#cadence stands out to me also bc. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

icyminghao · 11 months

Text

boynextdoor having a crush on you

pairing: boynextdoor (ot6) x gn!reader genre: fluff, headcannon

JAEHYUN

the type to go over every interaction with you he had that day while lying in bed trying to sleep

he's so down bad he's probably one of those people who tune everything out the moment you're in the vicinity

has a lovesick smile on his face every time he looks at you!! he's so whipped

probably wouldn't confess that quick, preferring to just pine after you in case you don't like him back (how is that possible honestly)

"And that's how you solve the question," you say, circling the answer on Jaehyun's paper with a blue gel pen, and Jaehyun realises that he completely missed your explanation having gotten lost in the cadence of your voice. He nods his head to act like he understood, but you see right through him.

"Jaehyun, you've got to pay attention if you want to pass the test!" you chastise him, tapping his head lightly with your pen. Jaehyun wishes that were your hand instead.

"I'm sorry! It's just..." he tries to explain, voice lowering, "you're way too distracting..."

"What did you say? I know this is a library, but you don't have to be that soft," you giggle, having not heard him, to Jaehyun's relief.

"Nothing! Um, I guess I'm just tired..?" Jaehyun tries to evade the topic, hoping you wouldn't notice that he lied, with your sharp senses and all.

"Huh," you purse your lips together, "let's call it a day, then."

Jaehyun's eyes widen in confusion. "But it's barely been thirty minutes, and we're not supposed to end until, like, two hours later."

You break into a smile, and Jaehyun tries his hardest not to scream his love for you and turn the entire library against him. "My favourite tutee is tired. How's he going to absorb more information for the next two hours? That'd be pure torture, and I can't have that. Let's go get some ice cream instead! There's a new ice cream parlor that just opened a few blocks away from campus."

You continue rambling, but Jaehyun had already stopped listening after you referred to him as your "favourite tutee".

"I'm... your favourite tutee?" he squeaks, face turning red at his voice crack. You pause your rambling, eyes wide as if you just realised what you said.

"Yeah," you speak up after a while, "you're also, like, my only tutee, so-"

"Let's get going! The ice cream's probably going to melt the longer we take to get there," Jaehyun cuts you off and stands up. You raise your eyebrows at him, unmoving.

Jaehyun smiles. "Come on, don't keep your favourite tutee waiting, yeah?"

You blush furiously, kicking his shin lightly. "You're never gonna let me live this down, are you?" Jaehyun simply shrugs, smile getting impossibly wide.

"Just so you know," he crouches down so he's at your eye level, "you're my favourite tutor, too."

SUNGHO

lovesick af

would probably say yes to anything you say (even if it isn’t a yes or no question bc his mind just blanks out every time he stands in front of you)

would probably try to impress you and would probably also end up making a fool of himself 50% of the time (but it’s okay bc you think it’s cute)

says the flirtiest shit without batting an eye sometimes too

“Hi,” Sungho looks up from his books to see you standing by the empty seat beside him, and he freezes immediately. “is… this seat empty?”

Sungho manages a meek nod, deciding against opening his mouth lest he loses it and declares his love for you in front of the whole lecture hall.

Speaking of the lecture hall, Sungho looks around at all the empty seats around him in confusion. The lecture hall has enough space for the students of his Mechanical Engineering 101 class to sit comfortably by themselves, but you chose to sit beside him. Sungho tries not to smile at that revelation.

You seem to have picked up on what Sungho’s thinking about, and you smile sheepishly. “Um, I recently transferred to this class and I didn’t want to sit alone.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind!” Sungho dismisses your worries with a wave. “Any friend of Sanghyeok’s is a friend of mine.”

“You know me?” you perk up at the mention of your mutual friend, surprised.

Sungho feels heat creeping up his cheeks. “Y-yeah! I’ve noticed you hanging out with him around campus.”

You beam at him, and Sungho’s breath hitches. “I’ve noticed you, too! You’re always with Jaehyun, right? We should probably all get lunch together sometime.”

Sungho’s brain malfunctions at the flurry of information presented to him. You’ve noticed him, and you just asked him out (alongside Jaehyun, but Sungho pushes that fact aside). Sungho thinks he must be dreaming.

“Sungho?” you call, snapping him out of his thoughts. Sungho realises this is the first time you’ve ever called him by his name, and he yearns for the next time he’ll hear it again.

“Did you not want to hang out with us? You can always say no,” you chuckle awkwardly, feeling small under his intense gaze on you.

Sungho is quickly to wave his hands in a way that signals ‘no’. “Oh, no, I’d love to hang out with you!”

“Though it’d be better if it were just the two of us instead.”

RIWOO

he’s so shy

admires you from afar with the most lovesick smile on his face

probably wouldn’t initiate interactions with you, he’s too shy for that

is so caring

pays attention to you to make up for the silence

“When are you going to confess?” Sungho nudges Riwoo after he sighs for what seems like the tenth time since they started eating at the cafeteria.

“Confess? To who?” Riwoo’s eyes widen, blatantly denying the allegation.

“Come on, Sanghyeok,” Jaehyun narrows his eyes at his friend, “your eyes have never left them the moment we walked into the cafeteria. You literally cannot be any more obvious.”

Riwoo purses his lips together and sighs. “I can’t confess to them out of the blue, man, what if they don’t like me?”

“Who doesn’t like you?” Riwoo’s blood runs cold at the familiar voice, and he turns around to meet eyes with you.

“Our beloved Sanghyeok here has a huge crush on someone,” Jaehyun says nonchalantly as you move to sit down beside Riwoo.

“Really? Do I know them?” you ask as blood rushes to Riwoo’s ears. He’s so flustered he misses the disappointed edge to your voice.

“Uh, you could say that,” Riwoo manages to choke out, “anyway, why are you here? Don’t you have Introduction to Law right now?”

Sungho and Jaehyun raise their eyebrows at Riwoo’s blatant attempt at changing the topic, and if you noticed, you don’t call him out for it.

“Damn, Hyeok, it’s like you’re the one with my schedule. Do you have a crush on me or something?” you tease, “Anyway, I dropped that class a few days ago. In fact, Jeonghan encouraged me to, for some reason.”

“Jeonghan? The professor?” Riwoo straightens at the mention of your professor’s name. He’s well-known as the “most eligible bachelor” on campus despite being a professor, and Riwoo can’t help but feel jealousy crawling through his skin.

“Yeah, he’s so cynical about that course, it’s a wonder how he’s still teaching it,” you chuckle before noticing Riwoo’s reaction.

“Don’t worry, Hyeok, you’re still the only man in my heart.”

Riwoo’s ears flush the darkest shade of red.

TAESAN

he’s a romantic for sure

has multiple playlists dedicated to you for different scenarios (when you walk down the hall, how he feels when he talks to you etc.)

pays attention to your interests (esp your favourite songs) and would check out your favourite artists or albums so he could have something to talk to you about

would probably subtly drop hints about his crush on you through song recommendations bc he’s cheesy like that

“Hey, y/n,” Taesan greets as he slides into the seat next to you, getting his lesson materials out before the class begins. “how was the song I recommended to you a while ago?”

“‘Harvey’ by Her’s? I thought it was really cute! Can you imagine being Harvey, and having someone waiting for you like that?” you launch into a ramble about the song, and Taesan finds himself smiling at how animated you are.

“Well, I don’t think you have to imagine, you probably have dozens of people feeling like that for you,” like me, Taesan almost says, but stops himself before he does.

You smile shyly at his words. “Thanks, Dongmin, but I don’t think that’s the case. I’m not very likeable.”

You sound so sad about it Taesan’s heart aches.

“y/n,” Taesan’s voice lowers with concern, “why would you say that? You’re amazing, okay? Anyone would be happy to have you.”

“Really? Even you?” you tease a little to lighten the mood, and Taesan’s cheek flush red at the sudden turn of events.

“U-uh—”

“Relax, Dongmin! I was only joking,” you giggle, lightly tapping his arm before shifting your focus to your undone homework in front of you. Dongmin chastises himself for chickening out as he looks at your focused face.

“Well, since you liked ‘Harvey’, I have another song recommendation for you,” Taesan pipes up after a while.

“Really? What’s the song?” you reply enthusiastically, and Taesan’s heart skips a beat at your interest.

“‘The Most Beautiful Thing’ by Bruno Major.”

Maybe one day he’ll be confident enough to confess to you directly instead of through his song recommendations.

LEEHAN

he'd probably be friends with you first

would pine after you for a while, afraid to confess and potentially ruin what you both have

occasionally flirts with you like it's free real estate and flusters the hell out of you, but makes no move to confess or anything after (to your frustration, because what are you guys??)

he's gives me such "what are we" vibes ngl

100% would get caught staring at you all the time

"Hey, there's something on your hair." Leehan gently grabs you arm and stops mid-walk. You hold in a breath as Leehan reaches over to brush away whatever was on your hair with his delicate fingers.

Leehan takes one look at your reaction and chuckles. "Don't forget to breathe, y/n. It's gone now."

Your face turns red at getting caught staring at Leehan. Grumbling a small "thanks", you turn around and continue walking towards the cafeteria in hopes that he wouldn't be able to see the blood rushing to your face. Leehan watches your back for a while, breaking out into a soft smile at how cute you were being.

"Hey, wait for me!" Leehan calls, jogging to catch up to you. "Anyway, Dongmin called me earlier to ask for our orders, so I helped you get a Miso Ramen with two eggs, no beansprouts."

Leehan waits to see your reaction, and just like he expected, your face morphs into one of pure surprise. "Woah, how do you know what my go-to order is?"

"Of course I do, I'm not so self-absorbed, okay?" Leehan teases, nudging you.

"Besides, it's a habit of mine to remember things about people I like."

WOONHAK

he’s a huge mess in front of you

can’t even string a proper sentence in front of you bc his mind just goes blank everytime you’re in close proximity

the boys tease him for it all the time (sometimes in front of you)

would probably need the boys to set something up for him to finally confess to you

“God, Woonhak, you’re staring again. Just go talk to them already!” Sungho sighs, nudging his friend a little. Woonhak is unresponsive, too engrossed with his ogling at you to even notice anything but you.

You, in all your glory, standing by the lockers and giggling to your friends with that sweet, sweet laugh of your he would do anything to hear, with that beautiful smile of yours he would do everything to have directed at him.

You, who is standing in front of him now and looking as amazing as ever. Wait, what?

“Woonhak, hi!” you wave a little, beaming up at him. Woonhak thinks he might just die on the spot.

His mind is reeling from the absolute shock at you coming up to initiate a conversation such that he literally just stares blankly at you without responding to your greeting like an idiot, his friends giggling to themselves at the sight.

“Are you okay…?” you wave your hand in front of him, confused at his sudden silence. Woonhak snaps out of his stupor with a jolt. “H-hey! The sun’s out, yeah? Beautiful day today, just like you— I’m sorry, I meant just like your hair! Yeah, I really like your hair.”

Woonhak mentally chastises himself, because what the hell was that, but then you burst out laughing and he feels his whole world stop, and suddenly your laugh is the only thing he hears.

“S-sorry for laughing,” you manage to choke out in between your bouts of laughter, “that was just so cute!”

“Oh, right! Anyway, I wanted to ask if we were still on for after school? You’re supposed to tutor me with math,” you exclaim, and Woonhak furrows his brows together. You guys were supposed to meet today? When did that happen?

Glancing away for a moment, he sees Jaehyun and Sungho nodding their heads aggressively right behind you. “U-uh, yeah, we are!”

“Cool! See you at the library, then!” you beam at him before turning on your heels to rejoin your friends.

“What did you guys do?” Woonhak whines, his legs feeling like jelly after his very, very embarrassing interaction with you.

“Well, we did our best friend duties and asked them out for you. You owe us, yeah? Don’t forget to credit us when you guys get together,” Jaehyun gives Woonhak a rather loud smack on the back, and you glance in their direction to see what the commotion is about.

Locking eyes with Woonhak, you let out a soft smile and a wave, and Woonhak almost squeals. Shyly, he slowly lifts his hand and waves back, his friends watching with shit-eating grins.

He is so down bad for you, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

a/n: ok i may have went too hard on this HELP but ig i’m making up for the lack of bnd content these days hehehe i hope y’all like it!

taglist (send an ask to be added!): @slytherinshua

masterlist

1K notes · View notes

tartiloser · 7 months

Text

MORTAL KOMBAT HEADCANONS ☆ general tomas headcanons!

starring. . . gender neutral reader and tomas. warning for nothing! requested by ; anon ( 10 / 19 / 23 ) + fandom masterlist ; here

author notes; these are completely sfw bc i was in a tamer mood tbh.. thank you anon for giving me the chance to talk about my boy!

tomas vrbada!

— tomas isn’t the type to enjoy large amounts of pda. he gets embarrassed easily and personally believes that such affection should be treated as personal and intimate. that isn’t to say that he won’t kiss you in public or hold your hand— of course, he does— but he typically only initiates affection in private.

— speaking of private affections, he loves hugging you from behind!! he’s sneaky when he wants to be, waiting until you’re rummaging through the fridge for a snack before he comes from behind and wraps his arms around your waist. vrbada loves to kiss your neck and the shell of your ear in moments like these, showering you with love.

— he never used to struggle with getting out of bed in the morning, but once he began sleeping in the same bed as you he found that he couldn’t stand getting up. all tomas wants to do each morning is lay in bed and snuggle with you. the bed is much more comfortable and sleep is much sweeter when he’s next to you.

— vrbada is actually really well knowledgeable and into reading. he definitely wouldn’t mind reading with you from time to time! you two can have your own little book club.

— he loves being normal. like, doing normal couple stuff or average daily life tasks. things like shopping together, going to the doctor together, figuring out appointments, putting away groceries— tomas loves the simplicity of things. many things in his life aren’t considered normal, so he takes joy in things that are typical.

— he cannot dance well but can he sing like a star. he’s not exactly shy about his voice, he just doesn’t think his voice is all that great… but it is. it’s smooth and of such a handsome cadence. whenever you two happen to be out and he sings along to a song that’s playing, it’s absolutely wonderful. ask him to sing for you and he’ll happily oblige, softly singing the song of your choice.

— he lowkey loves the idea of being a recurring character in johnny’s movies. whenever he’s an extra, he takes you to the movie premier and points enthusiastically (but not obnoxiously) whenever he’s on screen. vrbada has so much fun as an actor!

— if he had a normal, real-world career, he would likely be an engineer or something related to tech. also in a “normal” au, he would have reading glasses. tomas wouldn’t need to wear them all the time but imagine him studying for his finals with his cute little glasses… ugh!

#my work #mk x reader #mortal kombat 1 x reader #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat #tomas vrbada x reader #tomas x reader #tomas vrbada #mk1 smoke #smoke x reader #smoke mk #mk1 #mk headcanons #mk #mk1 headcanons #tartiloser

297 notes · View notes

atopvisenyashill · 7 days

Text

general thoughts-

this is ep 4 & 5, which means i’m onto ep 6 and beyond and that’s usually where i start falling asleep and go “actually there’s another show i could be watching” so that’s gonna be fun aksjdj

if jory has a million fans, i am one of them. if he has one fan, i am that fan. if he has no fans it means i am DEAD.

i think john bradly is kinda awkward at first but i definitely remember him improving. he comes off a bit insincere in some spots to me but he has good chemistry with kit - when sam is like “so you DIDNT know where to put it” and jon runs over to whack him, that feels very genuine, just two boyfriends besties fucking around.

i do love alliser thorne walking in like “i know what you are” can a man not have a giggle with another man. he’s such a hater.

just the immediate, zero hesitation “you’re too fat for your armor” oh i Know ned desires that man carnally

i have completely forgotten why hugh hammer was important i had to go look him up ajsjdh

ned looking back at littlefinger like “alright we’re friends but let’s not get unserious here” when he puts his hand on sansa’s shoulder

JOFFREY STANDS UP IN ALARM (and interest) WHEN SANDOR JUMPS IN, and joffrey keeps looking at robert to see what robert is going to do, he’s like impressed, slightly concerned, excited, then you see robert kinda look joffrey’s way before he says to stop. jack, mark……………deserved award nominations dammit…….

the little fish pin bran is playing with while he’s thinking of his mom…… “from the moment i placed her in your arms to the moment she dies, she will love you” “sometimes i think you are too smart for your own good” IM GONNA SCREAM ACTUALLY.

not i moved closer to the tv to get a look at the lil fish pendant and then ros’ boobs were just right there 😭😭 i’m not saying i don’t respect sexposition but i am saying we could have gotten nedcat sexposition instead of making ros do all the heavy lifting here.

