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neutron-stars-collision · 7 months

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Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 2 - West Ham Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 1 Summary: What happens when a chance meeting happens again (and again)? Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language and outrageous flirting 🤷🏻‍♀️ Author's Notes: It took me over a month to write (blame the capitalism and full-time work) and it's twice as long (over 8k), but it's here, eh? These two did not seem keen on shutting up and the result is chaotic, but then that's London for you. It also features a cheeky POV change because there's no rules and everything is a simulation :) Also, if anyone's interested, the dance she mentions in scene no 1 and shows Neil is 'Cupid's Variation' from Don Quixote ballet. As seen for example here. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

To say you have not thought about Neil every day since that encounter would be a lie. As it turned out, he was wrong. It was not difficult to remember him, tormented daily by the memories of that exact shade of blue or the way the strands of his hair fell over his forehead. Rarely the one to lie to yourself, you did not even try to get rid of those thoughts. After all, it was harmless. Hopefully.

A week later, on another dreary Wednesday morning, when the only reason for excitement was this autumn’s production of Don Quixote and the roll-call announcement in your inbox, you made it to the St. John’s Wood station with a slight shortness of breath. The morning walk was always an opportunity to admire how ordinary neighbourhoods of West Kilburn transformed into the poshness of Maida Vale and St. John’s. Alternatively, it was a way to check whether your fitness levels were still up to par. That morning, it was the second option.

Happy to blame the annoyingly engaging 5 minutes crafts video that popped up on your timeline just as you were supposed to be getting dressed, you shouldered your way past lingering tourists and through the ticketing gates. That was the only issue you had with the station. Its proximity to the most famous crossing in all of England (if not all of Europe) meant that day in and day out, hundreds of clueless individuals stood in your path. The best you could do was not trample them as you rushed to the platform, all too aware of the passing minutes.

Luckily, the gods of TfL were merciful. As soon as you stepped onto the platform, that familiar rush of warm air from the tunnels made the hair sweep into your face. You breezed through the rehearsed choreography – locating the door, letting the disembarking crowd through, stepping into the cart. It was easy, almost done with your eyes closed.

That Wednesday morning, you were glad you did not test the theory and kept your eyes open. The cursory glance around the cart got cut short when your gaze landed on the familiar dirty-blonde head, bowed over a book. You froze, eyes already doing their job by following the outline of the man to make sure it was not just your wishful thinking. Once you did it twice over, you knew it was no mistake. It was Neil. Sat by the window, blissfully unaware of your staring.

And you did stare. At the sharpness of his profile, the broad shoulders clad in a perfectly fitting shirt and the strong forearms, again bared by the rolled-up sleeves. Although it had only been a week, you drank the sight of him like a woman parched. Without letting yourself think too long of the consequences, you crossed the aisle and sat down next to him:

“I haven’t forgotten you. Are you proud?” with the breath still hitched in your throat, you watched Neil react.

He froze, the book almost slipping out of his loose hold. As if controlled by strings, his head swivelled towards your voice at an alarming speed. You watched as he scanned your face, clearly going through the same crisis as you did. Only once you saw Neil relax and not eager to bolt, you sagged into the plastic chair and offered him your most innocent look. Neil’s responding smile felt like sunshine hitting your face on a cold winter afternoon. You were happy to let the warmth seep into your bones.

“I’m mostly flattered, but you’re bad for my ego,” he gave you another once-over, this time lingering on your body.

It was more than welcome. You shot Neil a smirk, already ecstatic with the turn of the conversation. Although, there were evident falsities within his words. There was no big ego to conquer. You could see as much in that persisting disbelief in his eyes, the margin of distrust Neil kept throughout the last conversation. All because he did not seem to see himself the way he was. The way everyone else saw him.

“Nah, you’re fine,” using the observation as an inspiration, you reached out to pat his knee and lowered your voice to a faux-seductive timbre, “Actually more than fine,” admittedly, it was another corny line.

But if it worked.

When he blushed, you barely resisted the urge to pump your fist. Neil knew that was the intent anyway if his narrowing stare was anything to go by. He stayed silent for a beat, giving you a chance to stare. To trace his features with your gaze, substituting for a careful touch of your fingertips. It was too early to do that. Yet. But it did seem like the magnetism of last week’s meeting did not disappear, leaving you both arrested in each other’s orbit by the sheer force of gravity. A force you did not want to resist.

“Do you want to make me blush?” Neil’s question made you blink back the thoughts and admire your success.

That rosy-cheeked glow only added to the overall striking looks. And did not stop you from getting in too deep. That had already happened.

“Very much so,” shooting him your best innocent smile, you carefully lowered the tote bag onto the floor between your knees and looked around the cart, ending it on Neil again, “Fancy seeing you here,” the resulting smile was enough of a reward for the pain of another weak pickup line.

On the edge of your consciousness, you registered that the train was still moving as it should. The tourists were still starting to crowd the space. But it was hardly noticeable.

“Likewise,” Neil seemed to consider something for a beat, then he extended his hand towards you in a greeting. An echo of that first handshake, “Hi,”

Not hesitating to join him halfway, you wrapped his palm in a tight hold, letting your thumb draw invisible lines along the back of his hand.

“Hi,” like then, the handshake lasted too long, but none of you cared to cut it short. Neil loosened the hold first, his long fingers trailing over the back of your hand and the length of your digits before dropping away. The slight catch in your voice was masked easily by the next question, “Soo, is this like… Are you going to work?” you eyed his outfit again, taking note of the leather laptop bag on the floor.

It seemed clear, but if the years of commuting by the London Tube taught you anything, it was that almost nothing was what it seemed.

“Yeah, I am,” Neil breezed through your doubts with a decisive nod.

The unspoken was easily detected. A better woman would have probably let it be, ignoring the omission with the hopes that the conversation partner was too shy to disclose the information. Like a normal almost-stranger. But you were never the better woman.

“Where do you work?” you leaned in closer, the waft of his cologne overwhelming the senses.

The masking conspiratorial grin must have appeared manic. It was hard to tell whether that alone was the reason for Neil’s passing discomfort.

“I’d rather not say,” he shifted in the seat, averting your gaze, “It’s… complicated,” the apologetic tone only added fuel to the curiosity.

Now you had to know. One way or another.

“Can I guess?” your mind was already buzzing with possibilities.

Not only was he stunning, but mysterious. To not let that get into your head you reached into the tote and dug out a water bottle. One greedy sip hardly did what it needed to do. And you nearly choked during it. A heavenly omen? You did consider that, in between Neil’s intense stare and his hesitant nod.

“Good luck with that,” the scepticism in his gaze felt like a challenge.

One that you were happy to take up. You leaned back as far as the seat confines allowed and measured him critically. The elegant clothes suggested it was unlikely Neil was working at a shopfloor level. As did the “put together” appearance, with the only flaw being the unkempt hair falling into his eyes. Still, the possibilities were endless.

You decided to start with something safe. Probable.

“Are you a stockbroker?” on its own accord, the look of distaste passed through your face, twisting the features into something almost comical.

It was hardly your fault. It was the years of frustrating men reacting to the news about your job with a bemused smirk, eager to spend the next 10-20 minutes proving the Arts were dead and the ballet was a farce. A hobby, they said. Most of those men were passionate about the stock exchange. Oh, so eager to spend their days screaming at the screens displaying rates and figures you did not care to decipher. Somehow, it was you who was in the wrong. You were the naïve one.

It was impossible to say whether Neil could read all of that from the fleeting look on your face, but the amusement in his eyes suggested it was likely.

“Christ, no,” he shook his head vehemently, revealing his feelings towards the occupation.

Somehow, it felt like a relief. That tiny dose of joy was enough to embolden you further. To let go of the remaining apprehensiveness and let your mouth do what it did best. It happened often enough to be an issue. Because once you stopped caring what you said or how the other person reacted, nothing stopped your mouth from speaking whatever it wanted.

Most of the time, that meant utter bullshit.

“Alright… A priest?” as soon as the question gained voice and sound, you knew it was one of those times.

That, however, did not make you want to take it back. How could you, after seeing the bewilderment on Neil’s face, which beat any expression you had ever seen him make?

“… What is going on in that head of yours?” he stared at you with concern, only making that laughter bubbling in your chest become a fact.

Admittedly, the image was hilarious. Neil, as a member of the clergy, was a concept that emoted thoughts you did not dare dwell on. At least not now. Not when you were right next to him. Later? Maybe.

“Nobody knows,” you shook it off with a mysterious look thrown his way and rested your chin in your fist, positioned perfectly to fix your unwavering gaze on him, “So, I guess it’s a no, then?”

Just in case that it was a yes.

“No,” Neil spoke faster than you deemed possible, quickly keying into the breathless laugh breaking on your face, “I mean, yes, it’s a no,” the decisive shake of the head was enough for you to drop it. If he let you, “Is that a kink thing, or…?”

The inquisitive look was turned onto you. There was no chance of escaping the blue eyes that stared you down. Yet again, you felt like he could see the depths of your soul. And judging from the smile hiding in the corner of his lips, he liked what he saw.

But that did not mean you were happy to give him quite that much.

“I wouldn’t tell you if it was. Not yet, anyway,” you hoped the promise within that sentence was clear.

Neil’s widening grin confirmed it. You winked at him, sealing the pledge for future use.

“Are you also going to work?” Neil’s question acted like a needed change of scene.

A naturally occurring shift in the atmosphere. You took it with both hands open wide:

“To the dance studio. I got a part in autumn’s production of Don Quixote. The Cupid, to be exact. That means the next few months, I might as well live in there,” the heavy sigh was only half of an act.

But it was nice to share the news. To boast to someone who listened and seemed to care. Because the thrill of that first look at the cast list and seeing your name there was still burning.

“Congrats. That sounds like a big deal,” Neil’s proud smile confirmed the hopes and dreams.

“It is. It’s difficult, even though the variation is like a minute long,” unafraid to delve into the deposit of fun facts and trivia available at hand, you rambled on until you remembered about the videos you could use as a demonstration “I could show you what it looks like, if you want?” fully prepared, you took out the phone from your pocket and waited.

Neil gestured towards it like there was no dilemma at all. Like he wanted to understand.

“Obviously,” he nodded, welcoming you into his space and leaning his back against the carriage side.

You did not squander that chance, typing the necessary phrase onto the YouTube search and getting closer to him. Once the video was ready, you offered Neil one of your earphones. It was not long, with the clip’s duration barely breaching the one-minute timestamp, but the shiver of excitement was still there. It caught fire when you pressed play and heard the familiar score fill your ears, the eyes tracing the steps by the ballerina on the recording with the mind making plans for your version. For what you could do to make it different. Memorable. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

But what soon became more fun was watching Neil instead of looking at the screen. He was focused on the performance, staring at the dancer with curiosity and interest. As if like he cared. You were not sure what to do about that realisation.

As the ballerina finished the performance with a smile and the video ended, you moved the phone away and snatched the headphones to deposit both in the tote. The rare hesitancy replaced the previous bravery, taking all the words out of your mouth and leaving you silent. And unable to look at him until Neil was the first to speak:

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” the encouragement in his voice did half the job of coaxing you out of the stupor.

The act was complete when he placed his palm on your knee and squeezed it lightly. That alone made you turn your head to look at him, all at once letting go of the shyness. Although he just as quickly took his hand back, the burning mark on your skin remained like the phantom touch. The slightly manic grin you turned on him was the only way you could hide the darkening blush.

“What did I do to deserve trust like that?” the question was genuine, eating at your brain with small yet persistent bites, impossible to ignore.

Neil had no obligation to humour you. No need to support you – a near stranger by all accounts. But he did. It was increasingly difficult to keep a distance. To remind yourself that you did not really know him. That trust should not be given this easily.

Neil’s searching gaze did not make it easier.

“I just like to believe in people, especially if I consider them friends,” he met your gaze and offered a timid smile.

You grasped onto the chance with a tight hold.

“Are we friends?” it was an opportunity for him to back off, to leave before you got in deeper.

Before what was once a chance meeting and a cute story to share with friends after a glass of wine became something real. Something frequent. Something to care for.

You did not have to stop to know what you wanted to happen.

“Something along those lines,” Neil shrugged, reading what you meant without difficulty. You saw the friendship take shape in the tiniest of nods you exchanged before he changed the topic with a cheeky smirk, “Especially considering I know about your annoying hook-up,” the involuntary shudder was an automatic reaction on your part, earning a pleased laugh from him “Talking about which, any new conquests?” he measured you up with that same searching look.

One that told you it was not only you that wanted to know more. That Neil, too, was curious. Although, that assumption was a tad bit insulting.

“No, come on. It’s been a week,” the frustration in your tone was a choice, a way of showing how the presumption made you feel, “I’m not that much of a player,” while it was from an insult, Neil needed to know he was wrong.

For some reason. A reason you were not willing to pick apart or scrutinise. Whether he noticed your ongoing crisis, it was hard to tell, for the moment Neil turned a mischievous grin on you, all rational thoughts had disappeared.

“And yet here you are, flirting with me,” checkmate.

The look you gave him confirmed his suspicions, if nothing did before. Only the fact was that your raging flirting with Neil hardly had anything to do with the desire to score another hook-up. There was no aim here, only that he was willing and too beautiful to be ignored.

At least, that was the hill you would die on.

“You’re making it easy,” you shrugged, half hoping to shift the attention away from your sex life and its many failings. But the opportunity was right there, too good to be wasted. Too perfect for the humour glimmering in his eyes and the expectant twitch in his lips, “Plus, you never know what may happen,” admittedly, the lower timbre and the seductive tone were all taken from the book on flirting you had used many times before.

But it worked, so… As if looking to distract you, Neil dragged a hand through his hair, making the blonde strands stick up and then fall in even greater disarray over his forehead. (That worked, too). All the while, he never let his gaze stray away from yours, seemingly confident that there was no need to keep note of the upcoming stops or anyone else around you. That, too, was a dangerous observation to make. All things considered.

“You have something in mind?” Neil’s question forced you to maintain some composure, but even that was short-lived.

As if inspired by your antics from that first meeting, his gaze travelled to your lips. The action alone kicked off a chain of events. Your eyes took the cue to glance down, to trace the shape of his mouth with a pang of hunger tugging at your stomach. Neil noticed it, watching you like a hawk that has just set the hook for its prey. Sinker? His tongue darted out to lick the expanse of his bottom lip. The hot flash of want sizzled underneath your eyelids as you forced yourself to look away.

Even if only to pretend you had not been struck by the same bullet you had fired at him the week before. The amusement you noticed in the corner of your eye told you it was futile.

“Oh, certainly,” your gaze stayed fixed on the darkness of the tunnels outside, as you mused out loud, “Especially if we keep on meeting like this,” there was nothing to add.

No chance of hiding the hopeful tint in your voice or the desire voiced with it. The part of you that had always rebelled against vulnerability and telling people truths, that were too close to reality, was ablaze with rage. You worried that, soon, it might start chucking rocks at you to stop. Goddamn.

“I hope we will. You’re, without a doubt, the most fascinating person I’ve met in a while,” only Neil’s matter-of-fact tone could make you turn back to face him.

If only to check whether it was not some meaningless jest. But there was no joke shining in his blue eyes. Only certainty. On the outskirts of your perception, you noted the station you had just left. That catchy ABBA song sharing its name reverberated in your head as if queued up by the gremlins occupying your brain.

Or something.

In any way, there was hardly time to idle.

“Likewise,” you shared a meaningful nod, not brave enough to express even half of what was running in your head. Instead, you decided to do what you did best and took the jump, “It’s my stop next, so I have to… Would you like to give me your number?” the line delivery was perfected over time.

So much so that by now, you did it without a hitch. Without cracking a smile so long as the recipient was processing the line with silence. The poker face stayed on until you saw that first glimmer of a smile or bursting bout of laughter. Only then did you let yourself crack, too. Just a flash of a smile to let them in on a secret.

Neil’s responding laugh and an amused grin shot straight up your veins like adrenaline. Like a drug you could feel yourself getting addicted to. He seemed to debate his reply for a beat before speaking:

“Maybe. But only if you still remember who I am in two weeks,” the challenge in the statement was clear.

Conveniently for both of you – you were never the one to pass on proving a point. Especially since this one was not going to be difficult. At all.

With all the confidence, you were sure you would think about those blue eyes and blonde mess of a hairstyle for many days to come. During many different times of the day.

Extending the hand to “shake on it”, you clasped his palm firmly. The “game on” look in your eyes completed the picture. The train began to slow down as the PA system crackled to life overhead. There was no time to waste.

“Deal. Do I get bonus points if I think about you during the off hours, too?” with his hand still clasped in yours, you stroked the back of it with your thumb.

A glance at the revealed forearm showed the goosebumps rising in the wake of your touch. Or maybe it was due to the implication? You would never know for sure.

The adorable blush spread over Neil’s cheekbones, suggesting he knew what you meant. He bowed his head as if overwhelmed with bashfulness and whispered the question over your joined hands.

“Do you?” there were two meanings to that question, and both had the same answer.

Do you think about me in those moments? Do you mean that?

Yes. You spelt out the confirmation with your fingertips over his knee. Like it was a secret. Out loud, you said:

“Maybe” the lights of Southwark were like a harsh wake-up, throwing you out of the daydream and into reality. You got up before anything could convince you to be sillier than acceptable. One glance down at the man who had somehow turned your world on its head was enough to soften your gaze, “Bye, Neil. Hope you have a nice day, giving communion or whatever it is priests do,” the joke landed spectacularly, with loud laughter from Neil and a burst of pride in your chest.

He grinned at you, something like happiness shining in the eyes that always seemed to contain melancholy. The desire to know what that was did not want to get any smaller. The doors slid open, forcing you to take that decisive step, fiercely hoping fate would be as generous in a week.

“See you around, Cupid,” Neil’s farewell rang out as you stepped out from the train.

You smiled like a lunatic as you walked down the platform. It was too easy to hope the Jubilee line would bring him to you again.

***

By the next Wednesday, you were prepared. You had timed your morning routine down to the last second to be sure you would get on that same train. And hoped Neil would do the same. Although, for a bystander, the action on your part could come off as desperate, you would never use that word yourself. No, this was pure curiosity. Way to spice up the morning commute and maybe get a friendship out of it. Just that. Only that.

When you descended onto the St. John’s Wood platform at precisely 7:19, your crossed fingers were hidden in your pocket. With bated breath (and an air of nonchalance), you stepped aboard the 7:21 Jubilee line train heading towards Stratford. Just like you planned.

You only let the breath out when your gaze fell upon the familiar dark blonde head. The accompanying hiccup in your heartbeat was to be ignored. Until further notice. Or forever. Aware of the crazed grin on your face, you crossed the space to the places occupied by Neil and asked:

“Is this seat taken?” this time, you were ready for his responding smile, dazzling you close to unconsciousness.

Only the hand tightly grasping the railing was necessary to keep you upright. But Neil need not know that. With your free hand, you motioned towards the seat occupied by his laptop bag.

