "Is that all?"

You nod, leaning your head back further into the expensive pillows and allowing your eyes to slide shut. "Yes. That will indeed be all, captain."

You feel Kingsley's amused smirk against your mouth when he leans down and seals his lips with yours. You hum happily and melt into the touch, the pressure in your head alleviating further as his infernal heat bleeds into your body.

It ends too soon.

He draws back an inch and sighs, pulls his bottom lip with his teeth in a pout. "And you're sure there's nothing else-"

"There's nothing more you can do," you chuckle and press your palms to his chest. You push him with little force until he reluctantly stands. "Thank you for your loyal service. Now go!"

He slips out of the darkened room and out onto the deck before you manage to throw a pillow at his overbearing head, but not before casting a fond smile and wink over his shoulder. You take another sip of water from the glass he'd left behind and curl up into a tight little ball with your back to the window. Sleep comes easily.

You feel good as new when he returns that evening - he makes sure to supply you with even more medicinal kisses to ward off any lingering pain.

You allow him.

#critical role #critical role x reader #critical role imagines #critical role imagine #critical role fanfic #critical role fanfiction #kingsley tealeaf x reader #kingsley tealeaf #mollymauk tealeaf #mollymauk tealeaf x reader #long may he reign #cr #cr2 #cr c2 #mighty nein #mighty nein x reader #the mighty nein x reader #the mighty nein #campaign 2

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vsyrworld · 3 months

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“more podium more kissy more touch deprivate” so true

Ah yess, so true anon♡♡ thank you for stopping by. that is what the main idea of milk teeth HAHAHA (please2024betrue)

Milk teeth chapter 2 is out noww!!

#more podium more kissy!#LOOK AT THEIR PROMOTIONAL VIDEO #LOOK HOW HAPPY CHARLES AND GIGGLING AROUND #LOOOK LOOK?! IMAGINE IF IT IS A 1-2 WIN?!#AAAAA IM LOSING MY MIND #charlos #c2 #JUST KISS ALREADY

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aeoris4lovers · 1 year

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i think by the time we get to see them, astrid and eadwulf’s relationship has gone from being romantic to completely defying any labels other than “extremely fucking close”.

they’re platonic soulmates. they’re an old married couple. they’re friends with benefits. they’re partners in crime. they’re two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same person. they know more about each other than most people know about themselves. they’re so in sync that they finish each other’s sentences and predict each other’s actions without even trying. they have the kind of sixth sense for when the other is hurt or upset that people say twins do. they can have a whole conversation just with looks. they’re incapable of doing anything without thinking of what the other would say. they trust each other implicitly. they talk about each other like puppylove crushes. they talk about each other like siblings that understand each other a little too well to hate each other. they live in separate houses but spend most of their days together in one or the other. they’re perpetually fighting over some ridiculous disagreement. when they’re hurt or sick or scared, they cry out for each other instinctively like children do to their parents. they would know each other’s footsteps or breathing or hands in the dark. they could sculpt every inch of each other from memory, in painstaking detail. they know how to hurt each other better than anyone else. they know how to make each other smile or laugh better than anyone else. they would kill for each other in an instant, no hesitation and no questions asked. if one of them died, the other would kill everyone who let it happen and then drop dead beside them. they had each other when they had nothing else. they’re everything to each other. they wouldn’t know the first thing about how to live without each other. when it comes down to it, it’s always them against the world. always has been and always will be, no matter what. they are each other’s person, in the deepest and truest sense of the word.

is it healthy? probably not, but it keeps them alive, and you’d have to have a death wish to try and take it from them.

and if you ask them what they are to each other? it’s just, “that’s my best friend.” what else could they possibly say?

#i mean think about it #caleb astrid and eadwulf were so close after only one year with trent #imagine what another decade with just the two of them surviving that would do #theres no way theyre anything less than inseparable #cr meta #blumenduo #astrid becke #eadwulf grieve #wizardposting #c2 #the mighty nein #critical role

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songofwizardry · 9 months

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thinking about beauregard lionett again (when am i not?)

specifically i am thinking about tj like. what are they like once he's older? she is kinda responsible for getting his (their) father locked up. he is the child they replaced her with. that's not... really the most conflict-free of setups

like don't get me wrong i love the fics where they reunite and beau gets to be a part of his life in a lovely way. i'm just... thinking.

like. you can love someone intensely but you still gotta figure it all out and. how does beau learn to be around him, when he's a reminder of everything she wasn't? does TJ see thoreau as he grows up, and if he doesn't, how does he act when he learns she's the expositor who landed him in prison? if he does spend time with thoreau (even if he and clara separate), how does thoreau's input colour his opinion of beau? how does beau reconcile that they were probably treated pretty differently – maybe not better or worse, but certainly different – by their parents, and how does that feel?

idk i'm just thinking about Them. maybe i need to write this.

#also they have a 20-ish year age difference?#idk i'm not 100% sure on the timing #apparently he was 2 and a half during C2 which like #if he was born just after Beau was taken to the Soul #puts beau at 19-ish when taken to the Soul?#which i gotta admit is a bit older than what i'd always imagined #idk #fanfic is fanfic we can play with time it's ok #also #i am only now realising that her jade necklace was given to her by thoreau #this character istg #beauregard lionett #critical role #mighty nein #text post #my post

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heliads · 9 months

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Formula One Ship Fics Masterlist

Brocedes

i’ve got my eye on you - Nico Rosberg has moved on from 2016, the silver war, all of it. So he thought, at least. Lewis is still here, though, and that makes the forgetting so much more difficult. Oneshot

Charlos

mortifying ordeal of being known - Based on this request: "f1 soulmate au with charles x carlos? whatever a person writes on themselves shows up on their soulmate. they realize they're soulmates when one of them gets a podium and the other person sees their drawings" Soulmates AU

Galex

you always knew how to push my buttons - Alex Albon, long-suffering woman in motorsport, would really like to focus on her first year of racing for Williams. George Russell makes that difficult. Girl!Alex Oneshot

Sewis

i've been big and small (and big and small again) - The Ferrari news drops. Sebastian has to know. Drabble

Where I Can’t Follow - Lewis Hamilton isn’t sure that he wants to retire yet, but when the rest of the world seems so sure of the opposite, it’s hard not to feel his confidence shrink. In times of stress, then, is it really such a surprise that he would go to Seb for help Oneshot

Strollonso Masterlist

#brocedes #galex #sewis #f1 #f1 imagines #f1 oneshot #f1 masterlist #formula one #formula one imagines #formula one oneshot #formula one masterlist #strollonso #charlos #c2 #alonstroll

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