Conleth Hill is so funny as Varys. He’s got perfect comedic timing, his cadence when he’s going back and forth with someone else is always spot on, you’re always getting the feeling he’s laughing at you.

me and my sibling like to decide out loud if it’s a “good enough” reason to use that word and i’m sorry “they say the eyrie is impregnable” “i’ll impregnate the bitch” Not A Good Enough Reason To Use That Word

Ramin is a genius for this score, the way the music in the scene in the Eyrie is so unsettling but never loud, staying at the same low level until tyrion gets to the sky dungeon and THEN starting to crescendo? i love him i would die for him

this renly & loras scene is the sexiest scene in the whole series. the focus on the hair around renly’s nipple. the bitchy way they snipe at each other in between trading new pieces of hot goss. loras bullying renly into committing treason. “if you want hairless maybe you should find a little boy” “i want you” RICH coming from the man who groomed his squire.

jory’s death & this fight scene always stands out in the series and the show does a great job making it stand out too. that absolutely visceral eye horror where jory’s still aware for a few seconds & the way they REALLY let sean bean & ncw start warming up with the sword skills only to CUT THAT SHIT OFF and jaime is so upset but not enough to do anything different. really fun.

changes i noticed

i feel like they made theon much less weird. where is his inappropriate giggling. why is he not flirting with robb’s mom. i do like this convo between him and tyrion though, don’t get me wrong, i love the dynamics of it, and i love the way it’s in conversation with theon’s story as it goes on - both in that he enters another absolutely stupid ass war bc of pride, and also that he’s going to become physically disabled, but here he invokes an ableist insult towards Tyrion to soothe his own wounds over Tyrion taunting him specifically about his fondness for the Starks being so pathetic considering his status as a hostage. Tyrion says something cruel and Theon is cruel right back; this is traumatic and yet just another Tuesday for both of these men.

i remember so much discourse about this tyrion/theon scene and like which one is more ~problematic~ in this scene and it’s like bro. they’re both being huge assholes here for a very specific reason and they both deserved to get clouted what do u want from a convo between two of the most maladjusted characters in this series aksjdj

Having Petyr creepily whisper Sandor’s backstory which he shouldn’t even fucking know in Sansa’s ear instead of letting Sandor tell that story himself. Beyond that I just Don’t understand the fascination d&d seem to have for aiden’s acting and littlefucker as a character, i just don’t get the point of taking like The Foundational Sandor/Sansa scene, which is also Foundational to Sansa’s changing concept of morality and honor, as well as the overreaching concept of what a True Knight is, and giving it to a character who just Does Not Fuck With Sandor Like That. i hate this. it’s one of my favorite scenes and they just destroyed it for what. for a dude otherwise known for being the Worse, Less Sexy version of brian kinney?? rory mccann would have Killed This Scene!! I FEEL RAGE!!!!!!!

ONCE AGAIN they take the kill catelyn makes to save tyrion’s life and give it to tyrion for…..WHAT. FOR WHY. I WANT THEM DEAD FOR WHAT THEY DID TO CAT OMG.

Okay here we go, weird Theon. I think this Theon/Ros scene starts out good but it could have ended better. Like, the way he can’t even go to a brothel without being mocked for being a hostage. His fixation on Tyrion’s sex life. The way he is too close to Ros’ face when he’s talking to her. I like that last “i don’t want to pay for it” “then get yourself a wife” exchange but i think his comment about his father and her return should have been sharper. It’s missing that Pizzaz that the other added scenes have.

They changed up the Council scene by changing the wording to include the “honorable fool” nonsense, and also cut out barristan so ned doesn’t have someone on the council who he actually gets to come around to his argument, as well as cutting several points of his argument. It’s so stupid. They think Ned is so fucking stupid. ugh.

This next Robert/Cersei scene isn’t imo as good a setup as some of the other ones, because I don’t think Robert OR Cersei are emotionally in a space where she could come up there and argue that much with him and still get him genuinely explaining why he feels a certain way to her. On the other hand, the actual dialogue is VERY in character - Robert breaking down his worries about Dany is good, Cersei being both angry but also deeply curious about how to lead the realm, the way they both start drinking together and cracking up at the idea that their marriage is holding the realm together. Amazing. I love the way the redness seeps out of Robert’s face as the conversation turns serious. It’s almost like he wants to reach out to comfort Cersei, but he does it once again in the most selfish way possible by laying this horrible emotional burden on her shoulders. “does that make you feel better or worse?” “it doesn’t make me feel anything.” it’s so good. i can’t believe neither of them were nominated for this.

i also really like this scene for the later parallel they do with Aemon - the way Robert’s love for Lyanna is so meaningless, an excuse for him to disappear into his vices, she was so nonexistent as a person to him that he can’t even remember anything but the idealized stone statue of her face, and here is Aemon so much further removed from his loved ones, so far removed from even when his memory involved seeing, and he pours over every detail in his mind to remember her face

#rani liveblogs got

5 notes · View notes

arcplaysgames · 1 year

Text

Okay now that I got that out of my system, I have thoughts on the investigation team. Obviously Kanji is up next. I'm very hyped for him.

So he appears on the Midnight Channel, and luckily everyone recognizes him instead of being mysteriously baffled and uncertain.

Before we can really dig into the mechanics of the Midnight Channel, Yosuke wants to know if I'm into Chie or Yukiko. Sadly, no. I'm still keeping my options open.

I very much have a Type, and my Type is "competent person, usually a fighter themselves, who is undergoing their own full character arc in tandem with mine." Garrus and Akihiko fit that tremendously, they are like the pinnacle of that shit, that's my catnip. I like growing emotional maturity and feeling like a partner or equal to the person. (Again, Garrus fucking Vakarian is the best romance in games, you can @ me.)

Chie and Yukiko aren't my jam, tho Yukiko seems nice and if I HAD to pick, probably her. But also: god please can I have some more options.

Back to the investigation, we're finally one step ahead of things. Yukiko knows Kanji because Amagi Inn is a client of Tatsumi Textiles. Fucking aces, we have an in.

gasp

we meet them this early? omg.

Their voice is like suede on ice, it's very good. I like a very even measured cadence.

Also no joke this shop is beautiful, I would love to just look around in this place and touch things. I love patterns so much.

After the mysterious slender young man leaves, it turns out that the first murder victim got a scarf from here, but like.

I think the first victim might be a red herring altogether and the entire case is supernatural in some way. Like, in a moment we get to see that Kanji is not actually stuck in the TV yet, he's in the normal world still. So the Midnight Channel somehow knows who the victim is going to be beforehand. This happened with Yukiko as well, when we all thought she was kidnapped but she was working at the inn still.

So, the Midnight Channel is forecasting the next person beforehand.

Two options:

A. The killer is somehow tuned to the Midnight Channel itself and the way their power works, it does the forecasting beforehand. The killer is likely from the TV World or connected to it.

B. The killer is responding to the Midnight Channel's directive when it forecasts who is next, and thus the victims aren't actually being picked by the killer but by the TV.

... Neither of these make a lot of sense, but they make more sense than the killer selecting victims and the TV weirdly Knowing about it and informing everyone.

SHRUG. ANYWAY.

oh wow it's not even subtle huh

THEN AGAIN NEITHER ARE THESE IDIOTS

y'all are not particularly skilled in any form of subtlety of subterfuge, are you. the "standing in plain sight without cover" tactic.

everything out of Kanji's mouth fills me with utter joy. troy baker my beloved.

covers face with hands

nice, uh, alliteration, Shadow Kanji. whoo boy.

INTERESTINGLY bc I think this entire game is about rumors and obfuscations of truth, when the team asks Teddie if he can find Kanji, he can't pinpoint his location and wants some details on Kanji. no one in the team knows anything because all they know about Kanji are the punk rumors around him. hm hm hm!

oh and i nearly forgot

PRIESTESS SOCIAL LINK: GET

This one, even more than the others I don't get. The High Priestess is a keeper of vast knowledge and wisdom, sitting sentry over a veil or doorway between the conscious world and the subconscious, the mystical, the sacred. Sometimes this is literally some "women understand magic more then men sacred feminine" shit but putting aside that annoying shit, the Priestess is a protector of both the knowledge they preside over and a protector of the querent. Their purpose is to know what answers to give and how, so to keep the querent safe.

Fuuka made a pretty good Priestess as the SEES' mission control character. She gazed into the abyss so others did not have to, essentially. She also had a strong air of detachment from her peers, which is a common stumble of the priestess, that isolation from those who don't share their burden.

If to bend really hard and connect the concept of Amagi Inn and legacy to the 'burden' of the Priestess, then maybe? But like Yosuke, Yukiko doesn't yet have the signifiers I would expect from their arcanas.

BLAH BLAH TAROT BLAH BLAH, kanji's heeeeeeere, i'm so happy. I know what arcana I might give him but I'm sure the game will do something stupid like make him the Emperor or whatever.

#p4 #persona liveblog #cartomancy

22 notes · View notes

thedreadvampy · 2 years

Text

I really really really enjoyed S2 of the silt verses, it worked SUPER well on both a thematic and character level for me and they did a really good job of continuing what I liked about s1 while also making it feel like a real progression of what it was saying.

HOWEVER

particularly when all the storylines started converging in the last 4 episodes, it really started to approach the too many recurring characters point for me. I have a huge problem with podcast/radio fiction which is: I am very dumb and bad at discerning different voices and remembering who they belong to.

and like S1 was perfect honestly bc while I usually struggle with a core cast of 3+, Carpenter, Faulkner, Haywood and Paige all have extremely distinct accents and cadences, and with the possible exception of Paige all of their vocal performances are just unusual enough to stand out not just from each other but also from the incidental characters.

but there were a lot more long dialogues with single episode characters in S2, and honestly the accents and tonal ranges in the voices for Mercer, Gage, Shrue (and tbh Thurrocks), while they aren't the same, are not nearly as different from each other as the 4 other mains. like they have different affects for sure but not SUPER different, and Shrue has a very similar affect to Paige to my ears, and it didn't get in the way of my enjoyment at all but I was conscious of having to think about which characters were in which scene in a way I never was in S1.

idk it's like. a thing and I'm interested if anyone else struggles with discerning character voices

#red said

2 notes · View notes

orchidsangel · 2 months

Note

you ever feel so strongly about a song you can’t even type them bc there’s no way to properly express the song without singing it? like words can’t put emphasis on these lyrics the way my voice can. 🦦

i can't even express in words how much i love music and the effect it has on me. i eat, sleep, and breathe it. it is my lifeline. i rack up over 100k minutes listened a year every year and i spend hours a day with my headphones on. i also never leave the house without them, i would simply die. need to have my headphones in for every car ride no matter how short or at the very least have aux. i could compile a list of songs that make me slide down a wall in agony because listening to them gets a physical reaction out of me no. joke.

there aren't enough words in any language to describe how i felt the first time i heard the lyrics "heaven forbid someone whisper/he's part of some scheme/your enemy whispers so you have to scream/i know about whispers/i see how you look at my sister" and "i'm erasing myself from the narrative/let future historians wonder how eliza reacted/when you broke her heart/you have thrown it all away/stand back watch it burn"

LIKEEEEEEE OHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYY GODDDDDDDD. i don't think you understand like i was GAGGED. and this little layered echo effect they did on "i'm erasing myself from the narrative" like ohhhhhh every itch in my brain was scratched. i could go on and onnnnnn about cadence and tone and enunciation and all of it. ugh i love music. i have to cut myself off before i start listing my fave lines from every song i've ever loved and why.

also defying gravity from the wicked soundtrack is absolutely god tier and it scratches a lot of the same itches as first burn for me

#orchidsangels #☆ ro's headphones ☆

1 note · View note

im-a-ramblr · 1 year

Text

I posted 1,095 times in 2022

That's 810 more posts than 2021!

138 posts created (13%)

957 posts reblogged (87%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@pocketramblr

@everythingfox

@princeanxious

@exhausted-pigeon

@soni-dragon

I tagged 776 of my posts in 2022

Only 29% of my posts had no tags

#random/personal - 69 posts

#deltora quest - 64 posts

#kitties - 57 posts

#linkeduniverse - 42 posts

#arcane ascension - 42 posts

#linked universe - 41 posts

#lief of del - 31 posts

#corin cadence - 26 posts

#turtle - 25 posts

#toh - 23 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#. within the week it has escalated to having 0 thoughts (and not in a fun way) not want to do anything even projects that i’d been thrilled

My Top Posts in 2022:

The few Human/Real Dain AUs are wonderful but they all either end with him dead or just chilling in Del. And while this is fine, I think we need more ones that end in him in some kind of relationship with Jaslief. It can a poly or a QPR with one of them, or a poly QPR, but it needs to happen.

29 notes - Posted March 31, 2022

Something that's been on my mind, on and off since I heard it.... Might try to pick it apart later

32 notes - Posted January 2, 2022

Mmmmm I crave Linked universe fics.

Please let me know if you have/know of any good fics where:

The Chain are paltonic soulmates. Either explicated expressed or just them acting like they are. what that last one means is ones that focus on the fact that these guys can understand each other in a way no one else can, because they've been through things no else can, both pre meeting up and during.

Outsider POV on The Chain. What do the random villagers, mail men, named background characters, or princesses think of them

The Chain reunighting post separation at the end of their adventures. Don't care if it's because of more magic ro because they've all died and are hugging it out in heaven

Very first Link, the the one before Sky, ( Ive always called him Link the Lionheart, but idk if that's his actual title) meeting/traveling with The Chain

83 notes - Posted May 18, 2022

So the LU boys are soulmates in the realist most platonic way possible. As such there should be an AU where they have red strings of fate. (Probs a diff color bc platonic but the point stands) This means they should have all many strings that are all tangled up whent hey first meet. It can also focus on angst where they just see a bunch of their soul strings fading into nothing after a few inches, rather than normal foot or two. But none of that is why I thought about it.

No I thought about it because I think about the boys plucking at their strings like instruments once they all met. So one of them gets sent into town for food (less conspicuous that way) and the whole time Wild, Wind and Hyrule have gathered together and are play 'Hot cross buns' on their soul strings to remind the poor guy to buy them sticky buns

96 notes - Posted June 26, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Sits up: I don't think I ever told anyone I once had the thought of a team in an organization, refered to as a 'cell' whose big guy, aka the powerhouse's code name was the 'Mitochondrion'

124 notes - Posted February 13, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

1 note · View note

augustinewrites · 2 years

Text

@hinatawa u did this to me. it was supposed to be a drabble but classical musician!akaashi has a special place in my heart now (also i threw in coworkers to lovers bcs i have zero self-control)

one of the first proper pieces that akaashi ever learned to play on the piano, was pachelbel’s canon in d.

a classic (or an awful cliche), he knows, but it was a popular request for weddings of his parent’s friends and therefore, according to bokuto, must have made him popular with girls. not that he really cared back then, but what was cuter than a 12 year old seated at an upright console, playing a little choppily because his little hands could barely stretch across the keys?

canon in d was relatively easy to play, anyway. it’s simple, familiar, a piece you can cadence at any time to fit the length of the procession. when people hear it, they think of weddings and romance and love.

not that a 12 year old cared for any of that. akaashi was still too focused on perfecting the technical aspects of the piano as the bride walked down the aisle and the flower girls bat their lashes at him. all he was thinking of were octaves and chromatic scale. trills and tremolos. he depended on muscle memory and the tick of the metronome to tide him through.

but then his parent’s friends had all gotten married, so the weddings stopped, and akaashi stopped playing canon in d. pushed it to the back of his mind as he moved on to master meticulous bach and grand tchaikovsky. grown up pieces that earned him standing ovations at recital finales and showcases by the time he was sixteen.

the manual dexterity earned from years of piano certainly helped as a setter. but even as he spent more time running around the court as opposed to seated in front of the ivory keys, the music followed him. unlike bokuto’s upbeat pop, liszt’s hungarian rhapsody no.2 blared through akaashi’s earbuds. it helped get him into the right headspace before games, with friska and the hamelian cadenza getting him just as pumped as bokuto after listening to taylor swift’s i knew you were trouble.

so, he might not have been playing actively or often anymore, but the music followed him. his fingers drummed elegant percussive on desk surfaces during idle study sessions, while bach and tchaikovsky got him through essay writing and exam prep.

now, chopin ballades get him through late nights at the office. nocturne plays softly from his earbuds as he reviews manuscripts and types up notes, easing some of the tension in his shoulders and making the editing process go a little more smoothly.

he sighs when the music pauses to let his phone ring, bokuto’s name flashing across the screen.

once he gets that straightened out, he’s about to hit play once more when his ears pick up what seems to be...piano music from next door.

your office is next door.

he tries to file through your conversations to see if you’d ever mentioned classical music, but comes up empty. it makes him like you even more, which, given his current, embarrassing level of infatuation, was saying something.

he doesn’t press play just yet, listening for a few moments more to try and identify the piece you’re listening to.

but akaashi can’t pick up more than the occasional sforzando, and curiosity leads him to set his earbuds aside and step out of his office, standing just outside your door, listening to the music as if he’s listening to you. it’s soft, gentle, romantic. something like gershwin, or perhaps debussy.

he’s still trying to figure it out when your door swings open, the both of you jolting back a step when you almost run into him.