“Now it is, yes,” Neil grabbed it instantly, putting the bag on the floor and turning toward you with a smile, “I was hoping I’d see you today,” the simple sentence was enough to spark the blooming warmth in your chest.

You did not even realise the cold had settled there throughout the week. In favour of ignoring the thought, you took the plastic seat with an accompanying creak of the material and turned the cheeky smile on Neil:

“Yeah? Were you holding your breath for it?” no matter the teasing, you were glad he had been waiting for you.

That it was not just you who had hoped the meeting no. three would happen. Allowing yourself the pleasure of staring at Neil, you let your eyes roam over his face. You noted the darker circles under his eyes and the tiredness hiding in the blue of his irises.

“From Swiss Cottage,” Neil’s reply made you store the observations in the drawer at the back of your head and stare at him with eyes open wide.

Now, that was interesting.

“That’s where you live?” you could not hide how you perked up hearing the information.

Neil saw through all the tricks you tried to pull up, immediately flashing a knowing smile. That was no mistake, not a case of him saying too much by accident. He wanted you to know. Or, alternately, he did not care too much about keeping it a secret.

“It is. Which makes me think we’re kinda sorta neighbours,” his lips twisted into a pleased smile as he confirmed your assumptions and added his layer of ridicule to the conversation “In the quirky Londony way” as if following internal logic you were not privy to, Neil shimmied in the seat, clearly highlighting the quirkiness of that statement.

There was no controlling the burst of laughter that escaped your lips and rang out in the carriage with embarrassing volume. Clamping your mouth shut, you slid down in the chair and glared at Neil, shaking with barely contained giggles. It was perfect.

Once you felt like you could control yourself, you broke the silence with a reply and a nod:

“That we are,” then, if only because the giddiness was still making your body shake with joy, you added, “It’s good to know,” you met Neil’s gaze, looking for a pointer.

A sign that it was alright to follow the instinct again. You quickly found what you had been looking for as Neil inclined his head towards yours with glimmering eyes full of curiosity.

“Why?” you might have imagined the deeper timbre in his voice.

It might have just been your wishful thinking that Neil was eager to go along with your flirtations. But it also could have been a fact. Another one of those moments of courage when he seemed to forget what shyness is.

Aware of the danger divagations like those could bring, you shook them off with a shrug, easily deflecting the topic and leaving the assumptions as just that. Luckily, the perfect distraction was waiting on the tip of your tongue.

“Actually- Are you a farmer?” turning the unblinking stare on him, you awaited the responding smile like an early riser waiting for the sunrise.

As soon as you left the carriage a week before, you knew the silly guessing game would have to go on. Even if only for the sake of your amusement. Judging by Neil’s resigned sigh, he was willing to comply.

“So, this continues, huh?” the question was a mere formality, and he did not wait for an answer, dismissing your guess with a sleigh of hand, “Nope, try again,” you certainly did not imagine the pleased nonchalance as Neil settled against the side of the carriage and measured you coolly.

Never afraid to be seen, you felt a shiver run up your spine when you were the sole focus of his attention. The particular way he caressed every inch of your body with curiosity made you wonder what his touch would be like. What kind of lover would he be?

“That’s a shame. Would love to meet a sheep herder,” slamming the metaphorical door shut at the yearnings of your heart, you let your mouth run wild.

And again, it delivered. It was not a lie, but it was bullshit. Yet Neil did not seem too bothered, staring at you for approximately 30 seconds before shooting you a wink worth another minuscule heart attack:

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” yet again, he patted your knee good-naturedly and just as quickly retracted his hand, distracting you with a question, “Can I ask you something?” you could not miss the sudden change of tone.

It sobered you up, forcing you to strengthen your spine and give Neil full attention. After the minutes of whimsical conversations, you considered taking that one step further. It was only a blessing that he did it first.

“Anything,” hoping your smile was just as welcoming as you wanted it to be, you trained your eyes on that unruly strand of hair that always seemed to fall into Neil’s eyes.

Your hands were itching with the want to brush it away.

Neil sighed as if bracing himself for something. Then he started to speak:

“When we met, you said that you’re not even sure you believe love exists, let alone feel it for that guy… Did you mean that?” the question reverberated in the carriage, which suddenly was too quiet.

You glanced at Neil, not knowing what to expect, only to find nothing but curiosity in his face. The question was one that you were asked before. Many times before. But it was the first instance that you wanted to answer it. There was no judgment hiding behind the question mark, only the desire to understand. To figure out what you were all about.

That was a reason enough for honesty. Keeping your eyes locked with Neil, you took a deep breath and replied:

“Yeah… It’s like, I know it’s a thing people feel, and I guess that must mean it’s real, but I’ve never… I don’t think it’s as much a big deal as everyone makes it seem to be” that familiar frustration bled into your words as you felt the years of misunderstandings inspire the speech and spur on the sincerity, “I like sex and all that, just not the… swoony, tender bullshit that fixes absolutely nothing and only seems to make people miserable” you finished the reply on a groan and measured Neil with a sceptical look “Satisfied?” that was the dreaded moment.

When part of the curtain has risen to reveal the truth underneath. The silence felt almost stifling, and you did not know why. It was all true. Every word has been spoken with honesty and came from your soul. From the soul that was tired of glorification always bestowed on love, feelings, and all things pink and fizzy, that complicated what could be simple. Even if love existed, you were sure you would rather never feel it. It was better that way. Simpler.

You doubted there was anything in the world that could convince you otherwise.

But still, that beat of silence before Neil reacted to your impassioned speech was torturous. You forced yourself to keep looking at him, awaiting that curt nod. Once it came, you let out a long sigh, feeling your body cave in on itself as if manifesting that sudden energy drop.

“Yeah, and also concerned,” Neil’s voice was the thread that kept you anchored to the moment, although it was impossible to tune out the underlining worry you had detected in his tone.

It was inconceivable. You could deal with disgust and ignorance, but concern was not something you understood. It made you helpless. You shook it off the best way you could – with a flirty smirk and a question:

“Are you a romantic, sweetheart?” the pet name rolled off your tongue with ease, meeting no resistance from Neil save for an uncertain smile and a dusting of pink along his cheekbones.

You could work with that.

The question, too, came from a place of curiosity. Sure, you could have left the topic where it was and rushed off into another silly conversation. But why should you? One look at the upcoming station showed you that the time was still running out, and you did not have much to lose. You met Neil’s bashful look head-on, patiently waiting for him to find the words.

“As much as one can be a romantic when they’re utterly untethered,” once he spoke, you could hear the sadness defining his confession and the constant weight of it dragging him down.

The choice of the word made you search his gaze for an explanation. It was impossible to believe someone this gorgeous could be lonely, let alone without a line of admirers waiting at their every beck and call. Yet the melancholy tinting his words suggested otherwise. Knowing the situation called for something more subtle than your usual repertoire of blatant flirting, you dropped your voice to a soothing tone and lowered your head to keep holding Neil’s gaze:

“Like ever or…?” trailing off, you watched as he seemed to wage an internal battle for close to a minute.

Even without knowing him that well, you could guess what it was about. It took a certain level of courage to be vulnerable in front of a stranger, to reveal one’s deepest regrets to someone not that familiar. Although you did not want to speak, you hoped the impassive yet open look on your face showed him that you would not pass judgment, no matter what it would be.

On its own accord, your gaze followed the sharp lines of his face, drawn closed with thought and up over the halo of his hair, shining in the fake yellow light of the carriage. If there was one word to describe Neil, it would be golden. You could only imagine the comparison would get more apt in the proper, warm light of those rare autumnal days in London that seemed to approach fast.

Before you had the chance to analyse that thought and place it under necessary scrutiny, Neil broke the silence:

“No, just for the past few years. No matter how hard I may fall, it’s never enough, so…” the blue eyes that rose to meet yours were burdened with resignation that, for a second, felt like it could crack your heart into two.

But you shook it off, reaching for the layers of frustration that always seemed present. For the annoyance at the society that had fooled people into believing that love was some holy grail of existence, the point of your miserable lives to live up to. When it was everything but. The familiar fire burned in your eyes as you clasped a hand over Neil’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly:

“See? Love’s overrated,” swallowing past the bitterness coating your tongue, you shot him a manic grin.

And ignored the alarms blaring in your head.

***

Before, those twenty minutes of commute between home and Canary Wharf were spent zoning out. Only sometimes, he could shake up the routine with a book or a particularly interesting podcast episode. After, it became an affair of watch-checking and foot-tapping until the train arrived at St. John’s Wood, and she would either be there or not.

Despite the impressions, Neil much preferred the after. Even if for the past two Wednesday mornings, he awoke with a strangely knotted stomach and a dumb smile of anticipation forming on his lips. That aside, it was nice to have something to look forward to.

Apart from the complexities of inverted physics, that is.

Timing the arrival on the Swiss Cottage platform for the right train was not an issue. It was something Neil had always done, unable to shake off the shackles of routine that seemed like second nature by now. When he boarded the Jubilee line heading towards Stratford, the anxiety set in like an old friend. It did not help that the carriage was packed this time, offering no available seats. With a tired sigh, Neil grabbed the nearest handrailing and stared out the window.

Without effort on his side, she soon enough came to mind. That happened a lot since that fateful afternoon. He had yet to decide whether it was a good or bad thing. For now, it was simply a fact. Like the anticipation of seeing her in two minutes, for the fourth time since the meeting. That also made Neil feel some way, but he was not brave (or willing) to understand it yet.

Perhaps the most crucial fact was that she, the newly appointed Cupid and the most baffling person he had met, was impossible to forget. And now, after three conversations that only expanded the mystery and made his curiosity insatiable, Neil did not try to forget. No, today (if she showed up), he would give her his number and let that determine the course. It was easy enough to think, harder still to execute.

By the time he had convinced himself that it was achievable and that it was alright to let go of the control this once, the train slowed to a crawling speed, and the lights of St. John’s Wood shone into the carriage. Before Neil could descend into another sort of anxious spiral, the doors slid open, and he had no choice but to expectantly stare at the commuters streaming in. He did not have to wait long, for right after the first row of impatient tourists and gravelly serious businessmen forced their way onto the Tube, she daintily stepped inside and flashed him another of those brilliant smiles.

It was nearly impossible to prevent his gaze from scanning her from head to toe like an uncontrollable Neanderthal that had caught the first sight of a woman. It was a reflex, a reaction Neil tried to stifle by forcefully dragging his eyes towards her face.

He was, without a doubt, an idiot.

The internal crisis had to be put on hold when she crossed that bit of space and leaned on the railing, curious eyes roaming over his face like they always did. Neil did not try to convince himself she was doing anything but checking him out.

“Ready to claim your reward?” the question helped him get the hang of the situation instead of losing his cool any minute.

That was highly probable with the way Cupid was staring at his face, seemingly unbothered by the movements of the carriage and the cramped space. It was also a good way of reminding her, though Neil did not doubt she would have forgotten. For reasons utterly inconceivable, the woman was driven to get his number.

The only excuse he had for waiting so long to let her have it was the constant disbelief that made it virtually impossible for Neil to trust she wanted it for real. As in not because of some elaborate joke that he was not privy to. And yes, that did happen. Once.

“Ecstatic,” her reply delivered in a perfectly monotone voice did make him focus. He watched as she glanced around the carriage, only now taking in the surroundings, “Looks like we’re standing today,” the observation seemed like a safe opener, and Neil immediately felt grateful.

It was that necessary push to make him relax a little and get out of his head. Even if only for the next quarter of an hour he would have with her.

“Do you have anything against that?” copying her pose, he leaned in closer, testing the luck that did not seem to have run out just yet.

If anything, she closed the space by another fraction, offering him a generous whiff of her perfume (Neil’s head did not feel ridiculously fuzzy because of it) and looked up at him through her eyelashes. Her lips curled into a tell-tale smirk that should have been the first clue of what was coming.

“Nope. I’m not too fussy about positions,” as soon as Cupid dropped her voice to a seductive timbre and grazed his shoulder with her fingers, Neil was done for.

He blinked twice, hoping to unfreeze the brain that continued to display the error404.exe. Because what the fuck was that? Who acted like this with near strangers?

Cupid, that’s who. Judging by her self-satisfied smile, she was pleased with the reaction. She brushed the lint he had not noticed before from his cuff and observed him silently. Despite the heart attack, Neil had to give her kudos for the attempt. He did so by slightly bowing his head in her direction and a wry smile:

“I walked right into this one, didn’t I?” once he looked up, the amusement still warming up his chest, even if tinted with bafflement, Cupid was waiting for him, expectantly meeting his gaze as if there was nothing in the world that could make her look away.

She was truly something else.

“Yeah, you did,” her knowing eyes cut through all the posturing Neil could ever hope to attempt as she took a deep breath and went in straight with the agenda, “Soo… Can I have your number?” that cheeky grin was still in place, adding to her charm.

Although Neil would be the first to admit she did not need additional charisma points or anything of the sort. She was already lethal. That realisation did not make him any keener to pull back or put a stop to the dance she had drawn him into.

Neil eyed her closely, feeling the weight of his phone in the pocket. The answer was yes, of course, but she did not need to know that… yet.

“Are you going to sign me up for the Tories news updates?” having noticed how she reacted to his smirks, he presented her with one when posing the question.

To anyone, it might have seemed worryingly specific. Cupid just measured him up with her piercing gaze and asked:

“… Did that happen before?” the deadly serious tone added to the ridicule, making Neil crack a smile.

“No, but it might,” he shrugged, hoping the joke had landed well enough to mask the awkwardness threatening to make a scene.

It was not that he did not feel comfortable around her or that there were some strong-founded beliefs she was not to be trusted. Instead, it was what it had always been. What Neil had hinted at during their previous conversation. It was that it had never worked out before. And it was hardly possible that it would now.

Especially considering what she had revealed that last time, too. It was best to be cautious. But that, in the face of those beautiful eyes and fascinating personality, was a challenge.

He did not even know yet just how true that statement would be.

“No, the worst you can expect is lame pickup lines and dumb memes,” unaware of Neil’s slow descent into madness, she replied to the previous question, intertwining a sardonic grin in between the statements “I’d also suggest nudes, but we’re not there yet, I think” it took him an embarrassingly long time to process her words with the mind foolishly lured into the safety of a normal conversation. Well, no more. Shit. „Unless-” before she could say another disastrous word and push him down the staircase towards the pit of insanity, Neil closed her mouth with his palm.

Anything was better than talking to her about prospective nudes. Even touching her face and getting shocked when the warmth of her breath hit his skin, forcing Neil to pull it back almost as fast as he had done it in the first place. She just stared back, relentlessly curious and unmoved.

“We’re definitely not there yet,” aware of the deep blush that had bloomed on his face like a sign of contagion, Neil dropped his gaze onto the floor and murmured the command, “Give me your phone,” the conversation was already a disaster, so might as well. Right?

She laughed and the sound was enough to draw him out of the hiding and look up. Neil already knew he would do whatever he could to make her laugh like that again. And then once more still.

Her warm hand slipped into his palm, passing the phone like a beacon of trust he did not know he could deserve. It was accompanied by a simple quip that still somehow made him feel lightheaded:

“Here, kind sir,” on retreat, her fingers brushed down the length of his digits, stopping for a split second at the tips of his fingers. The resulting sparks were certainly a figment of his imagination, “Any texting rules? Is there anyone that might intercept your messages?” her voice broke through another brief blue screen issue in Neil’s brain and forced him to focus.

Focus on opening the phone app on her phone and typing in his number correctly. The last thing he would have wanted was to fuck up and make a mistake, immediately losing any chances he would have had at a friendship with her. Yes, friendship. Even as an idiot, Neil knew that was all it would be. Which was fine. It really was.

Once he double-checked that the right digits were typed in, there came a second dilemma of the evening. The contact name. Neil stole a glance at her, still patiently waiting for an answer to her questions that he seemed inept to give. It offered a perfect stalling opportunity:

“Rogue mate, maybe, but it’s okay. I can live with his teasing,” it was something to worry about later, considering that no one knew about her yet. If asked, Neil was not sure he could explain why. The betraying part of his brain that always wanted to blurt out some incriminating thoughts admitted it was because he wanted those interactions only for himself, as a secret to cherish in the quiet of his mind. He slammed the door on that pathetic voice and looked up at her with tentative hope sparking in his chest. It was just another risk to take, right? “Should we… keep this time and day as a standing arrangement thing?” not willing to bet even half a dime on her positive answer, Neil put his attention back on the topic at hand.

Literally. He was still holding her phone. The contact’s name was still empty. He had to think of something.

Then, right when his stomach clenched with that first tell-tale sign of anxiety, the right thing came to mind. The perfect thing.Neil fought the desire to grin like an English cousin of the Joker and saved his number, handing the locked phone back to Cupid. She did not check it, pocketing the device and turning her thoughtful gaze on him:

“Sure thing. I need time to warm you up for those nude pics,” she offered Neil a criminal wink and glanced at the display to check the approaching station.

The nonchalance had the chance of killing him before an inverted bullet would. He was willing to bet on it.

“Can’t wait,” he swallowed hard against the mess of thoughts and emotions in his head and glared at her.

He really could not wait. Maybe. Possibly.

It was both a curse and a blessing that her station was approaching fast, offering maybe three or four minutes more. The strange disappointment coated the back of his throat as Neil allowed himself to stare. To observe her, with her lively eyes and almost permanent cheeky smile. Even now, he did not dare ogle her body, already too aware of the heat of her presence so close to his orbit. The danger was too grave to consider what this would not become.

“I’ve got one more question,” her voice acted like the thread of Ariadne, leading him to the exit from the labyrinth of his own making. Neil met her gaze just in time to notice the playful sparks dancing there, “Are you a cook?” she leaned a little closer again as if testing his waning control and steadied herself against the sudden movement of the train with her hand resting on his shoulder.

Even through the cotton shirt, he could feel the heat of the contact.

It was almost enough to distract him from the ridicule of her question. Almost, because as soon as he had sobered up, Neil did not try to fight the smile pulling at his lips. She was ridiculous.

“No, unless we consider the Risotto Milanese, I can make from scratch,” giving her as good as he got, Neil offered her a wink and reached for the dwindling depositories of courage to cover her hand holding onto the railing.

Admittedly, he was enjoying the guessing game she had decided to make out of the situation. It was a better alternative to Neil telling her the truth, and 1) putting her in potential danger, and 2) making her believe something that did not sound real.

Cupid did not seem bothered by his actions and kept her hand where it was. Her eyes met his as she stated a simple wish:

“Count me in,” then, as if Neil was not yet aware of what a kind of woman she was, she licked her lips thoroughly.

He did not try to imagine what they would taste like.

“When?” as if possessing a mind of its own, his thumb rubbed invisible circles onto the skin between her knuckles.

Neil did not want to be responsible for the actions of his own body. Or for the thoughts that sprang into his mind whenever she gave him that sure smile and bated her lashes.

“You’ll see,” it was her turn to wink, and the confidence in her gaze almost made him believe she knew something he did not.

Like whatever was waiting in their future.

It was a blessing in disguise that the train was now approaching the Southwark station. Neil did not think he could be trusted with more time to spend next to her. Instead, he levelled her with what he hoped was a critical glare and asked:

“Has anyone told you that you’re a nightmare?” he knew there was no chance of losing that affectionate undertone in his voice or making ‘nightmare’ not sound like the most tender of pet names.

Apart from being an idiot, Neil was also a lost cause. It would seem.

The train yet again slowed to a crawling pace as the platform lights etched mirage-like constellations on her face. It was impossible to look away. So, Neil stared as she, the incomparable Cupid, slid her hand down the railing, away from his palm and tapped his wrist. Twice. As if he could have missed the first time.

Just as he was beginning to hope she would leave without giving him another heart attack, she leaned in, closing the space, and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. As soon as he had registered it was happening, it was already over, and Cupid was standing in the carriage doorway with that unchanging smirk on her face:

“More than once,” without waiting for a reply (not that Neil would have had one), she stepped out of the train and disappeared in the crowds of commuters.

Neil was an idiot, a lost cause, and undoubtedly screwed. One way or another.

***

/Unknown number, 5:15 pm/ Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

/✝️, 5:20 pm/ Already?

/✝️, 5:20 pm/ God, you’re fast.

/ 🏹, 5:22 pm/ That’s the effect you have on me 😘

/ 🏹, 5:22 pm/ Clever emoji choice, I gotta admit. Took me a little to find you. What did I get?

/✝️, 5:25 pm/ You’ll see.

/ 🏹, 5:26 pm/ When?

/✝️, 5:30 pm/ Soon 😘

/ 🏹, 5:35 pm/ Ah, delayed gratification. Just wait till I get impatient.

/✝️, 5:45 pm/ And then what?

/ 🏹, 5:47 pm/ I’ll punish you. Something tells me you’d like that.

/✝️, 5:49 pm/ You’re a menace.

/✝️, 5:49 pm/ On second thought, I think I’ll have the nude pics you’ve mentioned.

/ 🏹, 5:50 pm/ Not yet, sweetheart. Practice what you preach first.

/✝️, 5:55 pm/ I’ll see you?

/ 🏹, 5:57 pm/ You’ll see me. You’ll get sick of me even.

/✝️, 5:59 pm/ Challenge accepted, Cupid.

#neil tenet #tenet movie #tenet 2020 #neil tenet x reader #neil tenet fanfic #neil x reader #neil tenet imagine #tenet fanfic #robert pattinson #robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson x y/n #robert pattinson imagine #deadlines & commitments

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randomidiocyncrazies · 25 days

Text

Hot take but I actually don't like Isami's "hot-blooded super robot protag" makeover in the finale. (Elaboration below)

For one, I think his character design is now way less charming because 'Hero Isami' kinda just slapped generic protagonist design traits together and called it a day (and i know this is just personal taste, so no shade to those who prefer his new look). Also, while I like the symbolic reason for him looking like a super robot protagonist when he decides to fight back against the remaining Death Drives/embrace the kind of narrative he's in, I'm not super enthused by how they've executed it? I don't feel like he's really embraced it so much as 'had to embrace it', like how he kinda had to go along with the rest of the story thus far. His new look is very much a 'super robot protag' look imo, but I personally think the transistion from him running away to embracing the 'super robot protag' label is a little superficial in terms of the character's emotional development.

We're told that Isami accepts Bravern, and we do see them get closer, but we don't actually get any meaningful depth about Isami's definition of heroism prior to Bravern—we understand Smith's idea and drive to be a hero, we understand Lulu's motivations, but we don't really get that for Isami. The finale gave us "I never wanted to be a hero" to contrast with Smith's "I've always wanted to be a hero", but we don't really get why Isami wasn't interested, nor what he thought a hero was before Bravern. I know they wanted to set up a situation where Isami is inspired to become a hero because of Bravern, but the slightly ham-fisted way they say Isami trusts Bravern/is inspired by him etc didn't feel very compelling to me because they focused on Smith's character in the first 8 episodes and Isami's character didn't get that exploration.

For the impact of Isami finally embracing being a 'super robot hero' in the finale, we should see a change in either his understanding of heroism itself, or his understanding of himself in relation to the concept of heroism. I mean, i guess his talk with Smith kinda touches on it, but without exploration of how he was before Bravern re: heroism, the impact of him choosing to embody the typical 'super robot hero' approach (shown by literally changing his character design to fit the vibe) falls a bit flat for me.

And like! The idea that Isami needed to actively embrace the super robot story he found himself in to get his happy ending is a really neat one! He's been steamrolled into it for pretty much the entire show, so him seizing control over his story is inspiring—and I think a little more clarity on what heroism means/meant to Isami would elevate the character writing. Right now he's kinda just this guy who gets bullied by the story, and tbh the change between his despair + begging for his life to taking up the hero mantle willingly in the finale feels kinda like he's reacting in whatever way the plot needed him to. In general there were times where I felt Isami's reactions seemed abrupt for what was established between him and other chracters; it's not a huge deal, but it did stick out to me.

(As much as I loved the the love confession scene in ep 11, I was confused at Isami's emotional intimacy with Bravern; not because I don't ship it, but because Isami seemed quite bothered by Bravern's overeagerness before this point. They grew closer after ep 9, but the intimacy at the beach wasn't convincing on Isami's side for me because there was barely build-up. In general, Isami's acceptance/buy-in to Bravern's definition of heroism was mostly glossed over imo.)

Don't get me wrong, it's still a very fun show! I enjoyed the wild homoerotic ride and most of the humor (LOVED the little meta jokes), and the story's themes are really compelling in theory. Bang Brave and unleash your courage in a stylish explosion! I just wish they gave us a little more time to sit in Isami's head.

#bravern #ric reacts #bravern critical

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winns-stuff · 9 months

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Hi,hello! Not sure if you remember me, but I'd submitted some asks and brought up discussion topics in this blog way back then! I'm back from the dead after an exasperatingly long school year and some other daunting crap!Hope you're doing fantastic!🧡❤️💜💖

I saw that thread of beyonce's beautiful pink gown and thought about how I would've designed a dress for persephone's wedding . I did some digging and found a drawing I'd painted earlier this year inspired by lore olympus and RS's long- discontinued gothic-neovictorian comic "the doctor foxglove show".

The flowers are asphodels to represent persephone and I feel like the gothic traditional regal vibe would fit her nicely.

I also have other ideas that unfortunately I'm not gonna translate into drawings anytime soon 'cause of a bunch of other stuff I'm busy with

So I'm afraid you're gonna have to use your imagination.The wedding dress doesn't have to be white( how they made demeter "force" perse's dress to be white to further antagonize her and STILL ended up drawing persephone in a white dress anyway is still beyond me tbh )her symbols could beautifully be incorporated into her dress .

Exhibit 1:a "portrait of madame x" black outfit with a bat wing-like two part cape(her sacred animal:bat) that is bejeweled with black pearls and diamonds and smokey quartz ,the tiara in that portrait is a reference to diana the roman goddess of the hunt AKA artemis,so it could be a nice tribute to her friendship with artemis in the comic .

exhibit 2: a fully bejeweled gown made out of her symbolic gem stones:Lepidolite, Rhodochrosite and Smoky Quartz, signifying her marriage to the god of wealth(I know she's meant to be anti -capitalist but the comic doesn't follow through with it so ...)the sleeves or other parts (like dress layers)could take the shape of the flower petals of asphodel or Narcissus. Maybe a jewel faux- lily crown too. Along with rubies and spinels to form the shape of pomegranates all over the whole fit.

Exhibit 3:an elegant coat-like dress made out of deer (her own sacred animal)and black ram (hades')and fur . It would be a good nod to the fur coat hades gifted her in S1 and the underworld is cold too so why not(holy ginger snaps I just realized how impractical her official queen outfit is! Like we've been told in that episoide that underworld is cold and yet persephone's dress is sleeveless!girlie's freezing!) Also pearl/alabaster-made faux deer horns could be sprouting from her back like wings

Exhibit 4:a feathery dress as a tribute to her sacred animal:parrots most of the dress could be a nice shade of green with some red and yellow feathers which would be common colors for a parrot and also the color of the bridal dresses for ancient greek and roman noblewomen .

Exhibit 5:Like I said red and yellow /gold were bridal dress colours for greeks and romans,what other things are red and yellow?!wheats and tulips! Demeter's symbols!this could've very well been a sweet tribute from daughter to mother ! Imagine a multi -layered flower gown with deep scarlet and black petal-shaped fabrics to look like tulips and a multi-layered veil to match!!! And then imagine golden embroidered threads in the shape of wheat branches and golden wheat shaped necklace and earrings too! And an emerald ,olivine and topaz choker in the shape of a gecko(demeter's sacred animal)

Of course one could also go ham and just combine all these ideas together and make a maximalistic, artsy,chaoticly gorgeous outfit.I personally like it because it could be a symbol of how playful and fun spring is but also how unpredictable and strange death is!I feel like if rachel took her time and didn't rush things she could give us something extraordinary!!!!!!

As always I hope this ask finds you in good health! Bye bye🌹☘️💖💜🎀💚🌺🌸❤️💕🧡👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻

I remember you! I’m so glad to have you back! Your design is so beautiful by the way and honestly it’s very easy on the eyes too! I could see Persephone wearing something like that and also I’m honestly gushing about all of your exhibits because they’re so sweet and I absolutely love the detail you put in them. The tributes would’ve made the dress not only memorable but also very impactful to her character since Persephone was always supposed to be a more family oriented person (at least in season one when was characterized to be most comfortable with physical touch and around people) and it really would’ve showed us how strong her relationships have become over the past seasons, her friends are really just accessories at this point and they’re only brought up when it’s convenient. Hell even some signifying detail about Hades’ details would’ve been romantic like if they both wore parts of each other’s sacred animals or something like you incorporated, Hades never wears anything to represent Persephone and yet Persephone is supposed to be the one wearing dark colors now it’s just so one sided honestly.

But enough rambling, this was honestly such a sweet ask and I absolutely loved going through all of your ideas! They were genuinely so sweet and I hope everything is going great for you! <3

#lo critical #anti lore olympus #anti lo #lore olympus criticism #lore olympus critical #antiloreolympus

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father-time-and-baby-new-year · 3 years

Text

rhinestone eyes

PAIRING: Rich Boy!Eren x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS [present+future]: infidelity, dubcon, gaslighting, manipulative and toxic behavior, toxic relationship, sexual content, yandere tendencies, suggestive hand-holding

part one

kofi

There's a sneer on Eren's face as green eyes behind Versace aviators glide over your form, staring you up and down. His gaze is so penetrative, it makes your teeth chatter. Maybe he was just checking you out. Maybe he was scrutinizing every blemish.

You suddenly feel so very small in your tennis skirt, the tight collared shirt stretching over your breasts, and wished that today out of all days wasn't when you decided to dress a little more stylish.

"Fancy seeing you here." His voice is nonchalant but there's a tone of humor that accompanies his brisk words. How long would it be until he laughs at you?

He scowls, "Are you mute or something? Why aren't you greeting me back properly?"

"Eren," You took a deep breath, "What are you doing in Paris?"

It occurs to you that you've never seen him out of his uniform before. He's wearing a light blue button-down, half the buttons left unfastened, polo shorts, an expensive black watch glittering on his wrist, silver rings on his slender fingers, and a thin silver chain dangling around his neck.

He's also acquired a new piercing, industrial, judging by the bar across his ear. The silver glints harshly under the sun.

"Are you done burning holes through me?"

You blush, embarrassment coloring your cheeks: "No, I'm just surprised." You tucked a loose lock of hair behind your ear, "Didn't expect to run into anyone I knew in another country."

You were just taking a pleasant walk in the acclaimed Champs-Élysées, the avenue every bit as a picture-perfect postcard as it had been described.

"Have you eaten?" The question is spoken with a sigh like he couldn't believe he was asking you this, and you couldn't either.

"Oh, um, no?" You responded, bewildered.

He runs a hand through his dark hair, which reached the nape of his neck by now: "I know a cafe around here. Let's get brunch. We'll talk there."

You don't know what possessed you to nod but you did so, trying to match his quick and long strides. The walk was silent, presumably because the two of you were saving your burning questions for the cafe.

He rolls his eyes when you stutter through your French. He raises a hand, and simply tells the waiter his order and dismisses him. His French is flawless and you're tempted to ask him how it's so good, but you already know the answer. Probably had hordes of tutors to help him.

Merci Monsieur

"Wait," You remark to Eren, "I didn't order."

"I ordered for us. Pain au chocolate, savory crepes, eggs, and ham. Coffee after. For me. Hot chocolate for you because you don't drink coffee."

Oh. That actually sounds good. How did he know your beverage preferences?

He fishes out a cigarette from his pocket, skinny and hand-rolled, "So what are you doing here? No offense but you don't exactly seem like you can afford a vacation to France. "

Now is your turn to sigh. You've nearly forgotten how blunt he could be: "Here on an internship. For art" You supply.

"I assume you just regularly come to Paris every summer?"

He doesn't deny or verify your statement, "Something like that."

"So you're staying at a hostel or?" He asks, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke that makes your nose wrinkle.

The waiter comes by with food, and you turn to Eren with a sour look, "I sincerely hope you're not going to smoke while we're eating."

To your utter surprise, he ashes the cigarette. You were expecting a witty and mean retort at the very minimum, not silent compliance.

You pick up the earlier conversation, "Well, I'm actually staying with my boyfriend." You mummer the last word quietly but the viridian-eyed boy's ears are keen. You don't notice how his grip on the knife tightens.

"You're staying with your boyfriend?" He repeats.

You nod, "Yeah, he's an art student too."

The rest of the meal is completed in sparing small-talk and lengths of silence. But it's not awkward. It's weird. On one hand, having brunch with Eren Yeager in fucking Paris, heir to a billionaire pharmaceutical company should feel surreal, but it's strangely peaceful. You feel more at peace sitting across from him in France than you did when he sat next to you in homeroom.

When it's time to pay the check, Eren looks amused by the very notion of you digging into your purse.

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I let the lady pay?" His words are spoken with a teasing smile.

You roll your eyes but can't help a glimmer of a smile from peeking through on your lips, "Didn't take you much for a gentleman."

He tosses his black card on the bill, "You'd be surprised."

What's there left to do now? Is it time to part ways? There's a part of you that craves more but life has taught you to not be greedy when you already have so so much.

You dabble the corner of your lips with a napkin, "Well, this has been fun-"

"Wait, uh, do you wanna check out the Louvre? Since you're an art student and all, you might uh enjoy it."

You stare at him. Is he tongue-tied?

"You've probably there been a million times already."

"Yeah...but you haven't been, right?"

You blink before breaking into a smile that Eren is sure is going to give him heart palpations, so sunny and bright.

"I would love to!"

You guys check out Mona Lisa for the sheer novelty, and you're bouncing around the museum, oohing and ahhing at the chiseled statues and Renaissance paintings. There is so much history here, it blows your mind.

Eren finds himself watching you more than the paintings. You have this veneer of snark that you wrap around yourself like a protective gauze (maybe that's how you maintain your survival in a world of hyenas) but you're different now.

You're yourself. Watching you here come alive in unbridled enthusiasm, eyes widened in passion, makes him reach out to his pocket and fish for his disposable film camera. He doesn't know if he's ever seen anyone in his vapid life look like the way you do, so filled with a zest for things that are greater than themselves.

He wants to burn you into his memory, praying to all the gods that you won't notice when he takes a picture of you admiring a bust of a goddess. He slyly tucks his camera back into his pocket.

The world seems to stand still when you tug his hand to show him a painting, an expression of unadulterated wonder on your face. But when you realize you pulled his hand, you immediately drop it like hot coals.

Why do you look so worried? Why do you look so scared?

"You can hold my hand if you want. It's-it's okay." He can't believe he's gotten the words out.

You're taking too long, your hands still hanging limply by your side, an indiscernible expression on your pretty face. Eren doesn't understand why it makes him so mad, why your sudden hesitation grated his nerves. Deciding to make your choice for you, he grabs your hand, squeezing your palm as he flashes you the charismatic smile that's got him out of countless incidents.

He doesn't like the expression of worry marring your features. Where did the happy jovial girl go? Just a few seconds, you were poking him with sparkles in your eyes, "Look at this Eren!" and "So beautiful, right?"

He forces another smile: "Show me the painting you wanted me to see." Maybe it was meant to be a request but it comes out as a demand.

You cast a glance at your joined hands, his grip borderline painful. "O-okay."

You lead him across the floor, and Eren can feel the stares of people around him. They are smiling. An older woman utters a "Un si charmant couple."

You take him to a grand painting. It's haunting and dark, swirling with so many shades of dusty red from vermillion to scarlet. A pregnant woman lies reclined, arm hanging and head lolling. She appears to be asleep, and there is a cacophony of men around her portrayed in varying degrees of stress.

"Death of a virgin", you breathed.

Such a macabre name, Eren thought as he gazed longer into the painting. He loosens his grip on your hand, testing whether you would pull away.

You don't.

It's raining outside and you're giggling.

"Fuck" Eren swears, "I'll call a cab."

You're a vision drenched in rain. Your clothes are soaked, and he could see the outline of your bra from your thin shirt. But it seems like you don't even care.

"Let's just enjoy it!" You cry out. There are thick droplets stuck in between your eyelashes, and you smell like rain too. It's dangerous, he can see chords of purple lightning flash the sky, thunder booming, and it's like you're dancing, the way you move so effortlessly.

You hook his hands in yours, "Doesn't this feel good?"

He feels like all his sins are being washed away, all the impurities and muck that clung onto him after nineteen years of existence. His heart nearly jumps out of his throat every time he looks at you.

He cups your chin and kisses you. When he feels the threadbare resistance, he kisses harsher, tongue and teeth swallowing your protests, coaxing your mouth open with a skillful pinch to your nipple. He pulls away just before you feel like all your breath has been robbed.

You're stunned speechless, "Eren...I...h-have a boyf-"

He kisses you again. And this time you kiss back, holding nothing back.

taglist: @candy-hime @cinnamon-n-roses @forwardpair

inspo: @candy-hime's rich boy!shoto. the iconic golf club one <3

#dubcon touching #rich boy eren yeager #eren yeager x reader fanfiction #eren yeager x y/n #yandere eren x reader #tw cheating #eren yeager x reader #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan au #eren jaeger

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ardett · 3 years

Text

feather weather

Description: Quackity plucks his own feathers for Karl and Sapnap as an expression of love. He doesn’t realize that they don’t see it that way.

Warnings: self-ham (in terms of plucking his wings), past abusive relationship, miscommunication, gaslighting

Author’s note: probably only posting this first chapter on tumblr because who uses tumblr to read long fics anyway, but as always, you can get it on Ao3! (unless somehow there’s popular demand but lol doubt it)

edit: this got more notes than I expected (well, 30 notes lol) so I’ve also posted part two to tumblr!