“akaashi?” you breathe a relieved sigh, clutching a hand to your chest. “what are you doing here?”

oh, this is embarrassing. “i-- i needed someone to look over this for me.”

your eyes flick down to his empty hands before shooting him a questioning look.

he’s never been good at lying, so he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “i...heard your music through the wall.”

this time, you look embarrassed, smiling a little sheepishly. “oh, i’m sorry! I forgot my headphones and didn’t realize how loud it was. i’ll turn it off--”

you turn into your office, but akaashi shocks even himself when he catches you by the wrist. “don’t,” he insists. “i just...didn’t know you liked debussy, that’s all.” he holds up his phone. “I listen to chopin when i edit. keeps me in an even headspace.”

“huh,” you say, tilting your head in that charming way you do when you smile up at him. “how come i didn’t know this about you? you ever play?”

akaashi nods, hoping he doesn’t look as flustered as he currently feels. “when i was younger.”

“well, maybe you could play something for me sometime,” you suggest lightly.

the two of you stand there in the doorway for a moment, and he swears he feels your pulse skitter under his fingertips when he murmurs, “okay.”

akaashi’s parents moved their old piano into his apartment two weeks after he’d settled into it. it sits in his living room, ivory keys mostly untouched.

he tries to practice a little when he gets home, but for some reason can’t concentrate on the meticulous bach or grand tchaikovsky that he’d slaved over in high school. he can hardly even sight-read the newer pieces he’d intended to try. his measures and countings were off, his movements stuttered where they used to rip across the keyboard, playing liszt with ease.

he just couldn’t concentrate, not when debussy’s arabesque no 1 was stuck on a loop in his head. not when all he could think about was you, listening to it.

but he needs to practice so he doesn’t embarrass himself when you come over on saturday to listen to him play a bit (also for brunch, he needs to look up recipes and go grocery shopping).

so he takes a breath and tries again. something simple, familiar. pushed to the back of his mind, but still living in muscle memory.

canon in d.

it’s the first time he’s played it in years, but when he does, it’s easy. he’s not 12 anymore, so his fingers drift across the keys with a new sort of ease, the melody smooth like fine silk. it’s soft and sweet, simple compared to beethoven or debussy, but it makes him think of weddings and romance and love.

it makes him think of you.

#akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi keiji #haikyuu!!#haikyuu fic #augustinewrites

270 notes · View notes

omentranslates · 2 years

Text

Notes of ways I notice Albedo using Japanese in the dub bc I think it's interesting and says stuff abt his character

i also did one of this for Xiao, Paimon and a couple others

-has a polite cadence but his actual language is pretty casual

-sounds kinda fancy on first listen but he's actually one of the most laidback characters to listen to just like technically

-he uses some elements of written convention in his dialogue that kinda gives that illusion

-tends to end his questions with かい, which is very friendly and almost like coworkerly? I read it like lab-partner vibes it's smth you wouldn't use towards superiors it's for people equal to or below you socially and it sounds very eager to engage (it's a lot like 君 if you're familiar with that one)

-I don't get the impression he's using it in a talking down context tho esp his inflection just sounds like. Warm. Interested.

-to expand on before he uses a written form sentence connector (infinitive stem of verb to end sentence, doesn't really use て or any of the more common connectors, but he does use て to create conditions a lot)

-that makes it SOUND a lot like fancier or smarter? bc it's kind of weird to use in casual speech, it sounds either formal or sophisticated, but his actual word choices around it is like really normal

-overall he is just very friendly and calm and speaks to the traveler on equal terms

-definitely has one of the most calm deliveries, I'm used to male characters having their closeness to others shown via increasing roughness and rudeness of their dialogue with the closer relationship they have but Albedo doesn't really seem to do that

-I think his language fits his energy where he's like a little odd and you don't always understand why he does things (his kinda pick and choose structuring of his language)

-I've heard once or twice that people think his JP dub sounds etheral and detached, but I genuinely don't really get that? He's very sincere and doesn't speak coldly at all, maybe they're just responding to the lack of change in his tone? If anything it reminds me more of where it mentions his unfocused drawing style where he only fully details what he's interested in and leaves everything else as just bare sketches

-he also writes his own pronouns in katakana, which is Definitely not a trait of a like refined and perfect character it's like. Loud and slapdash. Maybe childish in the right context.

-"attentive to what he's interested in but careless how it fits in with the rest" is a good descriptor for both his character and how he uses the language I think, it's mismatch when you break it down and analyze it but sounds put together when he's actually speaking

-doesn't stand out nearly as much as other characters with his speech pattern

-like he would sound exceedingly odd in a real life casual conversation but as far as anime dialogue goes I probably wouldn't have thought it was that notable if I wasn't specially interested

#genshin impact #genshin albedo #albedo

45 notes · View notes

smoocheveryclone · 3 years

Text

dirty old town

Gregor x jedi!reader, part one of ???, ~3k words, uhhh, i don’t actually remember if i gendered the reader? i have to check, no (y/n), no smut though it does begin to get very mildly suggestive near the end. pg13 i guess? if that?

premise: reader is the one to find Gregor on Abafar instead of Colonel Meebur “i am droid racist but will treat clones with even less respect” Gascon

under a cut bc long post

You have mixed feelings about these undercover missions.

On the one hand, despite the danger, there is an element of freedom to them that you relish. You’re not bound by the strict codes of the Jedi Order; you feel greater license to act and speak on impulse… but at the same time, you aren’t strictly yourself. You’re playing a part.

And then you go home, to the Temple or to the War, and maybe it’s just mild disorientation, but you still feel like you’re playing a part. The part of a Jedi.

But you always end up leaving those feelings behind you, and do what you must do.

Your current mission is over now, and you’ve just started your journey home from the Outer Rim… but of course, nothing can be simple.

You end up having to pilot your ship through a- beautiful, admittedly- field of comets. Trusting in the force, you manage to get through it mostly without damage.

Mostly being the operative word.

You take a hit, and you lose your fuel tank, forcing you down onto a force-forsaken planet not far from the one you’ve just left.

You instruct your astromech to power down until you get back, because you don’t know when you’ll be able to recharge her battery next, grab a satchel with some essentials and a full canteen, and set off toward what you sense is some kind of small town.

It’s a long walk, and by the time you see buildings, you’re dusty and dry and tired. And there are battle droids here. Which is fantastic.

First things first, though. You see a sign for a diner and make a beeline for it. Never mind that it looks dirtier and more disreputable the closer you get; there’s food and drink inside. The door opens, and you stop.

That voice.

There’s no mistaking that voice, you know it as well as you know your own. Better. You’ve heard it in countless permutations, all with particular vocal tics, intonations, cadences, turns of phrase which you’ve gotten to know, in some cases quite well. So this one is familiar… but unfamiliar at the same time.

By the time you’ve thought all this, you’re already staring… and not just in curiosity or surprise. You’ve never seen a clone wearing civvies before. You’ve seen them in their armor, whether shiny and new or scuffed and painted; you’ve seen them in their uniforms; you’ve even seen them in the black body gloves they wear under their armor, once or twice (an image you have to swat out of your mind like an insect buzzing around your ear). But never civilian clothing. Something about it plays havoc with your composure, but you can’t look away.

His arms are bare. His hair is attractively mussed, and he’s got a full beard.

He’s also looking back at you.

You’ve seen eyes exactly like his so many times before; you’ve never seen them look back at you quite this way. Like he’s seeing… you. Not a Jedi, not a General, just you. Of course, you realize, you’re wearing civilian clothes as well. As far as he’s concerned, you are just you.

It takes you long enough to wonder who he is and what he’s doing here that you feel a bit silly about it. But once you do wonder, it’s quite a puzzle indeed. Is he undercover, as you were? Is that done? You’ve never heard of it. Though if a man with a million identical brothers could get away with going undercover anywhere, it’d be out here on some Outer Rim dustball. The other possibility is that he’s deserted. You’ve never heard of that, either, though you expect that it must have happened before.

You wouldn’t blame him if that were the case. You certainly wouldn’t squeal on him.

This attitude is, at the heart of it, why you have never, and will never, lead a battalion.

At the moment, though, either of these possibilities leaves you in a delicate situation. You can’t blow his cover, if it’s the first case scenario. You don’t want to scare him off if it’s the second. Then, of course, there’s the third possibility: it’s neither of those things. What else could be going on? But whatever it is, you can’t just avoid him. You can’t go on with your business, pretending you never saw him. The force is telling you that you are meant to be here, and you were meant to find him. Why?

So many questions.

You’ve been loitering by the door, staring at him this whole time, and he’s been going about his job, sneaking glances back at you as he collects dirty dishes and clears off the booths. A Sullustan- owner and operator of the place as far as you can guess- has appeared behind the counter in the meantime, and you give him only a cursory glance as you walk up and take a seat on one of the grimy stools. You pick one where you can peek back into the kitchen and follow him with your eye as he goes back and forth.

The Sullustan is chatting up a regular, which is fine by you. You may be hungry, but you can wait: there’s something far more interesting here than food and drink.

You watch the clone more or less discreetly, every so often letting him catch you looking. You’re waiting for a chance to speak with him, however briefly. Before you can find one, he comes to you.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says, giving you a smile.

“I just got into town today,” you say, smiling back at him. Seeming encouraged, he lays down the stack of dirty dishes for a moment to loiter a bit beside you. “My name’s Gregor.”

You give him your name in return, and he tells you it sounds pretty. This unexpectedly beguiling exchange disarms you, and for a moment you almost forget why you wanted to speak to him in the first place.

“I’m very glad to meet you,” you tell him emphatically. You can’t really speak with him here, not beyond this chitchat, but at least you can hint that you’d like to. Gregor, meanwhile, looks delighted.

“Likewise,” he says, and there are a few seconds of oddly intense silence.

“So…” you say, nodding up at the menu sign behind the counter. “What’s good?”

“Well,” he hesitates pointedly, scrunching up his face, and you laugh. “Number four’s all right.”

“Thank you for the recommendation.”

“No problem.”

Your little conversation is interrupted by the Sullustan bellowing for him to get back to work. You have already decided that you do not like this man- Borkus is his name, from what you have overheard- but you order your food and the coldest drink possible, and are otherwise left alone until it arrives.

From then until you finish and pay, he is mostly in the back washing up. You don’t get another chance to speak with him. Whenever he emerges, though, he meets your eye, and before you leave, you give him a lingering look.

Outside, you stop and lean against the outer wall of the diner for a few minutes, thinking. While you’re standing there, you hear something coming from around the back of the building. A door, the scraping of a container on the ground, something being lifted and emptied. You make a guess at what you’re hearing, and duck down the little alleyway. When you peek around the corner… there he is.

“Hello again,” you call softly, hanging around at the edge of the back alley, hoping he’ll come over and talk, away from the overflowing trash bins. It smells back there.

You can’t help noticing the way his face lights up when he sees you again. Peering backwards through the kitchen, he lets the back door close softly and, to your immense relief, begins walking over. You beckon him out to the side alley where the air is less foul.

“Hey there,” he says when he gets close.

“I was wondering… will you be free later on?”

“I get off work in a few hours,” he says, with an air of cautious encouragement.

“Would you meet with me?”

You can feel a little ripple of (pleased) surprise through the force. Obviously he’s amenable to the idea.

“I’d like that,” he replies.

So would you, now it comes to it.

“Good,” you say. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Then, there’s the sound of the diner owner shouting again.

“Gregor! Where are you! Get back in here!”

There’s the sound of the back door into the alley being thrust open, and heavy, stomping footsteps, and you frown in the general direction of the noise. Gregor looks embarrassed; you reach out tentatively, and touch his arm in what you hope is a comforting gesture.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

He looks at the hand on his arm. You pull it back. He looks at you. You look at him.

“Worth it,” he whispers as the Sullustan rounds the corner.

“What are you doing out here? You take an extra break, it comes out of your pay! Get back in the kitchen and finish washing the dishes!”

“Sorry, Mr. Borkus,” he says, slipping around his irascible employer and scooting back the way he came. “I’m getting back to work, right now!”

You hear the door open and close, and the Sullustan turns a disapproving eye on you. Before he can speak though, you raise your hand and wave it lightly in front of his face, which goes blank.

“You should stop yelling at Gregor,” you say. “I should stop yelling at Gregor,” he repeats. “You’re not going to dock his pay.” “I’m not going to dock his pay.” “You need to get off his back and let him be.” “I need to get off his back and let him be.”

Satisfied that you’ve done what little you can to improve the mysterious clone’s day- whatever his situation actually is- you turn on your heel and walk away.

You spend the next few hours as you had intended before meeting Gregor: enquiring about the parts you need to repair your ship, discreetly poking around for information, observing the battle droids. There’s something going on here (there’s something going on everywhere, these days) but you haven’t figured out what. Frankly- although you chide yourself that you are doing your duty and not to be childish- you’re bored. You’re very much looking forward to meeting up with Gregor later.

So you can figure out what he’s doing here, of course.

After the appropriate amount of time has lapsed, you meander back to the diner, and wait across the road, watching the door.

Eventually, he and the owner emerge. He sees you right away, and veers over in your direction immediately, waving and calling for you as his employer stares (and is ignored by both of you).

“I’ve been waiting all day to see you,” he says, with a big smile on his face.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been doing the same,” you admit, smiling back. “How was work?”

“Better than usual.”

You smile wider.

“Glad to hear it.”

“So… what are you doing here?”

You shrug.

“Passing through.”

“Oh? … How long are you staying in town?”

He looks hopeful. You stop yourself from chewing your lip.

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly. “It depends.”

You realize you’re chewing your lip again when you see the way he’s looking at you.

“On what?”

You can’t help smiling at him.

“Lots of things.”

“Hmm.”

The conversation that follows is, like your first exchange earlier today in the dingy little diner, oddly compelling. Repeatedly, you must remind yourself that you are trying to figure out what he’s doing here, but much like your earlier investigation into the Separatist presence on this planet, you’re getting nowhere. You even attempt, once or twice, to steer the conversation in directions that would raise the suspicions of someone under cover… but he isn’t suspicious at all, and you end up just talking.

Talking, laughing, enjoying each other.

He’s endearing.

But before you while the whole evening away just walking around town, chatting, you come right out and ask.

“So, Gregor… what are you doing here?”

“You mean… besides washing dishes?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. Surviving, I guess.”

You nod slowly.

“Hmm. How long have you been here?”

“About a year now,” he replies, and you manage to disguise some of your shock at his answer. ‘Undercover’ is starting to look less and less likely. “... What?”

“Nothing. Just. Wow. You’ve been working at the diner that whole time?”

“Yeah.”

You grimace.

“Well, frankly, that sounds awful.”

He laughs, running his hands self-consciously through his hair.

“Well, it… it could be worse.”

That pricks at your heart.

“Yes. I suppose it could.”

You know very well how much worse it could be.

He looks at you, but neither of you speaks for a long moment. Maybe it’s time for the two of you to speak more plainly than this.

“Gregor… Is there somewhere we can go and talk to each other privately?” His eyes are wide as he looks at you, and for just a second, you sense the buzz of excited nerves.

“Oh, uh… well, it’s- it’s not much, but, there’s always my place.”

“That sounds perfect,” you say, touching his arm like you did earlier. It seems to help.

“Great,” he says. “This way!”

He takes your hand, and leads you down the dusty streets that still all look the same to you. You’re not really looking at them anyway.

On the way, you pass by a man he knows in the street. They wave to each other, and- after the strange man glances at you- exchange smiles.

“I’ve been really enjoying talking with you,” he says suddenly.

You look at him.

It’s been so nice, spending time with him like this. Just being yourself, with no part to play.

“Me, too.”

You’re almost there, now. You see the stairwell down into a basement apartment, and he’s slowing down. Before you get there, he stops, leaning against the wall. You can feel his self-consciousness.

“Listen, um, when I said my place wasn’t much? I… Well, it really isn’t much.”

“It doesn’t matter to me where we go,” you tell him kindly.

“It’s just… I wish I had somewhere nicer to take you. I’ve never met anyone like you, before.”

That affects you in a way you can’t altogether contain. For a second, you’re breathless.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before, either.”

It’s the truth.

He’s smiling again. Having never let go of your hand, he runs his thumb over your knuckles and begins leading you down toward his door. You would be able to tell he was nervous even if you couldn’t feel it through the force.

True enough, his place is small and as dingy as the rest of the town. But it’s his, and you decide you like it here, for that fact alone. You’re looking around when you notice him staring at you.

“... What is it?”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, completely guilelessly. It’s so plain and sincere that you can’t help believing it, and once again, you’re breathless. “I never expected to see anything so beautiful on this whole planet.”