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

Quackity doesn’t like to have his wings out.

He tries to keep them as healthy as he can. He preens, he washes them daily, straightens out his feathers each day when they get crimped under his shirt. He wants his feathers to look nice for obvious reasons.

He just can’t help the patchiness of his wings though. There are spots where the feathers haven’t grown back yet, still red and raw from plucking. He has a bad habit of picking at scabs before they heal and that’s always made the healing slower, though he’s been lucky that his feathers have always grown back eventually. It pains him to think about but he knows his wings are ugly. Like him. Like his scar.

It doesn’t matter if his wings are ugly anyways, as long as his feathers are still sleek and strong and bright, that terribly vibrant shade of yellow from his heritage. That’s what matters because his wings are for him but his feathers are for other people. What matters is that he can keep all his ugliness to himself and give away the most beautiful parts of himself. What matters is that they like the beautiful parts of him and that they never see the ugly ones.

It’s fine. He’s fine. The uglier he makes himself, the more he’s loved. It’s always been that way. That’s what Schlatt told him. Quackity doesn’t have a reason to disbelieve him.

There’s only one other person on the server with wings, Philza. Quackity doesn’t want to but he can’t help but feel jealous sometimes when he sees Phil’s wings. They’re gorgeous. Every inch of them is covered in Phil’s incredible black plumage, full and feathery and nothing at all like the threadbare plain of Quackity’s own wings. Quackity supposes it makes sense though, Phil doesn’t have a lover right now so he probably isn’t shredding his wings apart like Quackity is.

Quackity gets wistful sometimes thinking about what his wings could look like if he gave them the time to heal. Feathers grow back eventually. He remembers how full of feathers his wings were before he started dating Schlatt. He used to be able to wrap them around himself, hide behind fluffed up feathers and let their warmth surround him. He could have that again, if he just had the time. But he has two boyfriends now and no time.

He’s waited long enough already. He’s spent the last few weeks combing through his feathers each night, focusing on his primaries, the important ones. He even got something from a local village to make them shine. He just wanted them to be perfect for Karl and Sapnap.

He wants to be perfect for Karl and Sapnap.

They’ve given him so much. So many soft kisses and gentle touches and so much time and space for him to adjust to dating two people at once. Quackity felt like a guest in their relationship for a long time and in some ways, that was okay. Guests don’t contribute to relationships and Quackity’s plumage was just starting to fully recover when Karl had to go and say he loves Quackity, ruining everything.

No, that’s not fair, Karl didn’t ruin anything and neither did Sapnap when he said it too, voice so ragged and warm, and Quackity had to say it back. He meant it, of course. But now he knows for sure that he’s not a guest tagging along with a couple, it’s the three of them, together.

Now it’s time for Quackity to show his appreciation and give back.

Karl and Sapnap are gone, out for the day doing something or other, so it’s the perfect time. It will be a surprise, a wonderful surprise that shows that Quackity loves them more than just saying it back to them could ever describe. Words have always been Quackity’s strong suit and that’s why Schlatt always accused him of lying. That’s why Quackity’s actions have always spoken louder than his words. That’s why a physical sacrifice always meant more to Schlatt than sweet nothings and pretty compliments.

He’s right. This hurts more than anything Quackity could say to his lovers and isn’t love supposed to hurt?

Quackity huddles down on his bed. He shrugs his shirt off, stretching out his wings with a pained groan. He flexes them so the tips are in front of him. He swallows as he looks at the patches still regrowing from his time with Schlatt but he doesn’t look away. He brushes his knuckle over them, wincing, and reminding himself they’re an expression of love. And here he is doing it again.

His hand trails down to the end of his wing where his primary feathers are. He takes the longest, strongest, prettiest one in between his fingers, pinching at the base.

One breath in.

He holds it for a second too long, just enough to feel lightheaded.

Breathe out.

And as he exhales, Quackity yanks out his own flight feather.

He flinches, eyes squeezing shut as needle-like pain lances up his wing. Fuck, he forgot how much that hurt. It’s only intensified by how sensitive his wings are. He’s out of practice.

Quackity flaps his wing once, shuddering as he tries to ease the sting. His eyes flutter open and he looks down at the feather in his hand, making sure he hasn’t crushed it in his grip.

It’s fine. Still intact, still beautiful, and now Quackity sports a small bead of red blood where he plucked it from his skin.

He places it carefully on his dresser. Then he shuffles his other wing under his grasp.

Two boyfriends, two feathers.

He grabs onto the matching twin feather on this side.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Pull.

Quackity whimpers as the feather gives and is horrified to feel reflex tears welling up in his eyes. He really is out of practice, isn’t he? Schlatt would be getting a good laugh out of this if he was here. It doesn’t even hurt that bad and even if it did, it’s worth it.

Quackity wipes at his eyes and looks at his two pulled feathers, giving them a watery smile. Primary feathers are the ones used for flight and although pulling two of them won’t ground Quackity, it’s the sentiment that matters. It’s saying he would give up the most important parts of himself to be with them, that they were more important to him than he is to himself. It’s the truest way Quackity can say he loves them and be believed. A little pain and wings patchy from self-plucking are a small sacrifice to pay.

He leaves one on Karl’s pillow and one on Sapnap’s, perfect beautiful little gifts for his partners to come home to.

Quackity remembers in vivid detail the first time he showed Sapnap and Karl his wings. It was actually an accident but in retrospect he probably should have expected it. Of course his boyfriends would come looking for him after he stole half their wardrobe.

Quackity feels that familiar itch at the back of his skull that demanded he nest, that wanted the safety and comfort of being surrounded by the people he loved. It was always around this time that his wings got more sensitive too, constantly twitching under his shirts with the desire to be free. Even when he finally got to take them out, they tended to ache after being smothered in the same position for so long.

When Sapnap gives him a friendly pat on the back, Quackity almost cries at the pain that jolts from his spine through his wings. But it’s fine, it’s all fine, or it’s going to be now that Quackity finally has a moment alone to collect himself.

Quackity was planning on just trying to get some sleep but the bed is cold without his boyfriends. The sheets feel harsh and empty against his skin. His wings push against his shirt involuntarily, desperate to brush his feathers around his lovers.

He curls up in a ball around Karl’s pillow, trying to fall asleep for a few more minutes before he finally gives in. He hopes his boyfriends are more forgiving than Schlatt.

Maybe if he just took some things, nested for an hour, and then put everything back where he found it? They wouldn’t even have to know. Besides, Quackity can at least try to hide it a little.

He drags the fluffiest sheet off their bed and a couple others, leaving his own pillow behind. He gazes longingly at his boyfriend’s pillows but decides to leave them. No reason to take more than he really needs. He hobbles over to their guest bedroom, throwing everything on the bed, before tracking back to ransack his boyfriends’ closets.

He grabs Karl’s purple hoodie, an old smokey smelling sweater of Sapnap’s, and a couple other things, bringing them all to the guest room and shutting the door quietly behind himself. He spends the next ten minutes messing up the sheets and creating his nest. It’s only big enough for one person but it’s not like Quackity has ever needed it any bigger.

As soon as he settles in, clothes from Karl and Sapnap on either side of him, the tightness in his chest unspools. He lets his shirt ride up enough to free his wings, fluffing up his feathers as he lays down.

He only means to take a quick nap but he oversleeps.

He wakes up to voices saying his name.

“Quackity?” Sapnap’s question rouses him, concern audible in his tone. “What are you doing in here? And why did you take all the sheets?”

Quackity’s eyes snap open and he bolts upright. Shit, shit, he was supposed to put everything back before they came home. This is bad. They’re going to be so mad. He stole from them because he’s an uncontrollable animalistic hybrid who can’t even use his wings, he—

Sapnap walks in, Karl following close behind. Karl’s face lights up as he looks at him and he bounds over, not even giving Quackity time to flinch away.

“Oh my gosh, wings!” Karl reaches out and brushes reverent fingers over Quackity’s feathers. “Sapnap, look, he has wings! They’re so pretty.” Karl gazes up at him, eyes wide and adoring and awestruck. He whispers, “You’re like an angel.”

It takes everything in Quackity not to rip his wings away and tuck them safely behind his back again, out of the reach of hands that can rip out feathers and snap the fragile hollow bones. Logically he knows Karl won’t hurt him but old habits die hard.

He gives Karl a nervous smile. “If I was an angel, they’d be white, not yellow.” Karl laughs at that and Quackity’s heart eases. At least Karl isn’t mad at him.

“Like a little duckling,” Karl murmurs in compromise. Quackity tries not to hear ugly duckling.

Karl cards through his feathers and Quackity watches as his eyes shift from purple-green to golden yellow, the color blooming from behind his pupils. Gold bleeds out from his nail beds as well, staining his fingernails a brand new hue. They’ve never been able to explain it, who or what Karl is. Karl has never offered a reason. All Quackity and Sapnap know is that he’s not quite human.

Sapnap takes a step closer. He pokes at the sleeve of his sweater that Quackity took from the closet.

“Is this mine?” he asks.

“I was going to put it back,” Quackity insists. His hands twist in the sheets. “I— I didn’t mean to steal it. I can put it back right now. I can—”

Sapnap shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine, baby.” He yawns and then crawls into the bed, curling up there and opening his arms in an invitation for cuddles.

Quackity immediately tenses. He holds back the words of protest in his throat but Sapnap notices anyway.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Um, you’re—” Quackity swallows. His instincts rear and he forces them down, flapping his wings once to try and settle himself. Karl lets out an awed gasp at the motion but all Quackity can think about is how they’re in his nest. “Just dumb bird stuff. Nevermind.”

“No, I want to know. You can tell us, I promise.” Sapnap strokes the end of Quackity’s wing where it’s just in his reach. “I didn’t even know you were a bird hybrid. You don’t have to keep so many secrets from us.” Sapnap doesn’t sound accusatory. Just… sad.

Quackity looks away. “I’m not trying to keep secrets. I just… I don’t want to inconvenience you guys. Or be annoying. This isn’t important stuff. It’s just… me stuff.”

Karl’s brow furrows. He puts a hand on Quackity’s cheek, guiding the other to look at him. “But you are important,” he says earnestly. Quackity can feel Karl's pulse, as regular as a ticking clock.

Quackity pulls his wings close to his back, biting his lip. Karl lets his hand drift to Quackity’s shoulder, rubbing circles there.

Quackity finally gives in, sagging and admitting, “I’m— I’m nesting. Sometimes it happens because of stress, sometimes it just happens. It helps to have things from the people I care about when I make it for when— when you’re not here.”

“Aw, that’s so adorable. You’re a little birdie in your nest?” Karl giggles. Quackity gives a weak laugh in return.

“Y-yeah I guess.”

Sapnap is still staring at him. Heat radiates off of him. Sometimes Sapnap sets things on fire, part of being a blaze hybrid, and Quackity pictures his nest going up in flames, imagines sitting in ash and charcoal. Schlatt used to threaten to hurt Quackity’s wings so badly he would never be able to use them again. He never made good on that promise but it would be so easy for Sapnap to burn all of Quackity’s feathers away if he wanted.

“Is there something else?” Sapnap finally speaks up.

“No, no—” Quackity blurts out too quickly.

“There is. I can tell.”

“Just—” The words get stuck. “It’s not important. I can’t control my instincts and— and birds aren’t even supposed to be territorial anyway. You really don’t care—”

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t care about. I can decide that for myself, okay?” Sapnap takes Quackity’s hand, skin warm to the touch but somehow not burning. Quackity was sure it would be burning. That Sapnap would burn him.

“You’re, um,” Quackity looks up at Sapnap, trying to articulate the wrongness that’s settling in his bones. “You’re s-supposed to ask permission to enter my nest.” Quackity starts to backpedal before even registering Sapnap’s expression. “It’s just a dumb tradition though. Obviously— obviously I wouldn’t say no to— to my boyfriends so it’s stupid to even think that you would have to ask. Dumb fucking bird instincts, right?”

Sapnap starts standing and Quackity grabs at his sleeve. “Don’t— Don’t— I’m sorry, please don’t leave, you don’t have to leave. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even mentioned it—” Sapnap shushes him and gently pries his hand off. That’s it, Quackity has really fucked it up now.

Karl starts getting up too and Quackity jerks out a hand to press down on his thigh, stopping him. Karl leans over, pressing a kiss into Quackity’s shoulder. As he gazes up at Quackity through his eyelashes, Quackity sees the gold in his irises tarnish. “‘s okay, duckling,” he says. Quackity doesn’t believe him.

All his insecurities collapse down on him. He’s always third best. How could he not be when Sapnap and Karl had a past that he would never be a part of? This is their chance to finally cut him out like they should have all along. Who would want a scrappy bird hybrid who can barely fly? Who would want someone already so damaged from their last relationship?

He could have just held on a little bit longer, just been a little bit better, and then maybe he would have had this for a few more days but somehow he always manages to find a way to fuck things up.

But he can’t keep them here. He’s not their prison guard. He doesn’t want to be the weight holding them down. If they don’t want to be with him, then that’s it and no matter how much he wishes otherwise, he has to let them go.

Quackity almost can’t take it. Nesting is already a fragile time. Even the tiniest things can tip him over the edge because his nest is supposed to be safe.

But his nest hasn't been a safe space for years.

It started out lonely and cold when he was all alone in the world, abandoned by any other bird hybrids who could have explained to him what he was and what all his instincts were telling him to do. He figured out nesting by himself after spending weeks crawling out of his skin and trying to understand why he hadn’t been able to sleep. He was near delirious with sleep deprivation when he finally let his body do what it wanted and woke up in a nest of sheets and clothes.

That was how it was for a couple years until he started dating Schlatt.

Schlatt hated when Quackity nested. He hated how Quackity left the house a mess, how it turned him into a thief, how inevitably even when Quackity returned the clothes that they were covered in shed down feathers.

Quackity tried his best to stop. He let the dark circles under his eyes grow, let his mind fog over with fatigue, let his hands tremble through his work. Finally Schlatt let him nest in the closet in return for proof that Quackity cared about him.

That’s how it began. That’s how Quackity started giving up his primary feathers in exchange for love.

Just a plucked feather here, a yanked feather there, and Quackity could prove he loved his fiance.

And things were so good except when they weren't and Quackity got used to nesting in the closet eventually and now he's here looking at Sapnap and Karl leaving him alone in his nest the same way Schlatt would leave in disgust when he saw Quackity nesting.

Quackity jerks his hand off Karl's leg like he's been burned, shame coursing through him. "Yeah, no, of course. It's fine," he mutters even though it's really not. The most he can hope for is that they let him keep using the guest bedroom and maybe don't kick him out just yet.

“Quackity—” Karl starts to say, reaching for him, but Sapnap berates, “Karl, come here.”

Karl throws a last look at Quackity as he fully gets off the bed. He takes Sapnap’s hand instead and Quackity stares at their interlocked fingers without any jealousy, just a despondent kind of inevitability.

“Just stay here, okay?” Sapnap requests softly. Quackity nods, not trusting any words to come out. Anything is better than being kicked out. He’ll hold onto any last seconds he gets to spend in their home.

Sapnap pulls Karl out the door. Quackity watches them go, rooted to the bed. The tears start to come as soon as they leave his vision.

They start slowly, blurring his vision into soft lines, then rolling down his cheeks one by one. He takes a breath and his lungs shake. The tears come faster. He doesn’t even bother trying to keep it together anymore. What’s the point?

They left him. They’re not coming back. Why would they?

He brings his knees up to his chest, huddling his face in his arms where his tears can be absorbed into his sleeves. His wings come up around him, hiding him away. His nest is always so cold.

He hears shuffling and then the creak of a door. “Huh?” He peeks out from behind his arms.

Sapnap and Karl are standing there, pillows and extra blankets in their arms. Karl’s face instantly falls as they make eye contact. He drops his things on the floor, rushing over and putting his hands on Quackity’s cheeks, thumbing away his tears.

“Oh, duckling, don’t cry! We shouldn’t have left. Don’t cry, baby.”

Quackity sniffles pathetically and lets Karl fuss over him. “I-It’s fine, Karl. Really. You don’t have to worry about me.”

His relief is so intense that it’s almost painful as it floods through him, heart to fingertips. And behind that, there’s the desperate need to hold on as hard as he can before it’s taken away from him again. He doesn’t want that to show though, doesn’t want his neediness to make them reconsider.

“Quackity,” Sapnap gets Quackity’s attention. His eyes smolder like embers. “Do we have permission to enter your nest?”

“W-what?”

Quackity can’t quite process what’s being asked of him. They’re his boyfriends. Of course they have the right to anything that’s his. After all, Schlatt never asked. He just took and took until Quackity had to take back and eat—

NO—

But there’s something right about the feeling of being asked. That’s the way nesting is meant to be. It’s supposed to be safe and respected and not shoved into tiny dark spaces where Quackity can’t even open his wings.

Sapnap’s voice breaks Quackity out of his thoughts.

“Do we have permission to enter your nest?” Sapnap repeats.

“Yeah, we came to ask permission!” Karl agrees, dropping his hands and leaning down to pick up the pillows on the ground. He throws them all onto the bed as Quackity stares at them. “These are for you! To make your nest comfy, even if you don’t want us in it. See, we brought our pillows cause you said you liked our clothes!” His eyes glitter with color, a dizzying rainbow swirl.

The tears start coming back, not quite falling but Quackity’s eyes burn. They didn’t even ask assuming that Quackity would say yes. They brought him their own pillows so he could have them even if they weren’t invited. Quackity could take all the sheets and pillows and be safe and send Sapnap and Karl back to their room and he doesn’t even think they would be mad. He can’t remember the last time someone cared for him like this, without expectation of something in return.

“Of— of course I want you both in my nest,” Quackity finally stammers, scrambling to make room. He could say no. He could. But he doesn’t want them to think he’s ungrateful so he won’t. “You can come in.”

Sapnap nods and crawls onto the bed. Karl was clearly just waiting for Quackity to say the word because he practically leaps into Quackity’s lap, snuggling him into a hug. Sapnap pulls both of them closer to him, careful not to crush Quackity’s wings.

Quackity lets the warmth surround him, burying his face in Karl’s shoulder. If anyone hears him sniffle, no one mentions it.

“I’m sorry you thought we were leaving,” Sapnap whispers as he kisses the top of Quackity’s head. “I just wanted to do it the right way.”

Quackity’s instinct sing at that, at the thought of his partner trying to be respectful in the ways that matter to his instincts. They’re trying to understand him. And Quackity appreciates that but—

“You know you don’t have to though, right?” Quackity twists to look at Sapnap. “You’re already leagues better than Schlatt.”

The flames in Sapnap’s eyes dim and extinguish. “Even if we are, that doesn’t always mean we do the right thing. It doesn’t always mean we’re treating you as well as we should. Please, don’t let that bastard be your benchmark for us, okay?”

Quackity doesn’t know how to reply to that so instead he starts playing with the new blankets Sapnap and Karl brought. His nest is a little small with the three of them in it. He wants them all to be comfortable so they don’t have to leave again.

He feels his boyfriends watch him as he bustles about the bed, widening his nest and lining it with their pillows and clothes and blankets. The nervous feeling in his chest eases as he puts the last thing into place. He fluffs his wings out and then unexpectedly, a chirp bubbles up out of his mouth. Quackity’s eyes widen and he presses a fist against his lips to stop another from slipping out.

He hasn’t chirped since he was a little kid. Why is this happening now? Vaguely he remember someone telling him that baby birds peep when they’re imprinting on the people who take care of them and fuck—

Karl beams, exclaiming, “Oh my gosh, did you just chirp, birdie?”

“No, nope, I—” Another peep breaks through his words and Quackity feels his cheeks heat up. “Shit.”

Karl squeals. He peppers Quackity with kisses as Quackity hiccups and chirps, the embarrassment only making the sound more uncontrollable. “I love you, Quackity! You’re so cute!” Karl grins.

Quackity freezes. “W-what?”

Karl blinks at him, eyes shifting between sweet shades of pink and yellow. “I love you! Haven’t I told you that before?”

Quackity shakes his head slowly, still staring at Karl. Karl has never said he loved him before. Quackity would remember. None of them have actually. Quackity has a theory that Karl and Sapnap stopped saying they loved each other when he joined their relationship so he wouldn’t feel left out but he doesn’t have anything to prove it. He also has a theory they still said it to each other when he wasn’t around but that one hurt more to think about.

Karl’s nose wrinkles cutely, like he can’t believe he hasn’t said those words before. “I swear I did,” he mutters and then shrugs. “But either way, I’m telling you now! I love you!”

Quackity’s blush deepens. “Oh my god, you don’t have to keep saying it. But I…” He swallows and phantom pain drifts through his wings. “I love you too.”

Sapnap’s arms come around Quackity’s waist, hugging him closer. One of his hands reaches out to hold Karl’s.

“I love you too,” Sapnap whispers into Quackity’s neck. “I love you both.”

Quackity hides his face in Sapnap’s chest. “I love you too, Sap,” he replies.

He thought he would never say those words again. Schlatt hurt him so much, in every way. This was supposed to be fun, just a rebound to pass the time, but Karl and Sapnap pulled him in with each sweet pet name, each warm gesture. He means it, those precious words he said to them.

And he thinks they meant it too.

For now, he tries not to think about what that means for him and how he’ll have to actually prove it to them later and how his wings still have threadbare patches from his last relationship. For now, he tries not to think about how love always hurts.

The first time Sapnap and Karl said they loved him was the first time they saw his wings. Quackity said it back then but now he proves it, each stripped feather a declaration of love. It all comes back to his wings, his beautiful, hideous, plucked wings.

In a way, it’s all so fitting.

Author’s note: this is a chaptered work, probably about 5 chapters, and should be updating weekly on Ao3! Here’s the link again if you missed it!

#karlnapity #karlnapity fanfic #myct fanfiction #dsmp fanfic #thewar #dream smp fanfiction #feather weather

48 notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Note

How do all the other stands feel ab sr? I’m sure they all somewhat get along, right?

i��ve been wanting to give a longer, traditional hc style post about this!! since you’ve asked it’s the perfect opportunity to express my thoughts on it. it’s more of a combination of SR with the user and their stand, i hope that’s okay hjrktme

Bruno Bucciarati;

Sticky Fingers is the first Stand from Bucciarati’s group that you got to see! So there’s a special place in your heart for it. By extension, Bruno was the first person to see Scarlet Ribbons. SR was very inquisitive during their initial meeting, since it’s the first time she ever saw a Stand other than herself. She was looking around a lot, and lowkey wondering where are this things bows at??

Though Stand powers wildly vary from one another, Bruno was able to give you a general explanation of what to expect from SR. He didn’t want to go too overboard with advice because he feels a natural fighting style stemming from your own abilities/instinct is best, especially since your Stand is created from your soul. He basically just told you to go with your gut, which at the time felt a bit frustrating... it turned out to be good advice though!

Sticky Fingers and SR have almost opposite abilities in a way? SR can close up gaps whereas Sticky Fingers opens them up. It’s not uncommon that when you and Bruno are chatting, that your respective Stands are just kinda messing around in the distance. Sticky Fingers likes making zippers in walls, and SR tries to see if she can close them with ribbons... it doesn’t work like that, but it’s kinda endearing to see them interact with one another lmao.

Giorno Giovanna;

It’s gonna be super cute okay. Giorno in general might give the impression of knowing what he’s doing when it comes to romance, but he really is just winging it and kinda going ??? the entire time. Meanwhile, Gold Experience is going ham with SR, pulling all the stops to impress her (and you, by extension). His Stand makes flowers of a striking red color, trying to match the shade of SR’s ribbons!! Mostly poppies, tulips, and occasionally roses.

Giorno is kinda curious how SR seems to be out a lot of the time, he’s thinking should I do the same thing with GE...? You’ll be doing exercises, and SR is there bringing a water bottle over to you. Or when you’re cooking, SR is hovering over your shoulder wanting to help out as well. She’s just almost always around, even if only in the background to explore her surroundings. It makes Giorno let GE out more often, subconsciously.

He does ask you about it once, and you just kinda shrug and say SR likes the freedom to do as she pleases. Since she isn’t rambunctious like Pistols, you don’t see the harm in letting her roam around.

Gold Experience wants to try making ribbons, but the best it can do is creating ribbon eels. It’s not quite the same, but it’s a solid effort. Giorno just has to stop GE from putting the ribbon eel on his head in the same way SR has a ribbon on hers. Mista was around to witness this historical event, and no, he does not intend on letting Giorno live it down. Giorno’s grateful he stopped it from actually happening though.

Guido Mista;

Let’s just say your Stands together can be pretty chaotic. The first time you met Mista, and he realized you were a Stand user like himself, he had a very pressing question. When you showed him SR, he looked at it for a moment, as if in deep thought.

“D-does... yours talk too?”

Mista passed Polpo’s test only to be gifted talented, albeit troublesome little gremlins. Before he realized giving Pistols food is a reliable method of calming them down, it was a war zone. One of the mornings where the two of you had to do some standard protection fee collection, he looked like a borderline zombie. Lamenting that the Pistols refused to let him sleep, and asked if you’d please use SR to cover their mouths lmao. They were protesting the entire time, trying to convince you not to do it.

When Number Five starts crying, SR makes a little ribbon to put on his head!! It’s super cute and Mista’s heart is just leaping in his chest. Then, of course, all the other Pistols want one bc equal attention!! When the two of you aren’t paying solid attention to your Stands, you’ll sometimes spot SR testing how many accessories she can fit on the tiny Pistols. It isn’t a lot but they’re insistent on trying.

Pistols are always trying to get SR to do crazy stunts for their entertainment. Eventually, you had to lock your refrigerator with her ribbons to prevent the Pistols from stealing your food. But when you’re busy, the Pistols keep trying to convince SR to undo them so they can snack. She actually felt bad for them once, released the restriction, and the Pistols went to town on your leftovers. : (

Mista felt pity for you though and offered to take you out to get more food!! So it all worked out for his benefit in the end. The Pistols do not take issue in reminding him of this as well, saying that they’re the reason he got to go on a date with you. :’ )

Pannacotta Fugo;

He remained fiercely adamant on keeping Purple Haze from you for the longest time. Fugo hates how his Stand practically comes out of its own autonomy whenever you’re in the vicinity, wanting to get a closer look at you. There have been a lot of close calls when you first got to know when another, leading to Fugo abruptly leaving in conversations.

Your Stands get along well once Fugo feels comfortable enough to let Purple Haze out around you. Since SR is a long ranged Stand, she can do her cute ribbon tricks from a distance outside of the virus’ range!! Though she has a habit of trying to get closer, just out of curiosity. Fugo gets freaked out when this happens though, so she waits until he’s distracted with talking to you (a little genius)!

Purple Haze makes the biggest puppy dog eyes at SR, which humiliates Fugo to no end. He gives his Stand intense talks when you’re not around, telling him to keep it cool, he doesn’t want you thinking he’s an idiot. But as soon as he even mentions SR, Purple Haze gets all thrilled and is like !!! So it’s ultimately counterproductive. Fugo just hopes you don’t put two and two together, over why his soul likes yours so much. It’s his daily prayer...

Fugo has an embarrassing habit of doodling ribbons on stuff he’s working on, when he starts zoning out. When he realizes what it is he’s doing he gets flustered about it, cursing underneath his breath and hoping that you don’t happen to come by and notice. Unfortunately for him, as SR likes to see what everyone is up to, she came over and saw what he was doing. After putting two and two together, she gave him a nod and a thumbs up on his doodles. Didn’t snitch to you though, so the two of them have a mutual understanding. :’)

Narancia Ghirga;

He wants so badly to impress you with Aerosmith. Narancia will whip his Stand out in your presence at any given opportunity, having it do a few flips and tricks more than necessary. Then he stares over to see what you and SR think about it... she once clapped in Aerosmith’s honor. It was all Narancia could think about for the rest of the day.

The two Stands typically just play around with one another. Aerosmith likes to make little ribbon shaped clouds, and SR attempts making a plane shape out of her ribbons. It’s not quite the same, but she’s trying!! Narancia finds it adorable, and tries to make requests of shapes and stuff for her to make. SR does her best to fulfill the requests, concentrating hard on the task!!

Since SR enjoys making hair accessories, she’s tried to make a bandanna similar to Narancia’s for you. Though she ultimately scrapped the idea, giving you a disapproving look and fastening it back into the normal bow it normally is lmao. When you mentioned this behavior to Narancia he was like wait, what?? Lemme see! But if SR doesn’t find something fashionable, she doesn’t have any intention on doing it again. So he’s outta luck...

It doesn’t stop him from asking about it. He just can’t believe that your Stand thought about him when he wasn’t around!! It touched him in a way he never knew possible. It’s also a bit of a relief since you’re often the subject of his thoughts.

Leone Abbacchio;

Similar in a sense to Fugo, where he didn’t want Moody Blues around you that much at first. He takes a much more serious approach to his Stand than others, since it’s deeply rooted in his past trauma. It’d actually be one of the few moments he might snap at you, should you ask to see his Stand one too many times. Not out of malicious intent, he’s just... very disillusioned with Moody Blues at first.

You two had a job which required some investigative work, the client having seemingly disappeared with some goods that belonged to Passione. Figuring out what happened with the merchandise was essentially child’s play for Moody Blues, a replay showing the full extent of the events. Abbacchio wasn’t keen on showing you his Stand, but it couldn’t be helped any longer.

Unlike the others who tended to pester him on the extent of Moody Blues’ abilities, you just complimented him. Saying that it’s similar in utility to your Stand. You willingly comparing yourself to him, and in a positive light nonetheless, kinda had him at a loss for words.

He didn’t really offer a strong rebuttal like he normally would, so you assumed he didn’t think much of your comment. Which, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth. If you could see good in him of all people, then well... there was a lot for him to think about that night.

After this incident, he’s noticeably just a tad kinder to you in general. What you said meant a lot to him. Obviously not enough to make all his self deprecation go away overnight, but it just gave a small glimmer of hope. That maybe he can someday be better.

Trish Una;

Another person that I picture SR being especially adorable with!! After the events of Bruno betraying the boss, you and SR would be feeling hurt on Trish’s behalf. You instantly draw the parallels of living a carefree life, only for Passione/gangsters to come in and essentially ruin everything.

While dealing with the pain of rejection from her father figure, Trish also wonders if you consider her less important. Since your original job was to protect her, due to being the boss’ daughter, wouldn’t it make sense you don’t care about her now that it’s no longer your job to?

SR covers the spot where her hand was severed with a bow, even after Giorno properly heals it. Trish just looks at you confused, and you explain it’s your Stand’s way of wanting to help her feel better. That where her father had inflicted pain, Trish has the support and strength from you and herself to overcome it.

Needless to say, Trish thinks highly over you, the feeling extending over to Spice Girl. During your meetups after everything is over, Spice Girl and Scarlet Ribbons come out and embrace one another!! Well, it’s more like SR goes for the hug, and Spice Girl is just :’) woah affection. Trish finds it a little embarrassing at first, but secretly loves and it and looks forward to it. Though she does wish Spice Girl was a tad more discreet.

During Trish’s travels for her singing career, if there’s anything that even vaguely reminds her/Spice Girl of you, she snaps a photo to text to you. It’s mostly red hair accessories and clothing, which she of course purchases. Spice Girl misses SR a lot, so expect to receive a lot of texts asking how you and your Stand are doing.

When Scarlet Ribbon spots Trish’s name popping up on your phone, she immediately brings it over. The Stand impatiently shoves your phone in your face, as if to say respond now!! It’s Trish, it’s important!! Scarlet Ribbons loves her a lot 🥺 especially since Trish sends her accessories...

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myundeadgayson · 3 years

Text

Ahoy, We are Castaways AU, but not really because Gunk and Ishmael find Pirates:

@bluwards So.... I mayhaps wrote an entire thing for your idea?

For anyone wondering, here’s the link to the OG au idea post: https://bluwards.tumblr.com/post/661885099380506624/au-where-tommy-and-wilbur-were-part-of-a-pirate

This might not be exactly what you were hoping for of this, but I had an image in my mind and just went HAM on it. Like, I mean that as in I started this at like... 1am last night and I finished at like 4pm today??? I’m not saying I wrote that entire time, but I am saying that I literally just NEEDED to finish this because it’s SUCH A FUN IDEA. (I’m sorry for writing so much by the way! I got excited.)

Notes: None of this is historically accurate to literally anything, especially history and pirates. Instead, we’re gonna image this is some fun fantasy world where like. Pirates are out chilling in the world stealing shit and royalty exists somewhere enough you can be like “yeah, i’m royal. try to prove i’m not bitch.” (Also, I’ll post this on Ao3 later and edit with the link after I sleep. For now, please enjoy!) Words: 5160 Characters: Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit, Philza Minecraft, and Technoblade

The heat must be getting to him. It must be because there’s no way that’s a ship he’s seeing out on the horizon. It seems to be drawing closer, but it’s not near enough to tell, not that it would matter anyway. It’s not real. It’s not real, he tells himself. It has to be a mirage. As if their luck would ever be that good.

Wilbur rests his head back down into Tommy’s mess of curls. The two of them are curled together underneath the shade of the treeline. His back is pressed against the rough, uneven bark of a palm tree with his bare feet digging into the sand. Tommy’s eyes are closed. His little brother is tucked tight against his side, dozing softly as the slight breeze ruffles his dirty hair.

If Wilbur tried, he could pretend Tommy was just resting. He could pretend this was the two of them relaxing on some beach that they’ve gotten all to themselves. He could imagine that Tommy tuckered himself out, now the two of them were peacefully dozing off in the shade on a lovely Summer day as the gentle sea wind blew.

In that fantasy, they would have chosen to be here on this beach. A beach would make for a good day trip, he thinks. He imagines that it would be a beach off the coast of a small town. He’d take Tommy early in the morning down past the docks and watch Tommy hop along stones down a path leading towards the sand. Wilbur would make him carry a basket of bread and other treats that they might have gotten from a kind baker that didn’t mind that their pockets were a little low. Wilbur would smile and promise to repay them, and it’d be a real promise instead of a sharp-toothed lie.

He’d bring a threadbare sheet because they’d have one to spare for it. He’d spread it along the sand and bask in the sun’s rays. He’d open his eyes occasionally to Tommy’s excited shouts as his brother pulled odd shells and tiny hermit crabs from the ocean, then laugh as Tommy shouted obscenities when they inevitably fell from his hands because Tommy was anything but careful. A few shells would be saved though, and Tommy would make a small pile of them on the corner of the sheet for them to keep.

Tommy would eventually tug Wilbur up to join him. Wilbur would laugh and pretend to be reluctant as his brother guided him down towards the water until the warm waves lapped at their feet. Tommy would grin at him, bright as the sun overhead and his hair sparkling like strands of gold. He’d look so proud of himself as he showed Wilbur more shells and other interesting things he found.

Along the way, one of them would splash the other whether it be accidentally or not, and it’d start a war. Wilbur would laugh until his ribs were sore as he smacked water Tommy’s way and listened to the younger shout insults back at him. It’d all be in good fun and it’d show in Tommy’s toothy grin as the blond would get some harebrained idea of how to “win” their little game and it’d end with them both falling into the water. They’d be soaked to the bone and Wilbur would playfully smack water at Tommy’s face for getting them both wet, but it’d be fine in the end because they would sit out in the sun until their clothes dried. In this fantasy, Wilbur could imagine it wouldn’t matter anyway because once they went home, they’d have more clothes to change into and one pair wouldn’t be missed for a day.

When the sun started to set over the horizon, Wilbur would gather them up to leave. He’d gather up their food and make Tommy carefully fold up the sheet. It’d end up balled up instead and Wilbur would tease Tommy for his shit folding skills. They’d stay an extra few minutes to stare off at the sunset as it glistened over the calm waters. All would feel peaceful until Tommy ruined the moment with some joke that’d make Wilbur smack him upside the head, even though he’d laugh all the same.

They’d walk home with Tommy’s shells tucked safely into their pockets under the soft pink skies. A perfect background to a perfect day.

It would be nice, lovely even, because in that world they’d go home to some nice place Wilbur managed to keep for them in some nice town. It’d be real and theirs, and they’d each have a warm bed to sleep in and food in their stomachs. It might be small, but small was okay because they’d both be happy and they’d have nothing to fear.

If only life were ever so kind.

It was a nice daydream, but if Wilbur were to look down, it’d shatter. It’d shatter if he listened at all to the way Tommy’s breathing sounded off. With every low breath, his brother’s chest would shutter. Wilbur could feel it every time.

Tommy’s nose was red and peeling, as were his cheeks and shoulders. His freckles were hidden beneath the furious scarlet and white flecks. His skin had gotten tanner, but the dark rings under his eyes made him look ghastly. Wilbur was sure that he looked about the same himself, but seeing it on Tommy was different.

The boy was thin enough before they’d gotten stranded, but now his limbs looked just too small. Wilbur could practically see the bones poking through. If it weren’t for the blaring sun overhead tanning their skin, Wilbur was sure that Tommy would look more like a walking skeleton than a teenager.

They’d got thrown overboard days ago. Wilbur lost track of how many. He stopped really caring when he realized there were other things to care about, like keeping them alive.

Luck had never been on their side. Wilbur had known that since they were little and a twelve-year-old found himself in charge of a five-year-old.

The world’s always been against them. It started early with a mother too young to be on her own with a child. She was struggling enough as it was to keep them fed that when that one child turned to two, the odds for any of them getting by turned minimal. Even with Wilbur doing his best to help, swindling and snatching up food and loose change off of oblivious folk in the city, hope was running thin.