Then, he leans in to kiss you… and you let him. You do more than let him: you kiss him back. The only concrete thought in your head is that his beard tickles. It feels wonderful. Is that noise coming out of you?

It takes feeling his hands on your hips to realize you’ve got your own in his hair, and the way his fingers grip you makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your lips press together again, and again, and again; sometimes so softly you’re barely touching, sometimes so heavily you almost topple over, sometimes you can feel him humming against your mouth and it’s all you can do to stay standing.

He’s guiding you gently toward- what? A chair? A crate? A cot? You don’t know, you don’t care; he sits down, and pulls you into his lap, and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. You hold him so close, closer than you’ve ever held anyone. You love the way his hands feel on you, and you tell him so. In reply, he makes a sound you know you’ll hear in dreams for the rest of your life.

The way he handles you- so sweetly, but so direct- makes you feel things you couldn’t repress if you tried.

But… of course… nothing can be simple.

You break the kiss, and take a breath.

“What is it?” he asks softly. “Is everything all right?”

“Before we go any further, there’s something you need to know about me.” He’s a little wary, a little worried, and you hate it, but you can’t just let this go without him knowing the truth. Maybe it was an illusion, but you already miss the way this felt so uncomplicated a moment ago.

“You’re… you’re not married, are you?”

Your reaction to this question tells him you’re not, even before you actually answer.

“... I can never be married. I’m a Jedi.”

He’s still holding you, and he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t care what you are. We’ll work this out. I-if… if that’s what you want.”

Your eyes have never been so wide in your life. ‘We’ll work this out.’ He means it, you can feel it. You think you would believe anything this man said to you.

But.

This is forbidden.

If this is not an attachment, nothing is.

Can you do this? Can you work this out? The doubt is suddenly swallowed up by something you’re not sure you can identify, but feels very much like indignation. No attachment! But what is the bond between master and padawan but an attachment? What is friendship but an attachment? What are those bonds formed on the battlefield, are they not attachments? Can you name one single Jedi in the whole order who is wholly unattached? Who is attached to no one? Can anyone live in such a way?

It’s true, sometimes you must be able to let go.

But what value is there in anything without fondness? Without care?

And enough of your philosophizing! What about him? Doesn’t he deserve to be loved? That question, at least, has a clear and definite answer. One that cannot be interrogated. The answer is yes.

You shift around so that you’re straddling his lap, and kiss him so deeply that you get lost in each other.

“I do,” you whisper. “I do want this.”

You can sense his relief. His elation. Something inside of you aches beautifully. Is this what love feels like? You kiss him. He kisses you.

“Good,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And then, he says something that shocks you so profoundly that you stop cold.

“... But what’s a Jedi?”

#this is probably silly as hell #but here it is #i hvent done one of these in a long time it might suck #idk #gregor x reader #clone trooper x reader #i really fought myself to post this #fic: dirty old town

106 notes · View notes

annabethy · 3 years

Text

Percy Jackson Characters as Band Kids 2.0

based on experiences i WISH i didn’t have. i’ve been proposed to at a game by the opposing piccolo. in honor of my 20k word marching band au being posted tomorrow!

Percy

• looks unfairly hot in the marching uniform.

• would definitely be drum major and have all of the band falling in love over him.

• he would also be in the auditorium before a concert and jump off of a 10 foot ledge in the pit because he simply cannot take being in band anymore™️.

• would get up on the drum major podium and start dancing to stand tunes from the other band.

• gives high fives to all of the band right before the half-time show

• carries annabeth like a backpack during third quarter break

• him and annabeth go to meet the other drum majors in the band and are that fierce couple that every band is afraid of

• slut for big ballin

• is nearly murdered when a cheerleader does a backflip into his podium

• before halftime, “What time is it?” “HALFTIME” “What time is it?” “GAME TIME” “half time is game time Half Time Is Game Time HALF TIME IS GAME TIME”

Annabeth

• is the kid that is deadly good at their instrument and will murder you with a single look.

• you do not want to audition for the state band after her because she will tear you to shreds.

• she also happens to be dating the drum major, of course, and has the drum major wrapped around her finger.

• she is terrifying, and also happens to be the other drum major so the little kids have to ask her for help but are scared because she is very scary.

• plays piccolo and goes around telling people to “suck my picc”

• will yell at colorguard when they put a rifle on the wrong yard line during a show while every single woodwind is marching in a backwards curve.

• hates seven nation army with a passion

• flute chant. “flutes and piccs are h-o-t hot, we got something you ain’t got, we’re bad, we know it, we’re here to show it” cue screaming

• piccolo chant aka PICCS PICCS PICCS PICCS *INSTENSE SCREAMING*

Piper

• is that kid the hot bi. crushing on Annabeth and blatantly tries to steal her from Percy. but she’s just kidding (not really).

• she is the person that proposes to a kid that plays the same instrument from the other band.

• probably plays piccolo because Annabeth does.

• when it’s marching season, she will watch a woodwind step out of line and take down an entire row of clarinets and not move a single muscle. they all learn somehow.

• screams the words to sweet Caroline instead of playing

• “my name is piper. i play the picc. it’s really tiny. just like your di—

Jason

• is the band kid who thinks they are the best at their instrument

• they are actually the worst at their instrument

• probably a trumpet

• doesn’t get into all county and is like “but I’m so good it’s rigged” but he actually couldn’t even play his scales double octave oop couldn’t be me

• gets hit by the guard flags during a show and gets a concussion

• crushes on piper who tells him “i only date people good at their instruments.” he goes home and cries before reporting her to the band director for harassment

• fucks up solo at mpa. idk who gave him a solo to begin with

Leo

• first and foremost, he is percussion. during concert season, he tries to muffle the gong so he uses his whole body to do so. he succeeds in humping the gong.

• cadences over and over. and over.

• throws a drum stick at annabeth and bonks her on the head

• percy does not like that and takes the drum stick and hurls it at leo. hits him in the eye

• elf hats during the christmas parade

• DRUM BATTLES

• empties a water bottle at a game by crushing the plastic. chokes as he deepthroats the water

• “Annabeth you are so out of tune you’re making me want to stab my eardrums,” and in response, she says, “I’m going to play a high c right in your ear and teach you what decent fucking music sounds like”

Frank

• the one decent kid who apologizes when they run into someone

• helps the freshmen because no one else will

• refuses to participate in senior pranks

• once tries to help a brass player take a valve out but drops the instrument and dents it and starts crying

• brass captain

• he actually tries to save the line of woodwinds when colorguard misplaces a rifle during that backwards curve

• steps in the pile of fire ants. chaos ensues

Hazel

• sweetheart but lost.

• struggles with marching on beat but once she gets the hang of it, she has so much patience for helping others

• something tame, like the clarinet.

• never squeaks because she is an ICON

• people think she is nice and will sometimes tease her and she’s too nice to do anything but then when someone decides to take her reeds, she full on throws a stand at them.

• speaking of stands, she gets abnormally frustrated when they start to fall in front of her face. slowly slipping. creak. creak. creak.

• always very helpful at the football games. cares for people that pass out of heat stroke. always has a cooling towel just in case

• makes snide remarks to the cheerleaders when they can’t dance in time to crazy train (“it’s not that hard it’s literally 4/4”)(“I thought cheerleaders could at least count to 4?”)

• director thinks she is an angel but actually has no idea she’s constantly on her phone during rehearsal.

• “im using it as a tuner”

Connor

• HEY BABY. will point to Annabeth for “I wanna knowwwww if you’ll be my girl” to spite Percy

• laughs bc Percy is conducting and there is simply nothing he can do about it

• “what you gonna do Percy? Cut the band off because you’re jealous? do it I dare you”

• crazy trumpet that runs through the stands and promptly trips and tumbles down the bleachers until he hits the bottom. may kill one or two flutes in the process

• speaking of flutes, he enjoys sacrificing them. particularly annabeth. picks her up over his shoulder and dumps her in a trashcan

• gets on the metal podium during band camp and passes out off of it. a quick and painful journey the 6 feet to the ground.

Travis

• to Piper: “One time at band camp, I stuck a flute up my—”

• evil laughter when Annabeth narrowly dodges a guard saber

• he’s the leader of the senior pranks, offering those poor freshman cupcakes with ketchup and mustard frosting

• he also sets up the pentagram with the band directors family photos, and ties percy and annabeth dolls to drum major podiums. don’t ask.

• he definitely spills coffee on the band room carpet at least once,

• likes to surprise percy and annabeth when they sneak off during sectionals to “practice conducting” (he quickly proves they were, in fact, not practicing conducting)

Grover

• trips in the whole and screams about “WHY ARE THERE HOLES IN OUR MARCHING FIELD SOMEONE IS GOING TO DIE”

• chews on a metal can at a game and cuts his mouth open but is too scared to say anything as he bleeds from the mouth because he wasn’t supposed to have a soda can to begin with so he just plays with blood!

• ceo of “MAKE MONEY MONEY MAKE MONEY MONEY MONEY” “MARCHING BAND MARCHING BAND MARCHING BAND MARCHING BAND”

• gets HEATED at mpa because “WE CANNOT BE THE CLASS TO DESTROY OUR TEN YEAR STREAK OF STRAIGHT SUPERIORS”

• hangs with percy and annabeth, arms around each of them during the football games. loves them dearly.

• has a knack for interrupting percy and annabeth at the worst possible times. they’re in the uniform room? SURPRISE SHAWTY he’s there too “what are you doing? why is annabeth’s hair a mess? didn’t you just do those braids?”

#percabeth #percy jackson #pjo #annabeth chase #percy jackson and the olympians

86 notes · View notes

pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Prologue)

(Gif credit to @honestsycrets)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Greek/Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: Like 7k, I’m sorry

Warnings: As usual, mentions and descriptions of blood, death, torture, injury and people being burnt alive. Mentions or allusions to rape. If there’s anything else I didn’t mention, please let me know. Fair warning that the Reader Character may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but please give her a chance.

A/N: So, in this universe, bc fuck Michael Hirst, Sigurd is alive (tho Ivar did throw the axe) but married and away, Bjorn is still somewhere sunny, and Dublin was founded in Saxon land by Hvitty, Ivar and Ubbe, but it is the latter the one in control, prompting Ivar to eventually return to Kattegat and take the throne form Lagertha (she is alive just like in the show, only Bjorn is not here -I like to think he would understand his brothers wanting to avenge Aslaug?- and Floki departed bc he didn’t want to have to choose between supporting the kid he raised and an old friend), leaving him as King, Ubbe as ruler of Dublin, Hvitserk in Kattegat for now like in the show, Bjorn getting a tan in the Mediterranean, and Sigurd alive and happy cause goddammit killing him was a stupid choice. Sorry and btw this isn’t my creation, this is based on some exchanges I saw on reddit and a lil bit of me lol)

The warrior hesitates before letting you enter the tent, but you do so quietly and without a word, like it is expected out of you, and the men discussing war take no notice of you as you slip into a seat and watch them discuss.

Narses, still in the armor of a Byzantine Strategus despite his back having been turned to the Empire for a long time, turns to look at you as you enter. He doesn’t say a word, but in his green eyes there’s a plea for you not to speak, one that you must obey with gritted teeth and bitten tongue.

He understands, and there’s relief in Narses’ eyes.

Your friend. Your confidante.

Your fool.

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his hands supporting most of his weight as he leans on the war table.

“Our numbers are strong enough to hold until support from Strepshire arrives.” The Christian you recognize as Leofric -a bishop? Cleric? You have no idea anymore- speaks, his voice not much unlike the sound of the Byzantine soldiers’ armor plates rustling together as they march down the streets, burning idols and slaying the poor fools that believed the Gods would save them.

“If we retreat, we can-…” Narses argues, but is quickly interrupted.

“You belong to us!” Leofric barks, and you startle at the sudden aggression, “You have made a deal, Greeks. You must honor it.”

“I am aware. I am also aware you Saxons would sacrifice everything for your revenge.” Narses scoffs back, interrupting the Saxon and your train of thought at the same time.

“You want the same, boy. Is it not why you insist on gaining our support?” Stithulf, the leader, states, leaning back on his chair and resting his hands on the back of his head.

His posture screams of arrogance, his young age of a boy with too much power, his scars of a monster eager to fight.

You could use someone like him leading your army. You have seen too many of the so-called soldiers in your home bend the knee to a false Emperor. Maybe you need a monster on your side, someone with the same thirst for blood Greece left you with, someone willing and able to bring the Gods down from the very Olympus for retribution.

And as he leans back he catches sight of you, his expression tightens into a scowl, and you discard the remote possibility.

Not only is he a Christian, the same brand of men that burned your home, your mother, and years later you as well; but he looks upon you like all you are to do is be one of more of virginal maidens for his strange pantheon.

“What is the witch doing here?” He asks out loud, and you swallow down the words you want to say, but still holding his gaze.

“She is to be my wife, I trust her advice.” Narses sentences, sending you a glance that you return with a grateful one of your own.

“I didn’t know you Greeks were ruled over by your women.”

“Greek women are the only ones to birth real men.” You quip before you can stop yourself, reminded with the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia of when your father told you those exact words.

“Is that what your Goddess tells you, Heathen?”

Even the cadence of Leofric’s voice is enough to get you to twist your lip as you turn your gaze to him, but he remains stoic, a quiet sort of anger bubbling behind his eyes. You could swear a small smile tugs at his lips, as if he truly believes a simple word is enough to silence you.

The loud interruption of Narses’ fists colliding with the table stops his mocking, and the man’s eyes shift to his Byzantine ally within a moment.

“Do not call her that.”

“It is not an insu-…” You start, but your friend turns to you once again, begging you in silence to keep quiet. Biting down a sigh, you lean back in your chair and return your eyes to the map.

A long way from home, setting tents alongside Christians, and shutting your mouth because a man told you to. For all the visions and counsel the Gods have sent you through the years, a word of what was to become of your integrity would have been appreciated.

The sound of the curtains of the tent flapping open and closed makes you lift your gaze from the map, and you see Stithulf’s retrieving back.

Narses sighs, not looking at you when he concedes, both to inform you and the rest of the Saxons and Arab mercenaries in the room,

“We will hold.”

A cold hand grips your heart and the names of the Goddesses you seek for guidance and comfort are at the tip of your tongue, shaped by your lips but never spoken.

The Christians leave you two alone, and you walk to the soldier hunched over the war table. Your native Greek feels like a soft song evoking nostalgia as it dances past your lips:

“You cannot…”

“Please, my love.”

Anger bubbles within you, and you stand up straighter as you meet his eyes, “Narses, the Varangians will overpower us, you know we lost too many already, the support from Ivar the Boneless’ incoming army will crush us, you know h-…”

“This is a matter of war, love, let me handle it.” Narses interrupts, to which you frown.

“I know of war Narses! And I know this is a foolish move!”

“Do you know how to lift a sword?” He retorts, a challenge in his voice that does not go unnoticed.

“I…” You clench your teeth, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I do not need to fight to…”

He laughs bitterly, interrupting you, “Are you hearing your own words?”

“Are you hearing yours? The Varangian King has a crown made of bones and blood, Narses, don’t be foolish. Athena rejoices when he wages war, his army carries her favor.” You spit out your words, trying to make him understand. Narses remains impassive, though, eyes on the map and jaw clenched tight.

“You cannot argue of battle if you have never-…”

You interrupt him with a scoff, pointing an accusing finger at him even when he doesn’t meet your eyes, “I do not need to know how to kill to know the Varangians will swallow you whole. And you’ll drag our people with you.”

At your last words, his head snaps up, eyes facing yours with ferocity and more than old anger, “What choice do I have, huh? We will freeze or starve come winter, we need to move for Eleusis soon!”

“Our people…” You start, but he interrupts you again.

“Our people chose to follow me, and they will.”

“They followed me, they believe in me,” You correct without hesitation, teeth bared, “You followed me, Narses, and I let you, because you promised me an army.”

For a second he hesitates, takes you in with what seem to be new eyes. He seems to have forgotten there’s more than a meek priestess to the woman he followed from Attica. He seems to forget the bloodied hands and hungry smile that greeted him when you gave him the choice to be at your side.

“And I followed you because I love you, because I believe in you!” He exclaims, making shame and regret churn at your insides. You deviate your eyes from his, gritting your teeth.

“I begged you not to force our people to fight against these Norsemen, and you didn’t listen,” You grit out after a few breaths, anger returning to your voice, “Where was your love, your trust, when you chose to ally with these…Christians?”

He takes one of your hands in his, and the touch feels cold.

“You must trust me with this,” He intreats, warm eyes looking for something in your own you don’t think he can find. “Can you trust me?” A small pause, and you taste your own regrets in your mouth, “Love me?”

You press your lips into a line, and because you cannot say anything else, because the lie has gone on for too long and you might as well offer a truth before you entreat your soul to Hades, you whisper,

“Once, I could have.”

But he shakes his head, fervent and certain as he finds your eyes again,

“I promised you Attica, and it will be yours.”

But his words are empty. You do not care for that kingdom if the people that you love are not alive and prospering in it.

“Pray to the Gods you are killed by the Varangians, old friend. I will sacrifice you to Hades myself if you dare return alive from the place you are condemning my people to die on.” You sentence, unable to keep from showing the curl of disgust in your lip, the ancient pain in your eyes.

Narses walks closer to you, eyes searching yours and hands on your shoulders. You clench your jaw. He is gentle, he always is. Gentle, but so were the men that held you as their brothers in arms dragged your mother out of that temple.

You take a step back, but Narses speaks still, ignoring your discomfort,

“These Christians care not for their God, they just want Ivar the Boneless and his brothers. We give them to Stithulf, and they will march for Eleusis with us.”

You shake your head as you watch him believe his own lies.

“Even if we succeed, you are exchanging one master for another, Narses.” The words are your farewell as you turn your back to him and walk towards the entrance of the tent.

____

You walk into your tent and are greeted with a language these Saxons want to have you killed for speaking. The tongue of savages, of barbarians, of Vikings.

“Did they threaten to burn you yet?” Sieghild asks, and you can hear the smile in her voice even if her back is turned to you as she tends to the fire.

“Narses and Stithulf command us to remain,” You confess instead, voice breaking, “Kattegat’s army will be here in a day’s time to aid Dublin’s, but we will not retreat.”

The gasp she lets out forces you to shut your eyes tight in hope of keeping the tears at bay.

You both remain silent for a few instants, and you let yourself fall to the log she brought as a seat. Taking a seat next to you, she places a motherly hand on your knee, squeezing lightly until you look back up at her.

Blueish ink traces ancient marks on the skin of her face, and she moves a lock of your hair away from your face, the rattling sounds of her bracelets and trinkets reaching your ears and filling you with a sense of nostalgia you have difficulty explaining.

“If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you.”

“This is not the war I will die fighting on!” You yell back, closing your hands into fists as they start shaking. “I will not see my people die fighting a cause not their own, Sieghild. I can’t.”

She takes your head in her hands gently, and, pressing cold lips to your forehead, she gives you the comfort only a mother can.

“Even if we die tomorrow, the Gods are with us. They have been close to you since your birth. You will understand soon.”

“I will certainly see Hades soon.” You smile bitterly, but Sieghild doesn’t falter.

“Then challenge his throne.” She states, and the feral, hungry, look in her eyes makes you think she is not speaking of your God.

You do not even believe in the same Gods, and yet Sieghild remains at your side, you at hers, since she found a crying child clutching a wooden carving of Persephone.

“They want me to give them up, but I won’t.” You argue stubbornly, as the red-haired woman cleans your face with a warm wet cloth. She smiles.

“Arguing about Gods is a matter for adults, little one,” She silences your next argument with a single finger, inked and painted like her face and arms. “They cannot make you believe in their God.”

“But…Mother’s altar, th-they…”

“Those are merely worldly things. The Christians fight with fire what Logi and Glöð themselves have created.”

“Who?”

She chuckles, fingers going through your hair and places a finger on your chest.

“Your faith, your legacy, remain here.”

And at dawn, when the men sound the horns and ready for a battle they must know will be lost, you whisper a prayer to Athena and Enyo, your heart griped tight by the cruel mistresses of Fate.

Even all the tales travelers and mercenaries told you about the army of Kattegat, the sheer strength, the flawless tactics, the barbarian-like warriors; none of that prepared you for the display of forces, however small considering his actual army, Ivar the Boneless has displayed before you.

You catch a glimpse of Narses and Stithulf approaching the King, you hear faintly of the Viking’s taunts.

“Narses is a fool.” You bite out, anger poisoning your voice even as tears clogging your throat make the words wobble.

“A Byzantine Strategus doesn’t fall without a fight, girl. Do not grant my countrymen their victory just yet.”

Even if you hide it as you lower your face, a surge of pride for the foolish warrior that followed you to the ends of the world makes a small smile blossom in your face.

“Do I hear you admitting us soft citizens stand a chance against your brutes, mother?” You mock with a smile, even as you discuss the imminent danger that the Norse men represent to you and your people. Maybe it’s because of the way Sieghild, with all her harshness and tough lessons, comforts you even facing death itself. Maybe it’s the Gods that have guided you your whole life embracing you as you near your descent to Hades.

She laughs, raspy and warm, as always. “I’m saying your boy may give the sons of Ragnar an entertainment.”

A crow flies overhead, cawing loudly and taking your gaze away from the soldiers ahead and into the sky. Something within you, something primal and asleep seems to follow its path in the skies with more than just your eyes.

“Odin is watching. History will be made today.” Sieghild whispers behind you, but you cannot take your gaze away from the black feathers as you answer.

“Apollo sends us an omen. The Gods do not favor us.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head as she rests a heavy hand on your shoulder

“Your Goddess surely revels in this, dear. The spilled blood of those who will be to arrive at her kingdom waters her flowers, after all."

Flashes of a life before chaos blossom behind your closed eyes, images of a life under the spring sun, of fertility festivals and your mother’s warm laughter as she honors the Daughter of Nature.

And for a second, with the warmth of nostalgia encompassing you, you want to argue that Persephone looks after life; but when your eyes open and all you see is war and cold, you realize maybe she wasn’t the one captured.

Maybe she was not a stolen maiden, but a bloodthirsty usurper.

“May she rejoice, then, and be merciful when we reach her Kingdom.” You whisper.

The war cries reach your ears before you can even see the warriors attack, but soon chaos follows the chariot, that marches not with the set pace of Apollo’s, but free and leaving chaos and death at its wake.

With a heavy weight on your stomach, you hold your place as the battle begins, the injured and dying falling back to the area you look after with Greek soldiers at your back, granting a safe haven for the fallen, either to give them another chance to fight or a merciful end.

_____

It’s been days and the Saxons still push for victory, despite the losses. And, despite their losses and bloodshed, the Vikings push ruthlessly for death.

The camp of healers you have set by the entrance of the woods is so filled with the stench of blood and death that you fear you will never be able to smell a flower again. The warriors come and go, the drachmas in their eyes or in their hands. Your heart dies a little with every familiar face you send off to Hades.

You are working on pressing down with the poultice of herbs to stop a soldier from bleeding from the wound on his back when you hear, past the yells and death and fighting, your name.

You would know that voice anywhere, and you leave the safety of the healing camp to follow the hoarse call.

Narses’ figure stumbles and crawls as he tries reaching you, and, not caring for battle, you run the space separating you. Your knees dig painfully into the earth as you kneel at his side, but the pain in your heart drowns it all.

“No, no, no,” You sob, shaking fingers tracing his bloodied cheeks as he gasps in pain in your arms. His eyes are focused on you, and you cannot deny him the answer of yours, even if battle still goes on around you. With another broken gasp, you whisper, “You fool, you fool.”

Galla calls your name from somewhere at your side, and you turn blind attention to her, murmuring to have people take him to the healers’ tent. She agrees, and you start to pull away from your childhood friend.

Narses opens his mouth to speak, but only blood pours out. You silence him with trembling fingers against his lips, granting the kiss you cannot. Your heart begs you to do something, anything, to keep him alive, to take away his pain, to…to…

But all you do is remain kneeling on the ground, and you cannot take your eyes off his shield. Splattered with blood and mud, left behind a few feet away from you, on the cold and unrelenting earth.

Your mother’s last words to your father, you remember them as if it were yesterday, as if you could still see the warmth in her gaze, the hardened adoration in his. Her delicate hands offering him the shield with Sparta’s symbol on it as he prepared to storm Macedonia, her words a murmur that meant come back to us, my love even when her sentence was other.

Return home with it, or on it.

With it, or on it. With it, or on it. With it, or on it.

But Narses never returned home, none of you ever did. He never returned home, he didn’t die for your home, he died for…for…

You hear hurried footsteps coming towards you, the feeling of having Varangian eyes on you makes you turn just in time to see the warrior approaching. You grab Narses’ shield from the ground, moving as fast as you can to guard your back and block the Viking’s strike with the metal shield.

It is sheer anger and grief, nothing more than the desire to hurt back, that pushes you to take an arrow from the quiver at your back and drive it through the warrior’s knee with your bloodied hand.

He falters, stumbling away from you, but you don’t let go, holding on tightly to the shaft of the arrow and inflicting as much pain as you can. When he finally hits the ground with his back, you crawl over him, sitting on his stomach and bashing his face with the shield.

With your weight upon him, his axe cannot find a home in your skin and instead meets the shield. Over and over, metal meets metal. With a growl, the Viking lets go of it and grabs your hair, pulling roughly and forcing your blows in his face to stop.

You let go of the shield, and your eyes focus on the skies above for a moment before you find the strength to fight.

A yell leaves your lips, and your hungry teeth find the tender skin at the inside of his arm, forcing him to let go of your hair. Blood fills your mouth and almost makes you gag. You spit the flesh from your mouth and with a snarl you drive another arrow through his eye.

He screams as your whole weight leans on the arrow, making sure the projectile you use as a spear kills fast. Your hands keep slipping from the shaft as the blood you have tried to keep from spilling and the blood you have spilled wets your hands.

When he finally stops moving, you know you should feel nothing but emptiness and dread.

Looking with frantic eyes for Narses and Galla, you find him being carried by two of his soldiers back to the tent. You should follow, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

You look down at your dress. Red, the color of a bride’s veil, stained with the blood of the man you just killed. Your ears ring, your eyes cloud with tears as you realize what you have done, and you scurry away from the corpse as if your breath cannot get into your chest because of your proximity to him…to it.

You know what you should feel, you know what a Priestess, a woman, ought to feel at the sight of death, you know. But dread and horror are not the only things you feel. A part of you is satiated, like a snake curling satisfied and vindicated after injecting its poison; you taste the blood and feel alive.

When you lift your gaze to the battle again, you catch the eyes of the Varangian King. You know who he is, you have heard the tales and even without the chariot he sits on you would still recognize the eyes of the man that rules over Kattegat.

Ivar the Boneless.

He looks at you for a few moments, and you fear he is to call for his men or kill you himself, but he doesn’t. A slow, cruel, ruthless smile starts curving at his bloodthirsty lips, and when he regards you, you feel he can see through your eyes and into whatever it is that made you kill that man.

He lifts his arm not on the reins, bloodied axe held in his hand and slowly, with the same terrifying grin still on his lips, the King points towards you and grants you a curt bow of his head. If it’s a recognition of your kill, a promise to kill you himself, or something else, you cannot know.

You scurry back to the woods, fearing an axe to your back that never comes.

____

Whatever advantage the Christians were so sure to have quickly dissolves like mist, and within days the Vikings push forward with no regard for the lines your people or your unwanted masters wanted to protect.

There’s three injured men under your care when you hear the warning that a group of enemies is coming your way. A quick glance towards Galla, the childhood friend that followed you from Eleusis into this cold hell lets her know what to do.

Her dark eyes fill with understanding before you can even utter a word.

“Lift them up, we are retreating.” She barks at the other soldiers, bow held tightly in her hand betraying her fear, her pain. The men accompanying her hesitate, looking at you for a second before turning to her.

“I may not be able to fight like a Strategus, but I can distract them enough for you to run.”

“Our people…” One of them starts, but you interrupt with a shake of your head, reaching forward with a courage you do not believe to truly possess and take his sword from its holster.

“Our people live on in you,” You promise, and even as your voice wavers you still try not to show how fear grips at your throat or how unbalanced you are with the new weight in your hands. Galla’s eyes lock with yours, and you give her a nod, “Go.”

I pray you find Sieghild on your way out of this slaughter.

“You better make it out alive.” She threatens in good will, and you find yourself smiling. Just before she is to take off with the others, you call out.

“Galla,” You hesitate, feeling like asking to deploy this would be an acceptance of your death. Still, you take a deep breath and say, “Once the dust settles, send some of your people to Thebes, Constantinople and Sparta.”

“What for?” She asks, but in her tone you can hear she understands your words: she is to protect your people, she is to lead them. Because you will not be alive to do so.

“You’ll need spies. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with them.” You sentence, and after a moment of hesitation you hear the girl’s footsteps fading behind you.

Galla’s hoarse yells in Greek to call your people to retreat become the rhythm at which you let loose arrows to find the Viking warriors. You tell yourself it’s just like hunting deer, you tell yourself it is not men and women you kill. Brothers, sisters, friends, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.

You tell yourself it is just like hunting, but the tears clogging at your throat and making pain and rage accompany your moves as you let the arrows loose show you that you don’t believe your own lies.

It doesn’t matter how fast you move, how efficient your shots are, there will always be more of them. And you know this, and fear has a cold grip on your heart, even as you continue trying to take out any straggler that chases after the retreating Greeks.

So, the bodies dropping and the injured yells bring the attention to you, and you buy Galla and the others as much time as you have arrows and legs to run on.

Running helps when the Vikings can be distracted by something else, but after you took down some of his countrymen, this warrior seems to only have eyes for you. You scramble to lift the sword you took from your warrior before they took off, and, cornered as you are, you are forced to face the offending Viking.

The Viking strikes first, but you block his attack with the sword. The blunt force of his swing makes it so that the axe stops just shy of the intended blow to your head, opening a deep cut on your forehead as it is slowed by the sword.

Wincing past the pain you hold your ground, facing the hungry gaze of the warrior with your own, although you are forced to close one of your eyes as the blood from the cut in your forehead starts dripping down your face.

The man’s attack has failed, but he smirks, though, before wrenching the weapon from your hands with a twist of his axe.

You can do nothing but stumble back, you Goddess’ name on your lips as you face him with wide eyes.

He mutters something in his own language before discarding your sword and moving to strike again. This time you are defenseless, and can only step back and try and dodge his continuous blows with increasing panic.

Blood, probably his own and his enemy’s, stains his mouth, his face, his hands. He still smiles, and you wonder if bloodthirst becomes more literal than what Sieghild explained in her tales of her people.

His movements stop suddenly, though, and he falls limply to the ground, a small axe protruding from the back of his head.

“I told you you’d need to know how to fight, little one,” Sieghild boasts as she approaches you. The axe leaving the dead man’s skull makes a horrible sound, but she’s not bothered by it, choosing instead to say, “Even you Greeks must see the advantage of fighting like a Viking.”

An arrow in his knee, you feel the iron piercing the muscle, the bone, the tendons. The edge of the shield breaking the bones in his face, the sound it makes. Screams of pain, that you silence with another arrow in the eye.

The King’s hungry smile when he spared you.

You shake your head, returning your thoughts back to the moment, and regard the woman in front of you with a smile.

“Galla told me you chose to stay behind.” She states, and years knowing her let you know of the reprimand shining past the gruff tone. Her hand, bloodied as it is, reaches for the cut in your forehead, inspecting it with the eyes of someone that saw countless wounds and fought in countless wars.

“I wanted to distract the warriors from the path they took.” You offer in explanation.

“For someone so…small you sure take a lot of risks, my child.” She sighs. You’re about to answer when the thrumming of the ground underneath your feet stops you. Sieghild’s movements stop, your breath dies in your lungs.

Bees swarming. You remember an Arab merchant telling you about Varangian armies, and he spoke of chaos and deadliness and bloodthirst. And as you watch the Varangians flank the battlefield, archers at the ready, warriors beating their shields, while the King that crossed the sea to assist his brother commands them to hold with a single gesture; you cannot help but think why didn’t the merchant talk about the grace of it all, the beauty in the blood.

“That boy carries his father’s cleverness with him. And his mother’s favor.” Sieghild mutters in the strange calm that settles as Ivar the Boneless and his brothers taunt Stithulf, dare him to continue the fight and face certain death or retreat.

“You knew that before.”

“So did you. You tried to warn Narses against facing him, little one.” She says, and the name makes a pit of guilt and grief form in your heart.

“Maybe my warnings are the reason he is dead now.” You bite out, voice quivering and eyes burning.

The shieldmaiden turns to you, lips parted and eyes wide. You offer her a nod and a tight-lipped smile, a small sign that it is okay, that…that it is Fate.

You promised Narses you’d kill him yourself for sending your people to die, and grief and pain do not stray you from that resolve. He sentenced your people to die at the hands of these Varangians, it is only right he leads them to the Underworld.

It doesn’t help the pit of pain and absence and fear and cold that forms at your chest, but…but it makes it easier to burden.

Murmured words in Norse startle you out of your thoughts, and you find Sieghild’s eyes still on you, expression still stunned and in a mix of awe and terror.

“When the last of the chains of nostalgia fades away even as she clutches it in her arms.”