It was amazing she’d ever gotten so far. Wilbur hated to see it that way now, but it was the truth. The fact she’d ever made it to Tommy’s fifth birthday was incredible. When the sickness set in though, no amount of Wilbur’s efforts could seem to help her. Eventually, she’d stopped waking up entirely and Wilbur was left on his own to care for his little brother.

Luck ran out, but they made their own with time.

After losing their mother, Wilbur packed them up and they were off. He taught Tommy every trick he knew. They traveled endlessly, hopping from place to place just to keep moving whenever it seemed like any townsfolk around started catching onto their games. Wilbur tried a few odd jobs every time for money in places, and Tommy was tiny enough that he could sneak bread and other foods off vendors to bring back to whatever tiny hole they’d called home at that moment.

As they both got older, the tricks got better. Their stories were perfected and their act was flawless if ever they needed to talk someone into lending them a place out of pity, or a new job.

When Wilbur caught sight of a ship though, he’d thought they were golden. Sure, he only knew vaguely about working them. He’d taken on a few jobs on some docks before, but he’d never been on a ship himself. The thought was meant to be that if he could get on that ship for a job, he could bring Tommy along with him. They’d stay there and hop off at the first chance they could once they’d landed in a new country, then they’d start over for real. They’d start over fresh in a new place entirely and everything might be okay! They could make life whatever they wanted because no one would be able to know otherwise!

And everything did feel okay for a while. Turns out the ship Wilbur found was a crew of pirates, but like always, Wilbur managed to talk his way through. Tommy played along perfectly, and before they knew it, they became crew. Perhaps they were there for nothing more than playing clean-up, but they would take what they could get.

Their luck was turning up. As Wilbur started working his way through making connections with the crew, he was starting to think maybe he’d found a place for them. They wouldn’t stay, of course, but it made sense, didn’t it?

The constant traveling and plundering— that kind of life was meant for them. However, there were also rules to follow and heavy risks in not doing so. Neither of them were good at following rules, but they were good actors all the same that could fake it until their last breath. But for a short time, it felt like a good fit and Wilbur remembered telling Tommy as such.

Tommy was much more reluctant. He was getting by, but he didn’t like it there. Maybe Wilbur was succeeding, but Tommy was younger. His limbs were all thin and gangly, and it made him look weaker than he was. The crew would shove him around and they’d always be too loud in his ears. Tommy was rather loud himself, but when you’re trying to hold your tongue to survive, it wasn’t like he could exactly defend himself.

So maybe they didn’t see eye to eye about it, but that was fine. Wilbur agreed they’d only be there a little longer because the moment they docked somewhere new, they’d be off and onto wherever life would take them next.

Unfortunately, their luck ran out.

It all happened in a blur. Wilbur remembered when the storm hit. It was rougher than normal. He remembered fighting with the rest of the crew to take care of the ship. They were fighting hard to stay afloat as the waves rocked the ship from side to side so hard that Wilbur feared they would tip.

The ship didn’t tip, but Tommy did.

He could still vividly remember Tommy slipping. He’d watched in horror the way his brother scrambled for purchase on something, anything. He’s just barely caught the side of the ship.

Wilbur went after him, not caring in the slightest for whatever task he’d abandoned. He’d tried to help yank Tommy back aboard. Tommy, who held on with white knuckles and fingernails digging into the wood with fear in his eyes. Wilbur tried to reassure him, but he was sure his words got lost in the raging winds. He’d tried to pull Tommy back onto the deck, and for a moment, he was succeeding. He almost managed to pull Tommy back on board.

Right as he thought he’d gotten Tommy back though, the ship hit another furious set of waves. The brothers got thrown hard, and suddenly they were both going down.

It was a miracle they didn’t drown.

Wilbur sighed, closing his eyes once again. He tried to block out the memories of rushing water and Tommy’s screams of his name. He could still taste the seawater on his tongue as it tried to flood his lungs.

They’d gotten tossed endlessly in the waves. The ship was forgotten in the battle to just hold on to each other.

He combed his fingers through Tommy’s hair. The boy didn’t even respond. He must have finally fallen asleep, Wilbur thought to himself. Sleep hadn’t been easy to find since they’d woken up ashore. Though the island seemed abandoned, neither of them could be sure there wasn’t some hidden danger lurking somewhere. Their sunburns didn’t make it easy either with the way their skin would ache. Even in the shade or the dark of the night, they’d struggle to find enough comfort to rest at all.

He was glad Tommy was getting some sleep now. He was getting rather tired himself. As much as he’d like to give in, one of them needed to stay awake just in case.

Wilbur groaned as he forced his eyes to peel open once more. As his vision started to clear, he noticed the mirage was getting closer. The blurry shape of the ship was getting bigger. It was looking like it was getting ready to dock at the edge of the island at any minute. Or at least it would if it were actually real.

Wilbur huffed, resting his cheek on Tommy’s head. He watched idly as the ship grew closer and closer to the edge of the shore. It wasn’t coming straight towards them. It was heading more towards the left edge of the island where the trees were a bit more scattered, but the shoreline was still mostly clear of rocks.

It wasn’t until it was starting to look suspiciously more and more lifelike that Wilbur started to get more intrigued.

Furrowing his brows, he lifted his head. He pulled away from Tommy some to sit up further. Tommy groaned in protest. The motion caused the boy to slide down, his head resting more on Wilbur’s chest than shoulder. Wilbur wanted to hush him and whisper soft apologies for disturbing him at all. Unfortunately, the ship’s drawing nearer by the second and Wilbur could feel something akin to hope bubbling up in his throat.

He frantically nudged at Tommy’s side, “Tommy. Tommy, wake up.”

“Augh…” Tommy rolled his head, burying his face further into Wilbur’s shirt with an annoyed whine. He weakly smacked at Wilbur’s arm, “Fuck off, Wilbur… M’tryin’ to sleep, asshole…”

As much as Wilbur wished he could agree, he needed Tommy’s eyes. “Get up! I think I see something,” Wilbur urged. He shoved Tommy off him until the boy got the hint to sit up on his own.

The blond looked absolutely pitiful. Tommy rubbed at his tired eyes with his fists. Wilbur’s chest ached with remorse for having bothered him, but he told himself that again, it could be for good reason.

“What the fuck’re you on about?” Tommy mumbled irritably.

“Look! Look there,” Wilbur hissed, pointing out at the ship. It seemed to be getting ready to dock. Tiny figures could be seen moving along the deck, grabbing at ropes and such. “Do you see that?”

It took a moment for Tommy to follow where he was pointing. The boy was still getting his bearings on being awake again. Wilbur almost turned Tommy’s head himself to see though. Patience was growing thin as their potential hope of being able to escape was growing stronger, but he needed to be sure. It could be his mind playing cruel tricks on him. The exhaustion could finally be taking its toll, and maybe Tommy would be of no help because he could be seeing nothing as well, but the chances of them imagining the same ship with the same little people had to be high.

“See wha’?” Tommy’s voice was still groggy from sleep. The boy’s eyes slowly followed Wilbur’s finger towards the ship. Wilbur watched as the recognition clicked into place and all at once their hope seemed more plausible. Tommy’s eyes widened, “T-That’s— Wilbur, that’s a ship!” His head whipped around to look up at Wilbur. “That’s a real ship, innit?! Please tell me that’s real!”

The brunette was already grinning and nodding along with that same spark in his eye. “Oh, thank fuck! You see it too then! I thought maybe I was just imagining it.”

For the first time in days, Tommy looked excited. “Holy shit, Wilbur, we might be saved!”

He tried to stagger to his feet. Wilbur had to rush to catch him before he stumbled to the ground, “Tommy, careful!”

He caught the boy before he could fall. Tommy winced, teeth gritting to bite back a cry. Wilbur noticed it instantly. He dropped Tommy’s arms at once, moving to take the other’s wrists where the burns were less present. The younger steadied himself on his feet with Wilbur’s cautious guidance. Once he was stable, he passed Wilbur a sheepish grin, “Heh, oops?”

Wilbur heaved out a sigh. There was no way he could be mad at that, not that he ever planned to. He shook his head, letting go of Tommy completely now that it seemed his brother could stand on his own. He straightened up, looking out towards where the head of the ship was disappearing behind the treeline. Taking a deep breath, Wilbur ruffled a hand through his hair before looking back to Tommy, “I think they’re planning to dock on that side. If we go now, we might be able to get on.”

“Then what are we waiting for?! Let’s go!” Tommy shouted excitedly. With that, he turned to march ahead.

He barely got a step before Wilbur was catching him by the wrist to stop him, “Wait a second! I wasn’t done yet!”

Tommy practically whined as he was stopped for the second time. He turned back on his heel with a loud groan, “What? The ship’s right there, Wilbur! We need to go!”

Wilbur could understand his enthusiasm. He wanted off this island as much as Tommy did, but if they were going to get onto that ship, they needed a plan.

“Listen to me. I’m not sure we’ll be able to sneak on without getting found out and I don’t know about you, but I really don’t feel like getting tossed off another ship,” Wilbur told him honestly.

Tommy’s nose wrinkled at the reminder. Sniffing, the boy turned to face him better, “Then what? You want us to go and just ask them? Like ‘hi, Mister Captain, sir! Could we please jump on this here ship you got? I know you don’t know us and it’d be really to leave us for dead, but I think if you’d really just considered it for a second deep in your heart’— honestly, that’s sounds really stupid, Wilbur. No one’s going to fall for that!”

Wilbur sputtered, trying not to choke on a laugh. “No, no! As if that’d ever work.” He cleared his throat, pulling himself back together quickly. “We don’t know what kind of ship we’re dealing with yet. I say we go stake out the ship first and plan from there. But if we get caught, I think I already have a few ideas in mind. But whatever we do, we just have to stick to it well enough to get to their next stop.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, “Sounds easy enough. Now can we just go already? I’m so tired of all this stupid sand.” ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******

“So…” Phil dragged out the word. Techno remained tense behind him, leaning against the side of the ship. Phil didn’t need to look behind him to know the man was glaring at the pair of boys in front of them, searching for some sign to not trust the two. Phil held up a hand as if to silently gesture his first mate to settle down. He could handle this. “How about we start with your names, alright, boys?”

The two young men before him traded a look. Whatever mental conversation the two had ended in the span of seconds before the older of the pair was clearing his throat. The brunette was suddenly holding out a hand, “Captain Ishmael. Honor to meet another Captain”

“Ishmael?…” Phil slowly repeated, taking the man’s hand. He’d give it to the kid. For someone that was clearly on the verge of exhaustion, he had a good grip. “Really?”

“Uh huh!” Ishmael took his hand back with a rather proud grin, “It’s a family name. Passed down from generation to generation! I’m Ishmael the 3rd actually, in case you wanted to know.”

Phil did not. He couldn’t care less about this man’s history, but he did care about the fact that he could have sworn the man didn’t have as much of an accent before. And it seemed to be growing thicker with every word (as if “Ishmael” was getting his bearings on his new voice).

“As you can probably guess, we’re a very long way from home, you know?” Ishmael went on without missing a beat. “We had a ship of our own, but huge storm took it out with the rest of our crew and, well, you can see how things turned out.”

Phil only arched a brow further. He was sure the disbelief was heavy on his expression, “Right…” He turned his attention to the young boy beside the self-proclaimed captain. He’d been mostly quiet since boarding. “And what about you, mate?”

“Gunk,” the boy croaked up after a moment. His voice was incredibly hoarse. He had the same accent as Ishmael, lending slight credit to their tale, not that Phil believed either of them in the slightest.

“Gunk.”

The boy hummed, leaning heavily on the young Captain’s shoulder. “Yep. And that’s Gunk Gorbachev to you,” the kid added, weakly lifting his head enough to shoot Phil a glare, pointing a finger as well in a way the older blond assumed was meant to look threatening. “Heir to the Gorbachev throne, I’ll have you know.”

Phil only stared blankly at the kid. Blinking slowly, he settled on a simple, “Okay… So, we have Captain Ishmael and Gunk…”

“Gorbachev,” the kid corrected.

Phil nodded, “Gorbachev. So tell me why exactly should I let you on my ship?”

Ishmael cleared his throat first, “Well, as I mentioned before, our ship got destroyed in the storm. I know you’ve got no reason to believe us, but I assure you when we get back to the nearest mainland, I can find you all the proof I can to prove Gunk’s father is a highly influential man. He would waste no time to give you as much money as you wish for his son’s safe return.”

Before Phil could answer, Techno was doing so for him. “If he’d only send an amount for the kid, then why should we bother to keep you?”

To Ishmael's credit, he held his own well. Phil knew exactly how intimidating Techno could be, especially when he was trying. The man could make most men cower with a single look. Ishmael, however, held Techno’s look head-on, lips stretched into a firm line, “Well I’ll have you know, I’m one of King Gorbachev’s most trusted Captains. I’m now Gunk’s primary caretaker as well, seeing as the rest of our people were taken down in the waves. The bounty for my safe return will be high. Not as high as Gunk’s, but it’s still more bounty for you, isn’t it?”

“But you still crashed his ship,” Techno bluntly pointed out, much to Ishmael’s disliking. “Someone who can’t take care of their own ship and out of their crew, only manages to keep themselves and some kid alive doesn’t sound very worthy to me. At least, that’s not someone I’d wanna take back.”

Ishmael narrowed his eyes sharply, “I think as someone who lives their life on the water, you would know how unpredictable the sea can be, Sir…”

“Technoblade,” the said man gruffly answered.

“Technoblade,” the name almost sounded cruel on Ishmael’s tongue, “I’m sure you know exactly how unfair the tides are. You can’t always predict the storms when they come, neither can you always get away from them in time. I’ll have you know, Technoblade, I did my damned hardest to save my crew, but the waves separated us and took my ship down with it. You don’t think I haven’t spent days searching the shores for signs of my crew? Because I have.” Ishmael’s voice was getting louder and more emotional with every word. “The best I could do was to do my sworn task, which was keep Gunk here safe…”

Phil could see the sheen of tears behind the young captain's eyes as he choked on those last few words, and if he was lying, Phil had to admit the kid was a pretty damn good actor.

Ishmael’s arm was wrapped protectively around the Gunk’s shoulders, keeping the boy close to his chest as if it really were his sworn duty and he couldn’t handle the thought of failing another task, especially one so crucial.

Gunk was in on it as well. The boy played a pretty convincing part of the sad child that’s lost his people. Phil might feel bad if it turned out to be true because he did look awfully pitiful. He had his head tucked against Ishmael’s chest. His eyes weren’t closed, but they stared ahead, unblinking yet filled with sadness as if he were reliving the painful memories.

“Now I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about my loss,” Ishmael finished, squaring his shoulders once more. The man’s dark eyes were hardened over in a way that almost made Phil believe his story. That was a soldier’s look if he knew one. “It isn’t as if I haven’t been thinking about them enough for the past few days… How would you like it if the seas turned on you and took your crew?”

Techno seemed to have nothing more to say to that. This talk seemed to have turned much more emotional than he planned. He crossed his arms with a grunt, breaking Ishmael's gaze to glower at the deck instead.

Ishmael broke the gaze as well, huffing loudly before turning his attention back on Philza. “Now as I was saying, you can offer me up as well. If the king offers you nothing, you can kill me, that’s fine. But I think you’d be wasting your effort if you did so now and lost even more bounty. You seem like two very smart men, so I don’t think you’d want to pass up on a good deal for nothing, would you?”

“I suppose not…” Phil hummed, leaning back in his seat. “But how do you know we won’t kill you after the payment?”

Ishmael shrugged, “Then that’s the risk we’ll have to take, isn’t it? It’s sure better than dying alone on an island, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Fair enough,” Phil decided. He pushed himself to stand and motioned to a nearby crew member towards the boys, “They can stay. We’re keeping the same route as we were without them.”

“You can’t be serious,” Techno spoke up, standing up to follow after him. A few crewmen were already passing them by to start prepping the ship for departure once more. Techno dodged between them, growling as he hurried to catch up to Phil’s side, “Please, Phil, you can’t really believe any of that, can you? That was the fakest story I’ve ever heard! C’mon! I mean, did you even hear that sob story?! The kid’s claiming to be a prince?!”

Phil only hummed noncommittally, “Now, Techno, I don’t think I ever said I believed them. I said I’d let them stay.”

“Phil, that’s two extra mouths to feed,” Techno sneered back. Phil didn’t need to spare him a glance to know how disgruntled his companion looked. “That’s two extra people wasting space that we don’t need! We could have just left them there! No one would notice! We probably won’t even get any bounty from this! It’ll just be a waste of time!”

“Then I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Phil answered, patience holding strong as ever. He’d already prepared himself for Techno’s barrage of questions. He had a feeling his first mate wouldn’t be thrilled about keeping a new pair of strays, especially ones that tried to lie their way into staying. “They’re only a couple of kids, mate. They’ll only be here a few weeks at most, then we’ll be rid of them for good. It won’t hurt us to babysit for a while.”

“I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter, Phil! I don’t even like kids!” Technoblade was starting to sound more exasperated by the second. It took everything for Phil not to smile. His normally composed partner was throwing a fit over a couple of stowaways, as if their crew wasn’t built off similar strays. Though Phil supposed the difference was those strays were a little more honest. Phil couldn’t tell if that was the problem, or if Techno was taking difficulty sharing space with more newcomers. Apparently he wasn’t done, so Phil would soon find out.

“I mean, really, Phil. We could take in so many other things. But you choose a couple kids lying that one of them’s some fake king’s heir and the other’s a— a fake captain? Who fakes being a captain! You’ve gotta agree with me here, Phil. ‘Cause I’m sure lying about being a captain is normal,” Techno snarked, “totally normal kid things.”

Phil sighed, and paused in his step. Techno paused with him, just a step behind. Phil turned to face his partner. Techno only stares back at him, expression stoic as ever, but Phil could see the heavy annoyance in his eyes. If Phil hadn’t known him for all the years he had, he would never guess the man was only about as old as the self-proclaimed captain. He’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t starting to show currently, which Phil deemed for better or worse. For as old as he tried to seem, Techno was still quite young.

Phil placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “You worry too much, mate. Yes, it is probably a lie. Honestly, I can’t say I ever believed even a second of any of it, but you saw how they looked. They were sunburnt and thirsty, and likely going to be stranded for the gods only know how long. Do you really think if you were stuck in their situation, you wouldn’t try to say anything you could to make sure you stay alive? Even if it sounded absolutely ridiculous?”

Techno went silent for a moment. Phil watched him mull over his answer. Finally, his partner averted his gaze towards the horizon. “Well I wouldn’t be as obvious about it…”

Phil cracked a laugh, “Oh, I wouldn’t either. It was really obvious, wasn’t it?” He chuckled, and gave Techno’s shoulder a soft squeeze before pulling away to continue walking, “We’ll keep a close eye on them. You can watch them as closely as you want, if that makes you feel any better. If anything seems too suspicious, then we’ll handle it. For now, let them recover. Let them rehydrate and eat, and we’ll just listen to see how their story changes. Maybe if we’re lucky, they’ll be worth their weight after all. It’s just a few weeks.” (Spoiler: it was more than a few weeks and Dadza Phil did the Dadza attachment thing as always.)