“What did you say, mother?” You ask, taking a small step closer and looking into her eyes searching for any answer.

But the shieldmaiden is quick to put on a smile on her face,

“You told me before you had no interest in what Lady Freyja has to tell me, little one.” She mocks, but there’s a shadow in her expression, a strange darkness looming behind her eyes.

A familiar one.

“You are the one that taught me-…”

“I taught you to be your own woman!” The Varangian roars, and for the first time you realize exactly the kind of fire the women from her homeland have, that made them capable and free. “I taught my daughter better than this!”

“What choice do I have? We need the support from Narses’ army, we need someone to lead the men into battle the way I know will grant us victory!”

Two long strides, and the tall and imposing shieldmaiden is standing before you, a mix of reluctant softness and angry stoicism in her inked face.

“You fight. You fight against the notions these men have about you, you fight against that boy that only listens to what you have to say when you promise him love in exchange,” Her green eyes burn into yours, “You fight, little one. That’s what I taught you to do, what you were born to do.”

“Narses is a good man, mother. I will not fight him.” You reply, as calmly as you can even as your chest caves under a strange pressure, as evenly as you can even if the words leaving your lips taste like lies.

“You wouldn’t give your love without a fight though, minn dóttir.” Her hand grasps at your chin, and there’s a strange storm in her gaze, “I won’t lose my daughter to that boy’s whims.”

“I am not lost to any man.”

Her lips curve into a smile, a little savage, a little Viking.

“I know. You are my daughter, after all.”

“He was a good man, mother.” You offer quietly, and even if the binds to Narses, the binds you set on yourself and your mother hated the most, are gone, there’s still the same dark desperation, that same stubbornness you saw in her eyes that day you told her about your choice to marry him.

“Not good enough,” Is all she replies, and her eyes focus somewhere past the two of you, on the center of the battlefield where everything seems to have stopped. Sieghild sighs, “And your Gods and mine know that, little one. Your Mistress may have touched your soul, but Freyja lays claim to your heart.”

With your eyes on the thick of battle, you watch Stithulf and his trusted men lay down their weapons, and slowly retreat. You have been defeated.

____

“I told you only death would follow,” You say, your back against the foot of a table as you sit on the cold ground, your bloodied hands in your lap, motionless. You allow yourself a small laugh, manic and broken as it is, “You fought for so long, sacrificed so much, and you couldn’t even make the Varangian King bleed.”

You followed the Saxons back to their decadent city, and now sit past their walls awaiting the death that will follow. The city may have held for long enough that the Saxons could secure an escape, back when your people were with them and they didn’t have more corpses than soldiers.

But now, now it is just a matter of time before the Varangians return to finish it all.

Stithulf turns to you, cold fury shining past his gaze, but you hold his stare. The man walks over to you, armor rustling and making a sound that rings in the ears that have heard nothing but war for so long now.

He bends down to be at your level, face close to yours and lips set on a snarl.

“You ordered your people to pull back.” He accuses, but you shrug in response.

The pretense of what a good little fucking woman you ought to be to make these fools content with their idea of supremacy is long gone from your mind. You will die without masks, and if it means earning a few deserved hits from these Saxons for not shutting your mouth, then so be it.

“It was never our war, Christian.”

“Where have they gone to!?” He asks, ignoring your words. His fascination with how the Greek forces work shines through his bloodthirst and anger as he regards you. You know the reason why he went to Narses for an allegiance in the first place is because of the tactics, the fighting style, of your people; and you know he longed to make them a part of his own army.

But you will leave your own under the boot of a Christian the day Persephone calls for your soul to become one of her Furies.

“You will never find them.” You promise through a tired and battle-worn smile, morbidly delighting yourself in the way he seems to grow more enraged.

“How are you so certain?”

“The Varangians, Vikings, will find us first. They will kill us all, and you know this.” You sentence, standing up. You cannot help it when your eyes fixate themselves on the drying blood staining your hands.

You wish you could say most of it was Christian, or even Varangian.

But no, the blood of Greeks stains your hands. The blood of thousands, even if only less than eight hundred died today.

“And why are you so certain?”

“If you had retreated before that King came from across the sea-…”

“Narses told us your mother is Viking, how are we certain you did not plan this, plan to betray us?” One of his trusted men speaks out, limping from his place by the war table. You watch the deep and bloodied gash in his thigh, wondering why that old man survives being incapacitated while in battle but Narses is to fall.

You shake your head mutely before offering him a hollow chuckle.

“Me betraying you would imply I ever faked loyalty for you, or pretended to care for your survival.”

“You live, witch. Any sane man would question why.”

“You think…what? That I have helped any of the sons of Ragnar defeat you?” You let out a small laugh. “No, I did not. I will not let you blame me for your own weakness.”

You move to leave the tent, but Stithulf’s hand wraps around your arm. His voice is low when he speaks.

“If you tell your soldiers to fight with us, I can-…”

“I am not Narses, you cannot fool me with empty promises,” You interrupt, wrenching your arm from his grasp. Less than two hundred Greek warriors still remain in this city, and the Saxon wants still for every last drop of their blood. “The Greeks that remain here will not die quietly, but do not fool yourself into thinking you can ever command them.”

He stalks even closer, looming over you with enraged factions, and you cannot help the pang of fear that the murderous intent in his eyes sends through you.

His sword leaving its holster startles the room of men into silence, and you feel their attention set on the two of you. The blade finds a home right under your chin, piercing mildly at the soft skin.

Your breath quickens in fear, and when you swallow past your dry throat you feel the tip of the sword inflicting sharp pain in your neck.

Stithulf smiles darkly, “I could kill you now and leave them leaderless, heathen.”

But you refuse to let him see the fear in your eyes, instead promising, “Make me a martyr and you will not survive the night, Christian. The Greeks will kill and die for me.”

Even as you leave the tent behind, you hear the heavy footsteps of the Saxon behind you. A call of your name, and you stop. Not your title -Anassa, Hiereiai-, not an insult -heathen, pagan-, not your lineage -Daughter of Athens, Daughter of Sparta-. Your name.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done so in front of your men.” You state without turning around, and the Christian reaches your side with his sword holstered.

“I don’t want to kill you,” He insists, shaking his head, “But I should do it regardless. You are a smart woman, which makes you dangerous.”

Not even a muzzle would keep your next words from leaving your lips, “Dangerous? Is a man dangerous for being knowledgeable?”

“If he has nothing to lose, like you, yes.”

“What are you saying, Stithulf?”

The Saxon sighs, an act of regret and humanity you don’t believe for a moment.

“I’m saying you should know that you have forced my hand, Greek, that I had every intention to have you wage war alongside us, had you chosen to do so.

_____

Hi, I’m kinda amazed you got this far down lol, but thank you so much for reading! This is one of the first projects in a while that I am really loving to write, and I hope you like it!

Please let me know what you think, I am one needy fuck when it comes to feedback :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #νοσταλγία prologue #νοσταλγία

247 notes · View notes

bisexualhobi · 3 years

Note

i get you bc I'm an actual rap fan (not just kpop hip hop) so if you come from that background you're like used to a certain style or whatever, and yoongi definitely emulates it, you can tell he grew up listening to biggie and jay and eminem. but again I know taste is subjective. if you had to rank the rapline in objective terms could you do it?

Hmmm yeah I think I kinda agree with you. I'm not sure if I'd say yoongi emulates them or even if he does it better (but then again, all korean hip hop is a literal copy of black music and culture, specially black people from the USA), but he's a favorite among hiphop lovers.

Answering your question should be short and sweet, so the objective ranking of rapline is:

Agust D

J-Hope

but the long answer explains why I ranked them this way, and I went off and wrote all of this in 20 minutes so if you feel like reading it, here you go:

About Agust D, his unique production style imo is what shines through even more so than namjoon and Hoseok's. his first mixtape is raw Yoongi style. it's insane. I actually didn't think he could surpass it in D-2 but he shut me up. You can tell that man was originally going to be just bangtan's producer. He's got an ear for catchy hooks, innovative rhythm schemes and he just knows how to make a hit. it reminds me so much of young Kendrick Lamar, or Kanye in his golden age..... hell I'll admit I hadn't been as pumped listening to a rapper since I discovered Childish and Tyler the creator. His lyrics however are often just dissing, humble brag, humble brag, ambiguous reference to his sexuality, more dissing, reference to his time in bts. Which is fine!! I listen to agust d to get hyped and feel like a bad motherfucker. it does its job. If you care about speed, Yoongi beats Namjoon and Hoseok easily. He can spit bars like Eminem. He's got the speed, the flow, and it's really fucking hot.

regarding Namjoon, if you listen to RM's first mixtape though, it's very much a western rap mixtape. almost all the tracks are samples from black American rappers. what shines through in RM's rapping is his lyricism and ability to play with the verse, imagery and word play. but there's at least five of his songs that sound the same melody and production wise. However, he's also versatile, because mono is something so unlike anything you could've expected from RM after the first mixtape. I actually have a problem with mono being called a rap mixtape lmao. mono isn't rap, it's alternative hiphop mixed with lofi r&b, a very pleasant indie sound that I've only heard with Frank ocean, Kevin abstract, or Steve lacy. but still, mono is, accordingly, very monotonous in its musicality. That's why a lot of people put it on before they go to bed. it winds you down. But yeah, RM isn't as focused on the track's melody as he is in the story he tells. So I guess you could say Agust D's strength lies in his beats and melodies, while RM's is his lyrics and rhyme schemes. I'm gonna get made fun of in reddit if a screenshot of this gets spread around but I hadn't seen such a powerful, born lyricist since 2pac and Biggie. his shit is off the rocker. It makes sense that his role model is Nas, who's also known for powerful verses. Regarding his rapping style, he can be fast but he's better at playing with the cadence. His delivery is stronger than his flow, but Yoongi can match him in delivery too.

Hoseok is a very different case. man didn't even know how to rap when he joined big hit. He only listened to hip hop for his dance performances, he didn't grow up absorbing the culture the way Yoongi and Namjoon did. RM and Agust D move like you expect underground seasoned rappers to move, J-Hope moves more like a pop star. His lyrics aren't as intricate as RM's, but he still manages to paint an image in your head, he manages to get his point across while still making references to literary works such as 20,000 leagues under the sea, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Alice in Wonderland, and Around the World in 80 Days. Can you tell he's a literature teacher's son? People have this idea that his songs are just feel good, happy tunes, but there's much more depth than that. I think personally he's more of an r&b artist than a rapper, at least that's the way I feel it. His strength lies in his stylization of the music and composition of a track's journey. He's a dancer, ofc he knows how to make the song build tension, keeping you waiting, and then he knows exactly when to give you release. His musicality is top tier, he rivals Agust D in that aspect. But he comes up short in flow. He's not as fast or effortless as RM or Agust D when it comes to speed. He can spit bars, don't get me wrong, but his style is less about fast verses. Emotion wise he beats RM and Agust D though, because his stage presence surpasses the other two. He knows himself and he knows what his strengths and weaknesses are. He makes every song his own. I saw a meme that I think is very fitting here, this is literally Hoseok:

it's true! Yoongi can do RM and Namjoon can do Agust d, but neither of them can do Hoseok's verses. There's a performance where Namjoon and Hobi fill in Yoongi's mic drop verse, but I remember an interview where Yoongi says neither him or Namjoon could do Hoseok's verse in Outro: tear. whether that makes him better or just different I leave to your interpretation. I'll just say he stands out.

To summarize, Yoongi is better at:

✔️production ✔️flow ✔️delivery ✔️musicality

Namjoon is better at:

✔️lyricism ✔️flow ✔️delivery ✔️production

and Hoseok is better at:

✔️musicality ✔️lyricism ✔️production ✔️emotion

#asks #long post #I'm sorry I did this on mobile and can't put a readmore #rapline #hobi #namjoon #yoongi

49 notes · View notes

owillofthewisps · 4 years

Text

rosemary & thyme

notes: fun fact this was actually what started unspoken and as such this takes place in the same verse. i’d initially planned it to be in unspoken but sometimes things just don’t work like that. this is also self indulgent fluff for myself today bc my cramps are bad enough that i can’t stand for more than five minutes without starting to shake from the exertion lol

the third gif in this was what kicked this off the ground in the first place

title is from scarbourough fair, mostly thinking of the simon & garfunkel version.

also this is my 900th post on here lol

rating: teen. no real warnings, just fluff. maybe small hints of self-esteem issues and small hints of mostly dulled grief.

pairing: eskel/fem reader

word count: 2.5k

on a spring day, you re-paint the trim of your cottage. it is an old, old pattern, but you are determined to make something new.

“Must you?” you ask Lil’ Bleater.

You’re ensconced in a soft bed of clover that lines your cottage. The sweet, grassy scent of the clovers lingers in the air like perfume, a herald of spring. Hyacinths are dotted through the bed, swaying in the gentle breeze, their buds plump on their stalks, a promise of blooms in the soft indigo peeking through the edges of them, the last breath of a winter sunset.

Lil’ Bleater is intent on eating them.

She noses at a small clump of stalks, each tenderly green, still newly given life. The stalks break under the clamp of her teeth, and you sigh.

“Must you?” you repeat.

She glances up at the sound of your voice and considers you. Then she bleats, loud and indignant, and leans down for another mouthful.

You snort a laugh and turn back to your cottage. You trace your fingertips over the window’s trim, the wood worn riverstone smooth by the years and the rain alike. The paint has chipped, washed out to the soft blue kiss of a robin’s egg. Even the vines, each a delicate scroll of leaves unfurling, have faded into something autumnal, their color muted by nature’s touch. You follow one of them with your fingernail. They wind like the small trails in the woods, meandering yet purposeful.

Your father had steady hands. Even with you and your brother clambering over him, children gone woods-wild, his delicate brush strokes brought the forest to life in the walls of your home.

Sometimes, when the sun shines just right, you think you can see the past peeking back at you, imprints of images long painted over glimmering just beneath the coats of paint.

Lil Bleater butts against your back. “Ow,” you tell her, even though it’s only a short bite of sensation.

The goat prances around your seated form and flops into your lap, all hoof and horns. She squirms until she’s comfortable.

She’s still munching on a hyacinth stalk.

“You owe me new flowers.”

She ignores you.

You sigh and readjust. She’s a warm weight in your lap, the heat of her softened by the thick fabric of your skirts. The goat makes a miffed noise at your movement. You stroke a hand over her horns, the smooth bone cool against your skin, like a spring river just beginning to warm. She nestles down into the cradle of your skirts with a soft noise. Your attention returns to your cottage.

You touch the window trim again, lay your fingers against the faded paint once more. The small flowers - delicate little things, unfurling prettily in soft layers of petals - were your mother’s favorites. They go back to the oldest layer, you know. You trace the one colored for you, and then walk your fingers over to the one for your brother.The ache settles between your ribs, fills the hollow space there.

“It’s still here,” you whisper to Lil’ Bleater. “It’s just built upon, right?”

The goat snuffles, mouthing at the hem of your bodice.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s still here.”

You pick up your bowl, paint the color of the soft blue of the midmorning sky splashed up the edges of it, and sweep a broad stripe of it over the faded flowers.

*******

“Stop,” you tell Lil’ Bleater, pulling your paintbrush from her ever-hungry mouth. “You’re going to get paint on you, and then Eskel and I will have to give you a bath, and none of us will find that enjoyable.”

She’s relentless, butting lightly at your arm and nibbling at your sleeve. You nudge at her with a grumble.

“Trouble finds trouble, I see,” Eskel says from behind you, his deep voice lined with laughter.

“You’d best be talking about the goat on both counts, dear Witcher.”

“Of course, sweetling.”

He wrestles Lil’ Bleater off of you, gentle despite the goat’s squirming. The goat announces her displeasure loudly and butts against his knees. She darts away before he can stop her, pausing just out of reach and bleating at him before she prances off in a familiar direction.

“I really should fence in my garden,” you muse, turning back to the trim. The fresh coat of paint gleams in the afternoon light, shifting to something sea-bright, the sky melting into water.

Eskel sighs. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Me neither.”

He settles behind you, one arm looping around your waist, his thick thighs framing yours. The smithy has left its touch on him since this morning, a hint of soot scent sweeping over you. Eskel’s rough fingers flirt with the hem of your bodice, his thumb sweeping over the ridge of the embroidery. It is hard to keep apart from each other, the first few days after he comes back to you. You gravitate towards each other like small suns, anchor yourselves in each other’s space with unthinking touches. A quiet assurance that you are both here, together.

You lean into the warmth of him. He’s broad against your back, a pillar of strength, and then he softens. It’s just a hint, but you can feel the way he uncoils for a breath. He winds his other arm around you.

“Missed you,” you say.

He laughs, low and sweet, and the rumble of it resonates through you. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“I always miss you,” you tell him matter-of-factly.

Pressed against him, you can feel it when Eskel’s breath hitches, catches in his throat.

You turn just enough to press your lips against the curve of his jawline. It is carefully placed, your soft kiss, just beyond the edges of his angry scar. He swallows, the muscles of his thick throat rippling. You hum softly, turn back to your cottage, and lean over to pick up the small stick of charcoal that’s half-buried in the clovers.

Eskel moves with you as you draw closer to the cottage. The charcoal stick scrapes against the paint as you sketch, soft clusters of yarrow flowers blooming slowly beneath your careful hands.

“This is a different pattern than the previous,” Eskel murmurs. His voice is rich against you, flows like warm, honeyed mead.

“Mhm.” You rub a thumb against a wobbly line, wipe it out of existence. “The previous one was my father’s.”

His arms tighten around you, scaffolding to keep you steady. “How many years?” he asks.

“Long before I was born,” you say, rubbing out another poor line. “He added to it throughout his life.”

“There was one for you, wasn’t there? One of the little flowers had your color in it.”

You glance back at him, at the sunrise of his golden eyes. Eskel has a gaze that strips you, sometimes, that peels away the world until it is just you and him. “Aye,” you say softly. “There was.”

He brings you trinkets, sometimes, in that same color. Little things from his journey on the Path. Nothing grand, but carefully chosen, often fitting into the niches of your cottage perfectly. Tiny curios to replace those you’d left behind in your first cottage, as if they can capture the first night he spent there with you soft in bed with him, tucked close around his broad frame.

Eskel slips a hand to your free one and slowly twines his fingers with yours. It’s almost shy, and you turn your palm skyward to better hold him. Your interlaced hands rest on the plush of your thigh, his thick knuckles pressing soft divots into the flesh.

You start to sketch again, adding a sweep of sorrel leaves to frame the yarrow, the soft curve of the leaves wrapping carefully around the buds.

Eskel is quiet behind you. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady like the tide, a cadence that feels as if it belongs solely to you.

Eventually, you pull away from your sketching. You tilt your head and examine it. It’s by no means fine work. You do not have your father’s steady hands, cannot bring life to charcoal drawings in the same way. But your months of practice have paid off. The yarrow buds match the ones speckled along the roadside, and the sweep of sorrel leaves could be the fields that surround your cottage.

��What do you think?” you ask.

Eskel shifts. He leans forward, just a hint, and touches just beside one of the veins of a sorrel leaf. Each inch of his chest is solid against your back. “You’ve practiced.”

“Yes.”

He squeezes your hand. “It’s nice.”

You laugh. “I’ll take nice,” you say. “I suppose.”

“Next time I’ll be more complimentary, then.”

“Good,” you say, and you let go of his hand so that you can wipe the charcoal dust off on the very hem of your skirt, already dirt streaked at the edges. Then you press the charcoal stick into Eskel’s hand. The small stick is dwarfed in his massive hand, and want pulses through you for the briefest breath. “Your turn,” you say. Your bold words have never sounded so shy.

Eskel stills.

That ache that fills the gaps of your ribs pulses, goes sharp at the edges, thorns against your bones.

You feel him draw in a breath.

“If you want,” you say, the words stumbling off your tongue. You keep your gaze ahead, focus on the sheen of the paint. It’s the same pigment your father used. When you crush the ingredients beneath the pestle, the scrape of it against the mortar sounds like your father’s voice. There has never been a blue that evokes such tenderness in you.

Eskel’s fingers close around the charcoal stick.

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s quiet, but not to him, you know.

Eskel always hears you.

“You’re sure?” he asks, and though the words are steady and his voice is the same mellow, deep tone, there’s something wavering in him, an uncertainty that cloaks him.

“Yes,” you say. “I told you - I rarely change my mind.”

“Rarely is not never.”

You ache to glance back at him, to find the honey gold of his gaze, to see the map of his scars against his handsome features. You know you cannot. Something ancient in you knows that if you break this moment, it will never return.

“Eskel,” you say quietly. “Not about this.”

He swallows.

He shifts forward. The motion takes you with him, carries you forward like a wave to the shores. He hesitates just as the charcoal rests against the pristine paint above your sketches.

You let your eyes flutter closed, your lashes whispering against your skin, the barest breath of sound, and feel some of the tension melt from Eskel’s broad frame. You curl yourself into the cradle of his chest. The charcoal scrapes against the wood, a brisk sound softened by the murmur of the spring breeze. The fingers of the breeze stroke through the trees, rustling against the leaves until it’s something of a melody. You listen quietly, let the song of it wash over you, feel Eskel warm and steady around you, and find yourself drifting hazily through time.

The sound of the charcoal fades. There is only the wind now, only the breeze catching in the meadows red-veined sorrel before it slips between the trees. You wait, rubbing a thumb idly over the thick muscle of Eskel’s thigh.The sun is filtering through your eyelids, lighting even the shadows of your closed eyes.

Eskel fidgets. It’s the slightest of movements, but from someone so disciplined, it rings across your senses like a skipping stone leaving ripples across a pond’s surface.

You lay your head back against his broad shoulder and open your eyes. “Well met,” you say to him as he glances down at you, and his eyes burn bright, amber wreathed by sunlight.

“Well met,” he says back, laughter tucked just under his tongue, but then his eyes flicker away.

You nudge at his jawline for the span of a breath, and then you turn your attention to the window trim.

The ache filling the gaps of your ribs fades away.

Eskel has woven sprigs of rosemary through the sorrel stalks, the sharp-tipped herb softened by the dainty ovals of thyme leaves. You can tell where he began to draw. The charcoal is lighter there, not pressed firmly down, but the lines grow darker as the herbs grow more plentiful. The black of the charcoal is stark against the blue. They’re both oddly delicate, the sky blue softened to a pale robin’s egg, and the spider web of charcoal lines lies over it like fragile lace.

His arm tightens around your waist. You reach down and lace your fingers through Eskel’s, a woven pattern strong enough to carry both of your weights. His shoulders loosen. You can feel his slow, steady heartbeat.

“Come,” you say after a moment, “you can help me with the rest of the paint.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I hate grinding for the colors,” you say, rising to your feet and clapping your hands against your skirts. “It takes too long. But your Witcher muscles must be up to the task, yes?”

Eskel pushes himself up in a graceful movement, that sleek dexterity of a Witcher. “If I’d known it was only my muscles you keep me around for-”

“You’d have stayed anyway for the sex.”

He coughs at that, but his smile is broad. “You’re confident.”

You shrug. “It’s good sex.”

He laughs, a low growl of a sound. “That it is.”

You glance his way and find yourself struck by the sight of him. The afternoon sun is kind to him, makes his dark hair glisten and his eyes practically glow. You reach out to him with a small smile, wind your fingers through his once more. He lets you tug him along.

You pause just before the threshold of your cottage, glancing back as Eskel ducks inside. The clover still carries the mark of your bodies, the plush of them pressed down where you had been. There’s a bit of paint splashed across them. You idle for a moment, let the breeze tease at your skirts.

Things will be different once you cross the threshold.

With Eskel’s softly sketched herbs spun in a delicate web around your yarrow and sorrel, your cottage is no longer just yours.

You inhale softly, let the scent of the clovers wash over you. It’s grassy and sweet, with a hint of earthy dirt just beneath. It smells like home.

You turn around and go inside.

taglist: @tutuwho @witchernonsense @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r @hina-chans-stuff @restingnurseface @raspberrydreamclouds @ambivertomnivore

#eskel x reader #eskel x you #eskel imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine

213 notes · View notes

kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 27 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 26 here. Part 28 here.

Summary: You were having such a good time before you were reminded of what you needed to be doing for the Resistance.

Words: 5000

Warnings: glove kink

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: >tfw you have your husband wear the shoes of your other husband bc you're a slut for a silver-tipped boot

Hello! I just wanted to say I was kind of blown away by the feedback I got for last chapter? Thank you guys so much? If you're unaware, my life has been sort of crazy, lately--if you google Kylo Ren, an article about Fix Your Attitude is currently the first result, haha.

I've deeply appreciated all the support, engagement, and love I've received for my writing. This fic is the apple of my eye, and being lucky enough to have people connect with it and enjoy it is truly THE gift for any writer, at all. I can't thank y'all enough, some of whom have been reading the garbage I crank out for like, 4 years. It's absolutely humbling and baffling, to me.Anyway, enough of my rambling.

Hope you enjoyed the fucking, because, to quote my true love, we're not done yet.

The sun had set. The party had begun hours ago.

You’d remained upstairs during the opening service, the three-course meal, folding and flipping the hem on your dress. The fabric was slippery, soft, a cold creek on your skin--refreshing, liquid relief, filling your lungs with air that had never known enslavement. It was enough to trick you for seconds into thinking that you could slink down the steps without hesitation, find your Commander’s eyes in the crowd, and sidle up to him. Like his partner.

But the lightless loneliness of your room crushed that dream.

A knock on the door, a hammerfist. “The Commander requests you.”

You blushed--your cheeks were tight. “All right.”

Greeting the Knight at your door, you followed him into the hall, down the steps. He didn’t even pay you a second glance, but you’d kept your bonnet and your boots, not brave enough yet to let your hair hang free in front of anyone but Kylo Ren. Descending into the home, the tinkle of piano keys floated through your ears, joined by the babbling of strangers. The reality of it smacked you--you were about to reveal yourself to a crowd in a champagne-pink gown, with your wrists peeking out and your ankles kissed by chiffon. Your heart thumped--thank God you weren’t in space, or you might have confused the heavy pain with an alien ready to burst through your chest.

Following dinner, light in the home was supplied only by strategic white candles placed on hall tables; you felt like a concubine, being led through a castle passage to the king, scurrying with your black-clad escort aided only by tiny flames. He guided you to the piano room, stopping at the threshold, but you were frozen. Just beyond the Knight you spied a few dozen people congregated together, some chatting, a few couples dancing to the music. You couldn’t stand the thought of moving, of entering that room as if you belonged.

But you were a survivor. You did belong. After all, this was Ren’s idea--not yours.

You swallowed, stuck your chin out, the click of your boots resonating up your calves as you crossed into the piano room. At first, you were invisible, an observer--you spied Armitage and Dolpheld chatting with an older, silver-haired man. The rest were faces you didn’t recognize, except for two: Finn and Rey, swaying in rhythm, murmuring to each other under the melody. And then, at the back of the room, almost hidden by the crowd, you glimpsed him--your Commander, staring off into the wall while Johana, serene and smitten, guided him through a reluctant waltz. Something speared your gut. No dress in the world would afford you the ability to earn the space she occupied.

So strange you could envy her position under a man who was the very enforcer of your conflict.

The first people to spot you were Rey and Finn, pausing in confusion as they reconciled your appearance with their knowledge of your role. The next couple noticed them noticing you--and it spread. As if in a recording, each new person glimpsed you and stopped, a slow-pause of shock rippling from the epicenter of your dress. The final pairs of eyes belonged to Johana and Kylo Ren, their gazes searing you simultaneously. Her expression collapsed to something strange, muscles twitching with disbelief, a wave of horror spilling over her face. She blinked, an apparent impulse to tear herself away, but despite it, kept staring.

It was then that finally, crowd parted, you saw him--and the ground opened, a pit of lust swallowing you whole.

Commander Kylo Ren, in leather gloves, tugged at his sleeve, a black velvet jacket cut tight to his frame, open to a brocade waistcoat. A shift of his feet, wrapped in pointed, silver-toed boots, a tapered end to the trousers that were slim against his long, powerful legs. At his breast pocket, a sterling chain hung loose from his lapel, glinting in the candlelight, highlighting the absence of a tie. And his hair, full and thick, brushed his shoulders in raven waves, the crown swept into a loose, soft bun at the back of his head. He captured you in his gaze, paralyzing you, desire dripping from his eyes.

Despite being fully concealed, you’d never felt more naked, more exposed. And you’d never wanted a man more than you wanted him, in this moment, in your entire life.

The tension in the room ballooned, every person looking between you and Ren, and Johana squeezed her husband’s hands.

“So!” The insincerity of her smile bled through her teeth. “I suppose the Commander would like to make his announcement… regarding, uh…” She blinked. “This, uh…”

“The existence of Handmaids is an unfortunate necessity.” Ren’s gaze traveled over you in millimeters, cementing your image to his mind. “Recent rashes of disappearances and suicides threaten this necessity. Experimenting with small allowances--increasing satisfaction with Gilead--may provide us with greater compliance.” His lids fell in a slow blink, his stare met yours again; the glittering ache inside it failed to match his words. “And who better to advise me in this venture than a Handmaid herself.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Johana patted Ren’s hand, like she’d been part of the plan all along. Her attention kept dancing over the details of your dress, as if there was something familiar there. “It’s important that our Handmaid feels loved in our home. A part of our family. We’re so proud of what she’ll be helping to bring other Handmaids in Gilead.” She grinned at you, opening her arm, inviting you into this new family portrait. “Isn’t that right, Ofkylo?”

Every gaze in the room rested on you. You looked to Ren, then to her. “Yes, it is.” Nodding, you crossed the room, face hot as you allowed her to coil an arm around your shoulders and squeeze you just slightly too tight. The guests gawked, murmuring between themselves as Johana’s nails dug like talons into your flesh.

“He’s really so brilliant,” Johana said, gazing up at her husband. He was impassive. “That reminds me!”

She shoved you off, and you stumbled forward into the crowd, catching the twitch of concern under Ren’s lid. Affection and excitement tickled your skin, a buzz at the back of your brain. Being acknowledged as his advisor to the public was somehow thrilling, despite it marking you as complicit in Gilead’s clutches. It wasn’t the position--you had no intention of advising him--more so that for a moment, in his eyes, you’d been someone. You clung like a leech to these hints of his affection, of his acknowledgement of your personhood.

An arm tugged you around, a whisper in your ear. “Meet us in the downstairs washroom in twenty minutes.” Rey’s voice.

You cleared your throat and nodded, disappearing further through the guests, toward the entrance, hoping to escape the attention that swarmed you. At some point, you’d need to find an opportunity to slip away.

“As many of you know, Commander Snoke’s Wife, Christine, is now a Widow.” Johana was ushering some of the Wives forward, their husbands watching them with suspicion. “Many of you also know how my late husband, Moden Canady, died in service of founding Gilead. What I found helpful…”

“Ren lets her talk far too much.” In front of you was the silver-haired man, leaning in to mutter to Armitage. “What’s this Handmaid nonsense he’s going on about?”

Armitage peered over his shoulder at you, annoyingly smug smirk plastered on his lips--you were beginning to wonder if it was a permanent fixture. “Ren’s young and inexperienced. He won’t be around for long. Neither will his plans.”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “One might think you’d be the one person supportive of his allowances for Handmaids.”

A flicker of fear crossed his face. “What?”

Johana clapped her hands. “So what I’ve devised is a prayer circle. Here’s how it will work…”

The crowd was shifting, gathering toward Johana, the bustle and music swallowing the cadence of her voice. Behind you, the Knight Templar stood at the threshold, a silent sentinel. Part of you wanted to continue sniping at Armitage. The other part realized that with murmurs of dissent already apparent, you couldn’t guarantee who the Knight was there to protect. ‘

Ren--or you?

You set your jaw, offering Armitage a brief curtsy.

“Excuse me.” The distraction created a serendipitous opportunity to escape. You went to pass the Knight, who blockaded your exit. “The washroom, sir.”

He glanced beyond you, and you followed his gaze. There, you saw your Commander, and heat rushed you again, a tangible longing that whirled like wildfire across the crowd, stoked the both of you, two flittering moths, in its flame. God, he looked incredible--you could devour him, like this, and you knew he’d stormed with that same need since he’d raked you over in your dress.

Ren nodded at his Knight, and the spell broke. Right. You were meeting with the Resistance. Shaking the hunger from your eyes, you realized he had stepped aside, allowing you to pass. With your head bowed, you shuffled into the hall, quick steps taking you to the washroom around the corner, and you escaped beyond the door.

Incandescent mirror lights gleamed on shiny subway tile, stark along the black accents in the floor trim and the polished clawfoot tub at the far wall. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, resting on the sleek ceramic sink, cheeks still glowing. The dress looked better on you under this lighting, the chiffon almost lustrous against your skin. No wonder Ren had been so entranced. The idea pressed your thighs together.

Focus. Thoughts flurried as you anticipated Rey and Finn’s arrival, what they’d want from you, what you’d say. It was true--you’d been a pitiable spy, so far. All you’d managed to do in your tenure for the Resistance was get fucked by and cum on your Commander’s cock (oh, and get bathed in blood and call him Daddy--you shuddered). Something told you that wasn’t the type of subversive action they’d been counting on. At the same time, you felt at a loss for what to do, regardless. He’d destroyed his information cache, and he’d spent the past couple of weeks recovering from injury.