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crimsonwolfie · 4 years

Text

Best Mistake — Hamish Duke x Reader (x Knights)

Requested by @mysticalcrownbear

Prompt: The Knights accidently summon you, (the reader) a succubus when trying to summon Zecchia. You have a strong liking towards Hamish Duke, and he’s very much into you too.

Word count: 2,095

Hope you guys like this!! Sorry if it’s crap - requests are open!!

Masterlist

Best Mistake Part 2

“It’s not that they have all our stuff...they stole it. So - let’s steal it all back” Jack whispers as he leans forward, straightening his posture in seriousness.

“Are you suggesting a magic heist?!” Randall says, stalking towards Jack

“Yes. A magic heist” Jack replies as he steps up from the couch. Both boys shine a ray of mischief in their eyes and madness in their energy

“MAGIC HEIST! MAGIC HEIST!” They both chant, as Hamish and Lilith begin joining in synchronisation

“MAGIC HEIST MAGIC HEIST MAGIC HEIST!” The Knights chant like toddlers demanding candy.

—

“Well you didn’t think to warn us about that?!” Lilith hissed, eyes dark with fear and damage after the images she’d experienced. Hamish, Jack and Randall all sat with Lilith in the Blade and Chalice collectively recovering from their fear corners. Lilith rocked slightly from side to side whilst Jack was holding a pack of ice on the side of his head. They were tired, scared, drained...but desperate. They couldn’t get into the vault without being stuck in the “fear corridor”. Hamish chugged a swig of his whiskey, slamming the glass down onto the table with force, trying his best to forget what he went through -

“Stupid Ricky Simarco and his stupid fifth birthday party” he groaned, eyes fixed into a trance like state

“What did you see?” Randall asked Lilith, who replies with a simple “nothing”.

“Nothing?” He asks again, confused to why she didn’t see anything

“Nothing.” She confirms, although her shaken state says otherwise.

“Okay, since we can’t get through to the vault, i found the perfect solution” Jack enthusiastically gushes. “We summon a demon! There’s loads of different types to summon and i think i found the perfect one!”

The fellow knights all look around at each other in suspicion...could this actually work? Or is Jack literally insane?

“It’s name is a Zecchia” Jack points towards a yellow dusted page in an old, crippled book “it’s a baron demon, meaning it steals anything that the summoner desires it to”

“Won’t we have to do something for it? You know, a catch?” Lilith questions, her big brown eyes looking up to Jack

“No! You see that’s the beauty of it. We call it, they show up, we pay the toll and they’ll do our bidding!” He replies almost as if it was complete rocket science. “You just gotta follow the protocol perfectly”

“I’m in-“

“-Me too!” Hamish and Lilith both declare with their whole chests, meanwhile Randall starts struggling with the decision...

“Nope.” He announces. “No thanks. No way. Nope. Not a demon. Not ever.” Adamant as ever, he puts his hand on the table as a way to stand against the debate. He gets up and walks away before the others can stop him.

“We’re still doing this.”

“Yeah totally”

“He’ll get over it”

Hamish, Lilith and Jack all stand around the summoning circle, ready to summon Zecchia, the thief demon.

“Zecchia, appear before us so that we may negotiate the fee for your service to empty the vault of the Hermetic Order of the Blue Rose and remand those goods into the possession of the Knights of Saint Christopher” they all chant in synchronisation. Below their feet is a demon trap, purposed to trap the summoned demon in order to negotiate wisely. As soon as they finish the chant, a sound of wind brushes past them...but shorty followed by silence.

“Zecchiaaa?” Jack quietly echos into the distance of the house, uncertain if the summoning ritual worked or not. The 3/4 knights walk around the hallway wondering where they went wrong.

“Maybe we messed up the incantation?” says Lilith

“We did everything right?” Hamish replies

Suddenly, the door bursts open as Randall rushes in, slightly out of breath

“- guys STOP don’t do this-” He shouts as he blows out the candles nearest to him on the floor “-Alyssa and i were discussing demon summonings and-“

“-and you suck at it” you pipe up.

Emerging from the shadows of the staircase, you quietly and elegantly walk down, eyes never leaving the people below you...but one in specific - the man dressed in the waistcoat. You’re wearing a red, laced spaghetti strap bodysuit that’s tucked under a pair of tight fitted sheer black leggings (clearly i’m not going to have you wear only underwear and a bra like every other succubus - *que that not on MY WATCH vine* we are more PG here y’all - also may i add, your body size does not matter here. All body types are beautiful and you should love your body, don’t fall for these skinny stereotypes! Curvy girls are breathtaking too!!! <3 okay back to the story lmao). With midnight black wings as beautiful as can be and horns impeccable in sight, you stare with your big Y/E/C eyes as your long Y/H/C, silky locks fall past your shoulders. The sound of your black stiletto heels click and clack on the wooden floorboards, as further silence echos in the walls. The Knights are struck by your beauty, chocked for words at what they’re seeing in front of them. You swiftly bring your wings to your side, stroking your arms as you approach the people below you.

“You’re not what...we...expected” Randall slurs- i mean drools ;)

“That’s because i’m not” you sigh, bringing your arms across your body. “You summoned me, a succubus. Not Zecchia. But hey, you’re not the first...you’re meant to use alcohol as a summoning ingredient. She’s a sucker for it...senses it from many realms away” you continue, shaking your head and rolling your eyes playfully. Looking around the room, you can’t help but keep looking back to the tall man who has a perfect complexion and long, dirty blonde hair with blue crystal eyes. With lips so succulent...you want to kiss all over them and run your hands through his locks, as he uses his large, soft hands to roam around your body-

“So who did we summon?” Your thoughts are interrupted by the small, gorgeous lady to your right. She has blue streaks in her black hair, and a cute little button nose that you want to just *boop*!

“I’m Y/N, a succubus” you smile delicately at the woman in front of you, glancing back to the man who caught your eye before.

“And you are?” You question, turning your attention to the male on your right

“I’m Lili-“

“Not you! This handsome gentleman in front of me” you point with your long, ‘black as night’ painted fingertip towards the tallest man.

“I-i’m Hamish. Hamish Duke” he replies, cheeks blushing a gentle shade of crimson.

“You’re really hot” you tease, biting your lower lip in hot anticipation at your dirty thoughts. Hamish’s eyes widen at this, bringing his hands towards his front slightly.

“I could say the same for you, love” He gulps. He doesn’t know this, but you can actually read his thoughts; images of him pushing you up against the wall, his hands on your ass as your legs wrap around his middle, lips working sweet magic as you’re caressing his face and hair...leaving small, wet pecks on his neck as he moans your name out loud, thrusti-

“Hey, i’m Randall” the tall, pretty brunette calls out, stepping towards you. He brings his hand out to shake, to which you accept. A huge grin is painted across his face as his hand touches your dainty one, Lilith just rolls her eyes and huffs.

“Okay okay let’s wrap this up here” she remarks, pulling Randall away from you. You turn to see a shorter male, who sports platinum blonde hair that falls to the side of his face. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly parted and eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you alright, pretty boy?” You ask, genuine concern across your face. Randall giggles like a school boy at your words, repeating (and i quote) “hehe pretty boy heheee” quietly in the sidelines whilst pointing at Jack.

“I....uh....hi” Jack replies, fixing his hair after noticing you were looking at him

You lightly laugh “hi, cutie”

You look back over to Hamish, as his filthy visions are still happening

“I can read your thoughts, you know” you laugh as he blushes bright red and covers his front completely now

“It’s okay, i liked them” you continue in a husky tone, stepping closer towards him with your hands in front of you, gasping to be touching him.

He reaches his hand out towards your stretched hand, gently touching your fingers and delicately wrapping his large ones round them. You both intertwine fingers, as gazes are locked onto you both. He pulls you towards him, his head tilting slightly in awe at your appearance.

“Uhhh...okayyyy?” Lilith gawked as the rest of the Knights share glances of pure confusion and slight panic.

You chuckle lightly at Hamish’s actions, as

he wraps his arms around your lower back, swaying from side to side.

“You’re beautiful” he whispers into your ear which sends excited chills down your spine. He smiles looking down at you.

“What is happening right now?” Jack asks the others, who shrug their shoulders watching like hawks. Lightly, you plant a small kiss on his lips...which Hamish returns, only with more passion and lust. The kiss deepens as his hands grip tighter and your thrusting into him for more becomes intolerable, until you both need to release for air.

“Uhh Hamish? Y/N? Hello?” Randall waves his hands in the air trying to signal Hamish, but proves useless. As you’re heavily gasping in air, you notice Hamish’s mouth - your red lipstick has smudged all over his mouth

“BRO you look like a clown!!” Randall cracks up, laughing hysterically. Jack and Lilith snort upon seeing Hamish’s state, but he doesn’t care. He quickly and forcefully grabs you again and drops you bridal-style whilst passionately making out with you once again. Jack, Lilith and Randall all look back up from their laughter fits to see you two basically eating each other’s faces. Suddenly, it’s not that funny anymore - just disturbing.

“Okay that’s enough, Ham-burger” Randall shouts. Nothing.

“Yo Hamish dude stop” Jack sings, which again does nothing to Hamish and you.

“Yeah this is now how i thought my Tuesday was going to go” Lilith says as she gestures towards you two. “Is he enchanted or something?!”

“I uh...maybe?” Jack mutters

“Maybe i am too” Randall eyeballs you and Hamish “wait...i said that out loud didn’t i?” he quickly looks down and plants his face with his hands. Yeah...he was totally thinking of a threesome at that time.

Begrudgingly you break the contact between yours and Hamish’s soft lips and lift yourself up from his arms, yet he continues leaving sweet, soft kisses on your neck.

“I know what you’re thinking, cutie” you look up to Randall, who squeals in embarrassment and mouths ‘don’t tell them’ towards you, making you laugh.

“What were you thinking about?” Jack asks

“Basically he was thinkin-“ you begin

“NO no NO DON’T say anything” Randall barks out, breaking Hamish from his trail of leaving kisses down your neck

“You know what nevermind” Jack grunts as he scrunches his eyebrows up in discomfort.

“Okay this is getting too weird now. Hey, Y/N can we get Zecchia please” Lilith asks, seemingly annoyed

You sigh loudly, clearly annoyed that your fun was about to be wrapped up “fine. But i want to see you again” you say, stroking Hamish’s hair out of his face.

“Why does she have to go? Can’t she stay for a little longer?” Hamish pleads, but is shut down by Lilith giving him a death stare whilst growing towards him.

“It’s okay, she’s right. Okay well this was amazing. Call me again” you say as you wink towards Hamish, who’s knees buckle slightly. You walk towards the middle of the room and straighten yourself up, lifting the strap of your top back onto your shoulder.

“Nice to see you, lovelies” you give a little wave with your hand, then click your fingers and disappear. The Knights all glare round to Hamish, who straightens himself up and buttons his waistcoat back up.

“Have fun there buddie?” Randall quips, smirking slightly at his friend

Hamish doesn’t say anything, he just looks down in embarrassment

“Oh, and you might wanna-“ Randall gestures for him to wipe his lips, as Jack and Lilith silently chuckle from the other side of the room.

It’s safe to say, you left your imprint on Hamish Duke...and he won’t be forgetting that any time soon.

Let me know what you guys thought, and of you want any more fanfic :)

#hamish duke imagine #hamish duke #hamish duke x reader #the order season 2 #the order imagine #the order #the order netflix #randall carpio #randall carpio x reader #the knights of saint christopher #lilith bathory #jack morton #alyssa drake #lilith bathory x reader #jack morton x reader

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friendofthecrows · 2 years

Note

can i request a corrupted form for Norton just like the Butcher Gang have corrupted forms named Piper, Fisher and Striker.

Hi! I don't play Bendy and the Ink Machine so I don't know if I got everything right, but I tried my best! (Also I meant to do a cartoonier style more like the reference but ended up going ham on the shading anyways...whoops.) I had a ton of fun with this one, so if you want anything changed let me know ^-^

They seemed like a bat kind of guy :)

#request #thanks for requesting!#this was rlly fun #art #digital art

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nour386 · 3 years

Text

A Picnic In the Woods

Stanford And Fiddleford have a nice day out with one another and enjoy a picnic in the Gravity falls woods.

(also on ao3!)