It was frustrating, to feel more hope for your future with Kylo Ren than your future with the Resistance. You seemed perfectly capable urging him toward minor change, but when it came to taking action for the group that actually had your freedom in mind, you floundered, a hapless child.

The door opened, you spun--it’d only been about 30 seconds since you’d entered--and in slid your Commander, eyes trained on you while he locked it behind him. You blinked.

“Comman--”

Ren snatched your hips, spinning you over and shoving you onto the sink as his lips smothered yours. That flame from the piano room roared, drenched in the fuel of your connection, your skin flickering to life. Your fingers dove into his hair, wringing around his luscious waves, and he groaned, slipping his tongue into your mouth, a large hand coming to cup your head, to trap you there, the other coasting up and down your side.

Your legs spread for him, welcoming him, cunt already throbbing in anticipation. For a brief second, you pushed away, running your hands over his velvet chest, taking a moment to admire him, to soak in how absolutely fucking beautiful he looked. Ren did the same, seeming new, somehow, a reverent awe in his gaze, not just feral, but tormented, needing to have you in his arms. His lip twitched, and he kissed you again, jerking you closer, sucking in air through his nose while his tongue swirled over yours.

Whimpering, you caressed his shoulders, up his neck, finding his hair once more, fingers teasing the warm, hidden shell of his ears. At this, his back crested, and he moaned, pitching forward, nearly shoving you into the basin as he trembled.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re fucking beautiful.” He flipped up your dress, warm leather smoothing over your skin. “I need to make you cum.”

A shiver shook you from the base of your spine, and you curled your legs around him, core clenching hard. Your hips rolled forward, seeking his touch, and he grazed your pussy over your underwear, thumb ghosting your clit through the fabric. You squeaked, and he silenced you with his mouth, tugging at the fabric until he’d fit his thick fingers under the hem. The spark of leather-on-skin earned a groan from your throat, and you combed through his hair, meeting the fervor of his kiss.

Ren peeled away, gasping, watching you as he slid a digit through your hot slit, his breath hitching. “So wet for me,” he murmured. “And all mine...” He dragged a slickened gloved finger over your clit, the sensation new and delicious--you quivered, biting your lip. “Only for me…”

You nodded, inching forward, the only articulate words escaping as please, please, please.

“I’ll make you cum here,” he said, “and I’ll make you cum again before the party’s over.” He leaned close, his middle and fourth finger teasing your entrance, lips hovering over your ear. “And by the end of the night, the only thing this pretty mouth will be able to say is my name.”

“Oh--” you began, and he plunged into you. “God!”

He snickered. “Wrong name.”

Ren crooked his fingers in your cunt, focused on your flushing face, the tempo of your intermittent gasps, his breath shallow as you clenched and pulsed around him. A leather thumb traced rapid little lines around your swollen clit, the seams tripping over the nub, and you snuffed a whimper in your chest, staring at him. He wet his lips, pressing his mouth to yours in a brief kiss as he snapped his wrist, curling and scissoring inside of you. His hips rocked with his rhythm, and you saw the outline of his impressive erection straining at his pants. Your hand burned to stroke it, to feel it.

Chewing your cheek, you reached for him, grasping at his trousers, unzipping them and tugging everything down his thighs, length springing free, smacking his clothed stomach. He barely seemed to notice, so lost in the heat of your cunt in his hand. You scooted closer and wrapped your fingers around his warm, heavy cock--he choked, jabbing you deep, forcing a quaky breath from your lungs. Swallowing, you tightened your fist and stroked him, watching him from half-lidded eyes.

He throbbed, twitched under your grip, blood biting his cheeks when you coated his head with the bead of his pre-cum, and his breath was uneven, tattered from the weight of lust--but so was yours. Ren circled your stiff nub, pumping his fingers into your pussy, and pleasure wracked you, pouring into your pulse like perfect poison--a feeling you should never have wanted, but would now die without.

“Christ,” you mumbled, “Commander--”

“We’re alone.”

“I’m your advisor now, though.” You managed a half-smirk. “If we’re caught--I wouldn’t want anyone thinking this was anything more than an official handjob.”

Ren tilted his head, something devilish and dark and amused in his gaze--and then he kissed you again, shoving his tongue past your teeth, canting his hips in pace with your hand. He was smooth and silky and so big--in the back of your head, you couldn’t believe you’d taken all of him--the memory had you clench and groan into him, and his cock throbbed in your palm. The air was humid, thick with sex, dizzying you, shooting static through your skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, “you’re so tight…”

You hummed in delight. “And you’re so hard…”

He eased back, meeting your eyes, both of you slowing to stop as something slammed you in succession, a chasm of greed opening between your bodies. A snap, an ignition--in one smooth movement, you’d released him while his fingers left your core and yanked your underwear to the side, cock thrusting into you with a sweet sting. Ren hissed in bliss, sheathing himself in your heat.

“Yes…” He grappled your hips, encasing them in leather, fucking into you, watching his dick disappear into your pussy. “This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” he muttered. “To be my little whore?”

You nodded, mouth dropped in ecstasy, head fighting not to fall back onto your shoulders. “Yes, Commander…”

“I knew it the moment I saw you in this dress, staring at me, pleading to get fucked.” Shuddering at his own words, he groaned, shifting closer, murmuring into your ear. “I want to fill this cunt up with my cum...” He strangled a moan in his throat, pounding you, pinning your hips against his. “I want it to drip down your legs when you walk out of this room…”

“Please...”

To your intoxicated mind, nothing sounded better than dripping with the cum of the most beautiful man on the planet. Desire had consumed you both, his pace embodying complete desperation, a frenzied, urgent need to bring you both to orgasm. Ren’s strokes were rough, painful, incredible, your breath catching up with your brain, the euphoric fullness of his cock ready to fling you to another plane. And then his gloved thumb slid over your clit, beating it in time with his thrusts--you cracked, crying out.

“Yes!”

“That’s right,” Ren growled, “that’s right--you’re mine, you’re mine...” He pressed his lips to yours, short and sharp. “I can cum inside you whenever I want. I can make you cum whenever I want...” He was slamming you deep, panting with every snap of his hips, your pussy hot and slick and pulsing with your oncoming climax. “Cum for me.” He kissed you again, mouth millimeters from yours. “Cum on my cock, little bird. Let me make you whole…”

Rapture numbed you, at the edge of your skin, a typhoon ready to wreck you witless. “Commander,” you whispered, “I’m--”

A knock on the door. Both of you froze, fear puncturing the pulsating swell of pleasure with a wheeze. Your skin crackled, oxygen returning to your blood, and you felt him seated inside you, throbbing at the base, a furious demand to cum. The denial of release snipped your nerves to stubs--and judging by the tension in his jaw, Ren was doing no better. He looked to you expectantly.

You swallowed, cleared the hunger from your throat. “Oc-occupied.”

“Oh.” It was Rey again. Dammit. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We’ll wait for you out here!”

Ren raised a brow. In a way, it was good that in this moment, he was still half-hard, stuck inside you--he wouldn’t get to know who the members of the Resistance were that had dared to show to his installation celebration. You shifted away, but he gripped you, held you there, waiting for you to respond, his stare inspiring sweat at the back of your neck. Unfraid, you held his gaze. He’d said himself that your association with the Resistance didn’t concern him. Even though that had been before he’d taken over.

“Meet me by the annex stairs.” You took a long breath, clenching around the girth of his dick--but he was already slipping free. “There’s too much going on here.”

“Got it,” she said. “See you in five.”

After a silent, awkward moment had passed, Ren tugged you against him, stuffing his softening cock into you, and you squealed. “You’re still meeting with the Resistance.”

“I am.” You wouldn’t let your chin tremble. “I thought you weren’t concerned.”

He considered you, muscle fluttering under his eye. “I’m not,” he said. “You’re fortunate that I’ve spent too much time already away from my guests. Any other occasion would see me hanging them tomorrow.” Pushing off of the sink, he tucked himself away. “Another day, then.”

His brow drawn low, Ren ran his gloved hands underneath the water before wiping them clean. He said nothing, spearing you with a glare before he unlocked the door and stalked into the hall. A slow sigh escaped you, and you wrung the guilt from your heart. His small concessions hadn’t changed your position--he must have known that. So why did he have to seem so hurt?

And your body was still wondering why it hadn’t gotten the orgasm it had been wanting since you’d drank him in. You eased yourself onto the ground, wincing at how swollen your pussy still felt between your thighs, and shook it off, making your way to the stairs.

You found Finn and Rey, posted near the landing rails, and you snuck up to them, head on a swivel.

“I just scouted,” Finn said. “Ren’s in the piano room. We’re clear for the next few minutes.”

“Got it.” You blushed, realizing that they had no idea that just moments ago, he’d been in you. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Rey said, a sly grin on her face. She gestured to your outfit. “What’s going here?”

A tornado in your mind, words you wanted to say: I can’t stop fucking my Commander. I think about him constantly. Together, we drew vines, and when he held my hand, I didn’t hate him. Since Gilead, I’m lost, but in his eyes, I feel found. He wants to own me. Sometimes I want that, too.

Instead, you said, “I’ve ingratiated myself. He thinks I’m so eager to change Gilead.” You snorted. “It’s a perfect opportunity to do whatever you guys need.”

“That’s great!” Rey said. “I knew you had it in you.”

You’d had something in you, all right. “Thanks,” you said. “It was… nothing.”

“There’s rumblings already in the lower ranks,” Finn said. “Some are thinking that Ren staged a coup and got the Knights to cover it up.”

For some reason, your heart sank.

“With how quickly he took over, the changes he plans to make…” He looked between you and Rey. “There’s heavy suspicion. But with Christine’s testimony, the lack of evidence, they can’t prove anything.” Now he stared at you. “You were there. Do you know what happened?”

More words at your tongue: We killed Commander Snoke together. He saved my life. I saved his. We fucked in the blood of Snoke’s men. The water ran red while Ren filled me with cum. The air was soaked with death. I’d never felt so alive.

But instead: “It’s like Christine says. A guard killed Snoke.”

It confused you when it left your mouth.

“Damn.” Rey frowned, crossing her arms, and glanced at Finn. “Do you think he set it up, somehow? Maybe he was working with the guard? There has to be some proof, somewhere that he orchestrated this. He couldn’t have done it alone.”

Just upstairs, in your room, you had the knife--the switchblade Ren had given you, still crusty with Snoke’s blood. It was physical proof that you’d been there, that you’d stabbed him, that you and Ren had lit the match together. You could, in this moment, hand it over, tell them the entire sordid story, begin your own journey toward emancipation. You could watch Ren crumble, and let him take Gilead down as he fell.

A simple choice. It should’ve been a simple choice.

Yet all you could remember was kneeling at Snoke’s feet, Ren’s gaze meeting yours, and the incontestable truth you’d felt there--that against any of the impossible odds in that home, he was choosing you. And that in that moment, for reasons you still couldn’t know or understand, you’d chosen him, too.

“I’ll see if I can find anything,” you said, knowing you wouldn’t even begin to look.

Poe’s words, you’re a survivor, floated through your mind. He was right--you were surviving. But maybe you didn’t really deserve to.

“Great.” Rey patted your shoulder in camaraderie. “This is tough work you’re doing.”

“But look where you’ve gotten yourself so far!” Finn made a motion along his body, as if he’d put on a dress, too. “You’re obviously doing something right. Just keep it up. You’ll crack it.”

You were doing something right, if that something was getting fucked by your Commander in the washroom during his own party celebrating his installation as the leader of a totalitarian government. You’d been doing a great job at that, actually, until the group meant to unshackle you from slavery interrupted you. A shame, that.

“We should get back to the party,” Rey said. “Being gone too long looks suspicious. You head in first. We’ll catch up in a bit.”

You nodded.

The sensitivity between your legs still needed time to disappear, but you were able to make your way back to the piano room without waddling. The piano’s autoplayer was now running through a raucous, jaunty tune--it sounded like Largo al factotum. Not that you were a music expert, but you’d learned enough to know that. Either way, you were thankful for the noise that muffled the sound of your boots as you breezed past the Knight Templar and back into the music room. You tried to weave your way through to crowd toward Ren--even with the Knight here, you felt like every pair of eyes had pinned a target to your back.

You found him in the corner of the room, far from the piano, in conversation (debate?) with Armitage. Johana was at his side, her arms crossed.

“There’s plenty of ways we could be utilizing these precious resources,” Armitage said. “You insist on wasting them on something as fickle as reconditioning.”

“Fickle.”

“Yes, fickle.” He scoffed. “When we already have a fully-trained infantry. What we should be focusing on is building our navy. The biggest threats come from--”

Ren flicked his wrist in dismissal. “The biggest threats come from the West coast,” he said. “California, in particular, has made overt threats toward the Republic of Gilead.”

The chatter of the crowd was dying as the two men traded barbs, focus being drawn to the little corner where you’d hoped to disappear. Largo al factotum entered its second chorus. You’d remained silent, but Johana still managed to spot you. Her gaze darted over your dress again, and she narrowed her eyes.

“What is your goal, then, Ren?” Armitage still looked smug, even in challenge. “England has already made threats to assist the West if we push forward with any sort of idiotic manifest destiny--”

“The goal is to sanctify the rest of the continent.” Ren regarded Armitage as if he were, by any measure, the dumbest person on Earth. “Reconditioning our forces will make it possible for us to expand our reach to the West coast. To crush any opposition.”

“Crush.” The lilt in Armitage’s voice didn’t make sense until you realized, in horror, his attention was on you. The melody soared. It was only after he’d noticed you that Ren finally turned to see you, too. “An interesting word to use, Ren.” He paused, making sure he had the attention of the other guests. The piano pounded a rapid repetition of notes. “What exactly are you crushing by giving yourself a second Wife?”

He’d said it loud enough that the back of the crowd could hear. The piano had paused, a full rest in the music. If you’d been wearing your Handmaid uniform, you imagined your face would have been redder than your dress. Ren’s nostrils flared. And the piano picked up without irony.

Johana shrugged, a tiny smirk on her face. “Don’t be silly, Commander Hux,” Johana said. “Of course, we love our Handmaid… but a Handmaid could never hope to be a Wife.” She looked to Ren. “They earn those positions, don’t they? By going against the Bible?” Now back to you. “Who, for heaven’s sake, would ever want to be married to someone like that?”

Your fingers trembled, and you glanced at your Commander. He hadn’t said a word, but hardly seemed passive. Instead, there was a hint of intrigue in his gaze. Curiosity. Observing you, waiting to see what you’d do. Another rest in the music. You took it as permission.

“Interesting assumption the both of you have made,” you said, a model advisor. “After all, I don’t believe most Handmaids are asking for marriage.” This time you met Armitage’s stare again. “Unless wearing a new dress means you secretly want a life partnership.”

He frowned, jaw tight. “So, will we all be afforded advisors, then, Ren?” he said. “Or is this how you reward yourself?”

“Why would a man who makes no decisions of value require an advisor?” Ren replied.

He raised a hand, beckoning you forward with two leather fingers. The memory of where those fingers had been just minutes ago made you shiver--you obeyed, taking a space next to him, opposite of Johana. Largo al factotum entered its third chorus. Her face trembled with scorn.

“Roles are essential, but not permanent. We see shifting all the time--Angels to Commanders, Econowives to Handmaids, Wives to Widows. A Handmaid as an advisor is no different.” He aimed an empty, solemn gaze at Armitage. You felt tall and safe and disgustingly special. “It should come as no surprise that roles can form by necessity.”

Armitage sneered. “You parade your necessity around like a prized pet.”

“No,” Ren replied. The final patter of piano sailed through the air. “I assumed that you’d have difficulty grasping a new concept. It appears I was correct.”

The concluding chords rumbled, and Johana pulled her lips in over her teeth in what you guessed was unexpected, reluctant amusement. Armitage said nothing, and the other guests muttered to each other--you couldn’t tell if it was in admiration or disdain.

“Further questions about my decision can be directed to me at the next Council meeting.” The auto-player began a sweeter, softer tune. This one you didn’t recognize. The mumbling in the crowd grew to full chatter, and Ren looked to the Knight at the entry. “Ruk. Escort her.”

Before you could move, Ren snatched your wrist, so quick and subtle you weren’t even sure Johana noticed. What she <did notice was him leaning to your ear, whispering over it like sable silk.

“I’m not done with you, yet. Wait in your room. Keep the dress on.”

It took every bit of strength you had to prevent your cheeks from glowing. “Yes, Commander.” You cleared your throat, nodding to him and Johana. “Goodnight.”

Her gaze followed you, studied your dress as crossed to the Knight, her arms folded, eyes shiny. The melody in the room rolled into a slow, flooding crescendo. And as you disappeared around the corner, she broke the stare and turned away, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #glove kink #god I love majima's shoes though #I can't help myself I had to make Ren look hot because I CAN

177 notes · View notes