This is my secret Santa Gift for @pirably who wanted some Fiddauthor fluff. nothing explicitly romantic, just the boys being happy. I hope I met your expectations!

~~~

The sun shone through the tree branches above as Stanford led the way through the woods. There was a cheerful spring in his step when he looked back and saw Fiddleford not far behind, with a picnic basket in hand. A whole day free to themselves, no anomalies to study or machines to work on. His mind ran wild with possabilities.

‘Perhaps we’ll find a new cryptid. Or Perhaps we’ll find a secret city of fairies and become crowned kings or maybe-’

Stanford was pulled out of his thoughts by a gentle pull on his shoulder.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” Fiddleford smirked.

“You don’t know that.” Stanford crossed his arms.

“You had that look on your face. The one you have when you’re thinking of finding a magical creature.” Fiddleford pointed at his own face, making a wide-eyed look of wonder with his jaw hanging open. “Kinda like this.”

“That’s an absurd and frankly poor imitation of-” Stanford’s statement was interrupted as a fairy flew past, leaving sparkling dust in her path; and he found himself making the exact expression.

“You’re adorable.” Fiddleford ruffled Stanford's hair. “Come along, times a wastin’ and our lunch ain’t gonna stay warm forever.”

“Are you saying that a brilliant inventor such as yourself hasn’t already designed a device that could not only keep meals warm for hours, but also feed the user?” Stanford asked, spreading his arms in the air.

“Sounds to me like someone is dropping not-so-subtle hints that he’s too lazy to eat at appropriate times.” Fiddleford lowered Stanford’s left arm out of his face. He slid his hand down the researcher’s arm so that they were holding hands.

Stanford paused, looking down to make sure he wasn’t misunderstanding what his hands were feeling. His cheeks flushed red when he saw that they were indeed holding hands. He felt Fiddleford interlace their fingers; and his cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson.

“You-uh-I-” Stanford rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“You’re like a little kitten.” Fiddleford cooed. His smile grew further as he watched his boyfriend squirm under his affection.

“How’s that? If it’s about my sneezing again-”

“I was going to say that you’re both adorable, and easily held. Just like a little kitten.” Fiddleford pulled Stanford closer to leave a soft kiss on his forehead.

“How could you take advantage of my distracted state in such a way, Fiddleford?” Stanford said in mock shock. “I trusted you in my vulnerability, and you treat me like this.”

“I just realised something else that makes ya just like a kitten,” Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “You’re overly dramatic when it comes to the tiniest things.”

“This talk of cute things reminded me of something,” Stanford said.

“Oh do tell,” said Fiddleford.

“I’ve been hearing rumors about creatures who are so cute that any who feast their eyes upon them are compelled to obey their every command.” Stanford spoke excitedly, there was a shine in his eye.

“Well we can rule you out from being one of them.” Fiddleford said smugly.

Stanford shook his head. “You were just singing my praises on my cuteness, what made you change your mind so suddenly?”

“Oh I didn’t say that.” Fiddleford corrected. “All I’m saying is that after this morning, I don’t think you have the power of manipulating people with your cuteness.”

“Listen, getting Stanley to leave his bed before noon is like trying to break down a wall using a sewing needle.” Stanford shrugged.

“Anyway, you were saying something about a creature that, despite all logic, is somehow cuter than you?” Fiddleford said.

“Hmm,” Stanford tapped his chin before snapping his fingers. “Yes! Now my informant was a gnome, so this information might not be too reliable. However I am planning a small expedition next week to find out more.”

The pair continued to walk through the woods. Stanford happily rattled off information about the many wondrous creatures he intended to study and the potential discoveries that were waiting for them in the coming months.

All the while Fiddleford listened intently. While he did not hold the same enthusiasm that Stanford had for the unknown, he did enjoy listening to the way Stanford’s voice sounded when he got excited,he way he’d talk faster as though all his thoughts wanted to get out at once.

Even now, watching Stanford go on about the feuds amongst the many fairy kingdoms and how he hoped to bridge peace to (or at least document the fall out). Fiddleford felt the sheer glee that dripped from Stanford’s voice as he spoke. It was infectious, and Fiddleford found himself matching the spring in his boyfriend’s step as they walked together.

“Oh! We’ve almost arrived.” Stanford pointed at a gap amongst the trees ahead of them.

“Thank the Lord.” Fiddleford sighed.

“You aren’t tired already are you?” Stanford teased.

“I’m sorry, were you the one carrying our picnic basket the entire trek?” Fiddleford shot back.

“I offered to carry it but you said you wanted to,” said Stanford . “You’ve no one to blame for your tiredness but yourself.”

Fiddleford huffed. “You’ll understand when we get there.”

The pair walked through a gap between two tall redwoods. Before them was a small clearing. A small pond sat near the centre, the rest of the ground was covered in short grass. With the sky above and the trees on the far side of the clearing provided a good amount of shade to hide away from the heat.

“Now this is very picturesque.“ Fiddleford rested his hand on his hip.

“All it needs is a hill and it’d look like every picnic in those old stories.” Stanford led the way to the shadow of the trees.

“Knowing this place I doubt we’d be able to climb up a hill without having to answer some arbitrary number of riddles.” Fiddleford said as he followed Stanford’s lead.

Stanford laughed. “With a mind as sharp as yours? I doubt you’d need to worry about riddles.”

“Speaking of my sharp mind.” Fiddleford pulled on Stanford's hand, bringing his boyfriend to a stop. “I might have built something to help us with setting up our picnic.”

“Oho?” Stanford raised his brow. “The floor is yours.”

“Just a moment.” Fiddleford stepped forward, letting go of Stanford’s hand. This made the researcher give a small whine. Fiddleford rolled his eyes as he placed the picnic basket down on the grassy floor. He picked up a long stick from the ground beside him and walked back to Stanford's side. “Now, prepare to be amazed.”

Stanford watched with bated breath as Fiddleford took the stick and tapped the side of the picnic basket three times. Four thin metallic arms emerged from beneath the blanket covering the basket and began to unfold it. With the blanket out of the way, Stanford could see a small robot, rectangular in shape with the aforementioned limbs connected to it. It dusted the blanket before gently laying it on the grass beside the basket. Pressing its hands against the ground, the robot lifted itself out of the basket. It rested its metallic body on the blanket and reached for the food hidden in the basket. In no time at all the robot had placed the impressive spread of food across the blanket.

A roast chicken was placed in the centre of the blanket, surrounded by many sandwiches. They had a variety of fillings, ranging from the simple ham and cheese to more strange, like pickles and mayonnaise. An assortment of fruit, that had been freshly bought from the market the previous day, was placed in a small bowl in the centre of the blanket. Next to that bowl was a bag of jelly beans, as well as a pair of fizzy drinks that Fiddleford knew Stanley wouldn’t miss.

“Pretty impressive eh?” said Fiddleford.

Stanford was unable to answer as he stared in awe at the robot that, having finished its job, neatly folded itself back into the picnic basket.

“Hello? Stanford? You in there?” Fiddleford waved his hand in front of the researcher’s face.

“Fiddleford, that was amazing!” Stanford jumped up and hugged his boyfriend tightly.

“Stanford- you’re- crushin’ me-” Fiddleford coughed.

“Oh, my apologies.” Stanford let him down with an embarrassed smile on his face. “But yes, you did an impressive job with that machine.”

Fiddleford took a deep breath. “I’d have said you were only saying that because I was your boyfriend, if it weren’t for you almost breaking me in two.”

“I was caught up in the moment,” Stanford said. “I was handed the opportunity to watch one of your machines in person. What was I meant to do? Give one of those painfully boring claps like they do at those golf games that Stanley skips past on TV?”

“You might have a point. That did feel a lot more personal than just a clap.” Fiddleford tapped his chin in thought. “But a warnin’ beforehand would be preferred.”

“That can be arranged.” Stanford grinned. “But, before we continue that discussion, how about we enjoy this spread before the ants get to them?”

“Not magical ants I hope.” Fiddleford shuddered.

“You’ve heard of fire ants? Well these are ice ants!” Stanford wriggled his fingers sinisterly. A cheeky smile spread across his face as he continued. “It’s said that their bite can result in frostbite and perhaps even soggy sandwiches if left out in the sun for too long.”

“Then we better get to eating.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes, taking a seat on the blanket.

Stanford stayed standing for a moment. Choosing to savour the sight of Fidddleford sitting in the shade of the trees with a small smile on his face. His golden brown hair shone in the flakes of sun that made it through the branches of the trees that towered above. The engineer was reaching for a sandwich before he realised that he was alone on the blanket. He looked up at Stanford and sighed.

“You shoulda brought your camera.” Fiddleford said. “A picture would last much longer.”

“Now where would the fun be in that?” Stanford sat opposite his boyfriend.

“The fun would be in eatin’ before those ‘ice ants’ get to your food.” Fiddleford threw a sandwich at Stanford.

“Fine fine.” Stanford chuckled. He unwrapped the sandwich before checking the filling. “Ugh, did you grab any random combination of ingredients from the kitchen and put them together?”

“Only for a couple of them.” Fiddleford smiled. Leaning forward, Stanford caught a peak at FIddleford’s sandwich and recognised pickle slices and mayonnaise poking out of the bread. “Makes this into a fun little game of sandwich roulette.”

“Either that, or I have to seriously consider buying you a cookbook.” Stanford sighed. He took another bite of his sandwich. It had a thick slice of cheese between two different flavoured spreads of jam. It was a curious mix of sweet and savoury, but not as bad as he was expecting.

The pair sat together, enjoying the warm afternoon, chatting idly as they ate. They tossed the sandwiches back and forth, daring one another to try out the strange combinations that Fiddleford had concocted. The pair laughed at the way their faces twisted with disgust after a biting into the sandwiches. From sardines and jelly to cucumbers and cheese, the pair passed around the strange flavours before moving on to the main course of their picnic.

While Fiddleford had been proud of the terrible sandwich flavours had concocted, he also knew the value of providing a real meal. He handed Stanford a knife to cut up the chicken, while he prepared the proper sandwiches for them. A quick spread of mayonnaise on a clean slice of bread along with a generous cut of chicken made a simple but tasty chicken sandwich. With Stanford’s nod of approval, Fiddleford made a couple more before digging in himself.

Having finished their lunch, the pair lied back on the now empty blanket and enjoyed the stiff breeze that was blowing through the clearing. They watched the clouds, or Stanford did at least; he had one hand in the bag of jelly brands and the other gently holding Fiddleford’s hand. The engineer rested his head on his free arm and listened to Stanford talk about the different clouds types, and how the many different anomalies viewed them. How some clan of trolls saw storm clouds as warning from ancient giants and would hide themselves underground. Despite his best efforts to stay attentive, the comfort that came from Stanford's voice, the warm sun and his full belly, made him succumb to his drowsiness. Fiddleford gave a small yawn before falling to sleep. Stanford's eyelids felt heavy. He rolled over to find Fiddleford snoring softly. With a small smile, Stanford wriggled closer to his boyfriend so that their foreheads were resting against one another. Feeling a little bit cheeky, he gave a small peck on Fiddleford’s nose.

‘A short nap won’t hurt,’ he thought, before letting himself fall asleep.

I’d like to thank my beta reader @introvert-no-chameleon for their awesome work with helping me fix my grammar.

#Gravity falls #Fanfic #Stanford pines #Fiddleford Mcgucket #Fiddauthor #Nour's art #The Author #Old man mcgucket

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cto10121 · 3 years

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Mercutio and Romeo’s Battle of Wits: Or, the Mercutio-Romeo-Benvolio brOTP

Or, Mercutio Misses Romeo Something Fierce As His Main Bro Because Romeo Is Not A Whiny Wimpy Stick-In-the-Mud and Is Actually Very Fun To Be Around and Benvolio Is Good and All, but He’s Just Not The Same(tm), You Know?

So the first half of Act 2, Scene 4, when Mercutio and Romeo have a game of wits before the Nurse enters gets cut or abridged a lot, for obvious reasons. The double entendres and witty Elizabethan wordplay are very difficult for even great actors to convey them to an audience, and they don’t seem to serve a narrative or thematic function apart from “two bros just being bros!!!” That bit of the scene just feels like filler safely cut or abridged in order to jump to the Nurse’s entrance and thus the plot. R&J the play, after all, is long; the whole play done completely is usually touching three hours. Cuts are always necessary, and for the most part it’s justifiable.

But I’m not going to lie, I like this bit a lot. Always have. Not only do we get Mercutio’s attitude toward Tybalt and his growing concern over Romeo’s love doldrums, but we get another side of Romeo hitherto unknown to us: Romeo being witty and fun and actually roasting Mercutio good, even besting him in a game of wits. And Mercutio actually being happy about it and just surrendering the battle to Romeo (!!!) What is this cinnamon roll of an exchange, too pure for this world, doing in an otherwise heavy tragedy? Are Romeo and Mercutio out of character just for some punny times? Not at all! The punny times are entirely necessary narrative and thematic-wise, sets up the tragedy, and shows needed nuance and dimension to both characters and the Montacrew in general.

Where the Fuck Is Romeo Seriously, I’m Getting Kinda Worried

So we begin the scene with Mercutio right away wanting to know where Romeo is:

Mercutio. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?

Benvolio. Not to his father’s, I spoke with his man.

Mercutio. Why, that same pale, hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad.

It’s really hard not to read even a little bit of concern in that first question past the bluster, but in case you missed it, Shakespeare makes it explicit by having Mercutio blame Rosaline and worrying that Romeo’s love for her is driving him crazy. Once again, we get the sense that Romeo was not really himself pre-Juliet, and that, according to Mercutio, this is something to be concerned about.

We then segue into news that Tybalt has challenged Romeo via letter. Benvolio expresses confidence that Romeo would fight him, but Mercutio has doubts:

Mercutio. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! Stabbed with a white wench’s black eye, shot through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow boy’s butt shaft—and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Once again Mercutio switches to troll mode and characterizes Romeo’s love angst over Rosaline as him “being dead” (“the ape is dead!”)—which would be dramatic, to say the least, except that the tone is humorous/satiric. But it does betray an anxiety on Mercutio’s part and gives the understanding that whatever Romeo’s infatuation with Rosaline was, it was not “typically” Romeo, at least according to Mercutio and by implication Benvolio, since he doesn’t challenge it. When Romeo finally enters, Mercutio continues his satiric portrait:

Benvolio. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!

Mercutio. Without his roe, like a dry herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!

We get it, we get it, Romeo has turned a lameass pussy by ~love. But unbeknownst to Mercutio but knownst to us, Romeo is not the same guy of previous acts. How will Julietsimplord!Romeo react to Mercutio? This is going to be good.

Mah Bruh is Back and He’s…Fucking Roasting Me?

So we get the first encounter.

Mercutio. Signior Romeo, bonjour! There’s some French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Romeo. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

Mercutio. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive?

Romeo’s greeting is polite, open, but unconcerned, perhaps a bit breezy, perhaps humoring. Notice how Romeo before has given Mercutio a ton of slack for his satiric mocking—his only critical comment so far in the play is “He jests at scars that never felt a wound,” which can read almost as dismissive (this in contrast to Benvolio’s worry that Mercutio would anger Romeo by talking about Rosaline lewdly). Either way, he responds to Mercutio’s acerbic queries about him ditching them straightforwardly and without heat.

Romeo. Pardon me, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Mercutio. That’s as much to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

Notice how Mercutio doesn’t ask Romeo directly about what his business was, but rather assumes that it was sexual (“bow in the hams,” to flex his butt cheeks). Again, typical of Mercutio, but it does justify a little why Romeo, at this point in the story, does not immediately tell Mercutio and Benvolio about Juliet. And also why he says this instead:

Romeo. Meaning, to curtsy.

Mercutio. Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Romeo is 100% trolling here, doing a Mercutio, in fact by pretending to take another meaning—oh, yeah, you obviously mean curtsying, right???? This marks the first reply in which he doesn’t answer openly, but instead answers slyly. Mercutio answers accordingly with an equally troll-y, “Oh yeah, that’s definitely what I meant, super PG” *snort*

Romeo. A most courteous exposition.

Mercutio. Nay, I’m the very pink of courtesy.

Romeo. Pink for flower.

Mercutio. Right.

Romeo. Why, then is my pump well flowered.

My Burton Raffel edition, infuriatingly enough, only gives one definition of “pump” as shoe, but make no mistake—Romeo also obviously means “dick” (the pump, I think, being the “head” part of the shoe, and thus….you get the idea). Mercutio is immediately excited—Romeo is speaking his language now.

Mercutio. Sure wit, follow me this jest now till thou had worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular.

Romeo. O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!

Mercutio. Come between us, good Benvolio, my wits faint.

Romeo. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs, or I cry a match.

Mercutio. Nay, if our wits run the wild goose chase, I am done, for thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five.

Barely does the game of wits begin when Mercutio seems to give up, and now Romeo is the one urging him playfully to keep going or else *he* wins. Mercutio could just be joking about needing to be “rescued” by Benvolio, but he does say explicitly that nah, Romeo is just too witty today to continue to “chase” the joke, or the goose (“wild goose chase” eventually became a cliché all on its own, and it’s really just a throwaway line).

And now for my absolute favorite Romeo retort:

Mercutio. Was I ever with you there for the goose?

Romeo. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not there for the goose.

“Was I ever with you for the game?” “Bitch, you weren’t with me for anything but the pussy!!!!!” “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”

Mercutio. I will bite thee in the ear for that jest.

Romeo. Nay, good goose, bite not.

“I’ll fucking jump you for that” “A pussy jump on me??? Oh no, I’m ~scared” 🤣

Mercutio. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce.

Romeo. And is it not, then, well served in to a sweet goose?

“Your game has some spice, bro” “Like the spice they’ll put on you after cooking your ass????” 🤣

Mercutio. O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell narrow to an ell broad.

Romeo. I stretch it out for that word “broad,” which, added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.

“You’re stretching that joke so damn much it’s going to break” “As much as I’ll stretch your stupid ass out because you’re the joke, bro!!!!!!” 🤣

And then comes the end of the game of wits with the final twist:

Mercutio. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo, now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature.

“Jokes on you, bro, I’m into that shit!!! (Seriously, though, glad you’re back, bro, omfg, finally)”

Conclusions

So now for some wrap-up:

Mercutio in the beginning of the scene thinks the Romeo he knew is lost or “dead” by love. This has been established before in the after the ball scene, but here it is explicit—The Romeo he knows is gone and replaced by a pussy all over Rosaline’s pussy. Not good. There is also more than a trace of concern and worry—Mercutio is the one who asks for Romeo, and not Benvolio, the guy’s own cousin.

Mercutio is not upset by Romeo beating him at the game of wits and in fact gives in rather too easily. It’s not too clear why Mercutio does this. Mercutio has been established as a witty, satiric character. Romeo is as verbally dexterous as he is, if not more so, but his wit is warm and expressive, not satiric. His roasts and shade are playful and good-natured for the most part. By all accounts, Mercutio should have won the skirmish. It could be that he is too happy with Romeo actually making witty puns to care about winning, but personally I think Mercutio would be too proud of his verbal acrobatics, to concede that easily and make himself a willing target for Romeo’s roast (especially since he has roasted Romeo so damn hard these past scenes). It’s not like Mercutio to go easy on Romeo or even anyone, as he proves with his roasting Tybalt and even ragging on Benvolio. It could be Shakespeare is slyly characterizing Mercutio as a character who can give it out, but not take it, hence his backing down so easily, (“Okay, okay, you win!”) but usually that type of character responds with impatience and even anger. Mercutio’s replies are too amused for that. Perhaps he was too surprised by Romeo suddenly taking a page out of his book after scenes of him just angsting—to his perspective, but not ours, this does seem to come out of nowhere. But his replies don’t sound like someone who is surprised at all by this show of wit by a good-natured friend—on the contrary, it is taken as proof that the friend is back.

By the end of the exchange, Mercutio believes Romeo is more himself again. Not entirely, as he does cast further shade on his infatuation with Rosaline, but he is genuinely glad to see Romeo act more like himself again. We are once again reinforced with the notion that the mopey Romeo with Rosaline and even the radiantly lovestruck Romeo with Juliet is not the Romeo his friends have known. We receive proof of this: Romeo can and will throw shade over you for a song.

Not going to lie: I am here for all of this.

So I think it’s fair to conclude, based on the above information, that Mercutio has missed Romeo, perhaps something awful. His constant ragging on him for Rosaline and being mopey (lovers aren’t even supposed to be sad, wtf man) and his asking for him and just generally talking almost exclusively about him (that could just be his supporting character role, though) supports that. His joy at Romeo roasting him also characterizes a key component of their friendship and dynamic hitherto missing or not as present: Jokes, teasing, puns, wordplay, outright roasting when called for.

Not only is bro bonhomie clearly established (brohomie!), but also the macho culture—this exchange is far from locker room talk, more focused on wordplay than crude expression, but it does set up the dynamics of the duel scene and Mercutio’s motivations. Mercutio is most happy when Romeo performs masculinity through puns, wordplay, and roasting; when he doesn’t, or refuses to take stand in the defense of his honor, that’s when Mercutio gets frazzled. This is not because he believes Romeo is inherently a wimp—far from it, as he clearly expects Romeo, once he seems unstuck from the quagmire that is Rosaline, to duel Tybalt. He is unsurprised when Romeo throws shade on him right back, and is even pleased. So it’s shocking and disturbing for him when Romeo refuses to step up as he had done in previous scenes to fight the likes of Tybalt, for seemingly no good reason.

On a related note, expectation is noticeably absent in Mercutio’s own dynamic with Benvolio, whom he sees as helper and abettor of his wit and decisions, a soundboard, and a quasi-sidekick (“come, shall we go?” “Come between us, good Benvolio, my wits faint” “Help me into some house, Benvolio, / Or I shall faint”). When he does rag on Benvolio for his supposed sword-happy temper, Benvolio does not rise to his bait or roast him back, but gives only mildly amused replies, if gently pointed, to Mercutio’s surly displeasure.

Benvolio. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.

Mercutio. The fee simple? O simple!

Mercutio may want to fight someone badly enough to go after Benvolio, but he also wants a challenge, the excitement of a back-and-forth of wits—hell, even for someone to tell him he is full of shit if so he could hit back. Perhaps that’s what Mercutio needs and perhaps secretly desires: Someone to roast him and tell him to shut the fuck up every once in a while. But would Romeo do this?

Nurse. I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery?

Romeo. A gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he would stand to in a month.

The answer is yes. Yes, he would.

R&J Adaptations’ Weirdness with This Exchange

So why the difficulty retaining this fun exchange? Well, Romeo talking about well-flowered pumps and Mercutio just happily taking his roasts goes against the usual romantic!Romeo and charismatictroll!Mercutio characterization of earlier scenes. Even in adaptations that do keep this part of the scene, they tend either to brush it by (Baz Lurhmann) or even mischaracterize it a bit to keep it consistent with the interpretation of the characters as established (Zeffirelli). McEnery’s Mercutio in the Zeffirelli is in control and dominant all of the way through, and one of his lines (“Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce”) is given to Romeo instead. The Baz Lurhmann plays it only broadly in terms of group male camaraderie and not so much Mercutio-Romeo dynamics; Benvolio does not participate in the game of wits and is by all accounts just vibing (my personal troll headcanon is he is keeping track of the game of wits on a slate. 2 Romeo, 1 Mercutio, that sort of thing).

Also, perhaps due to Mercutio being on Romeo’s case for most of the play and his being a lil’ shit at points, some adaptations take a weird Ho Yay approach to the dynamic, especially productions that make Mercutio gay or queer. If so, then productions have to do a lot of heavy lifting to interpret Mercutio’s gleeful/amused roasting of Romeo, his lewd blazon of Rosaline, and his anger at Romeo’s loss of honor in refusing to fight Tybalt as signs of romantic love towards Romeo. Romeo’s own emotional independence from his friends and his willingness to roast Mercutio also works against this interpretation. Thus another reason why this exchange is often cut or abridged (although the Globe Theater just decided to go ahead and have Mercutio roll all over Romeo while Romeo is roasting him as a shameless pussy chaser in this scene, because of course that makes perfect sense. Is it any wonder why I don’t like most R&J productions and adaptations?).

The only adaptation I know that gets the camaraderie and dynamics even close to right is the French musical (and to a certain extent, the Hungarian version) through that earworm and evergreen bop, Les Rois du Monde. It captures the spirit of their friendship and youthful zeal so delightfully. Mercutio, Benvolio, and Romeo were so well cast you can identify which is which at a glance—and they are literally as far as from my personal faceclaims for them as you can get, and it’s great. Presgurvic didn’t have to go that hard, but he did and it was glorious.

TL;DR

Mercutio roasts him, Romeo enters, they trade quips and wordplay, Romeo roasts him, Mercutio is too happy to gaf, and everything is character-building fun that will pay off very nicely later on, except that versions and productions can’t make the puns and wordplay comprehensible so they prefer to cut or abridge it (ten points from Gryffindor). And all because Mercutio actually misses Romeo and wants his bro back. Bruh.

#romeo and juliet #shakespeare #william shakespeare #rj meta #r&j meta #les rois du dorks #les dorks du monde #lehetsz dorkály!#i’ll stop now #but seriously am loving these two in the play #hope my troll paraphrases please #montacrew #cristina metas

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