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myownwholewildworld · 3 days

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acta, non verba - ii. there is no treachery in the art of war

chapter 1 | series masterlist | ao3 | main masterlist | chapter 3 (coming soon) pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: you need to start moving the game along, but you cannot be too obvious. or... can you? a/n: hello there! c: here's the second chapter! there is quite a bit of character & world building in this one, as i felt it served the storyline, so i hope you guys like it! i wanted to thank you all for your nice, encouring words on the first chapter, it really motivated me to keep on writing! you guys are amazing 💖 as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. references to marital abuse (physical and sexual) and child marriage (massive age gap, not in a cutesy way), in line with the time this story is set on. mentions of death/murder. mention of infertility. sexual tension galore (👀). a smidge of angst. w/c: ~8.6k. dividers by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Callie”, Torcall sombrely warned you, his eyes locking on yours over the wooden spoon he tightly gripped close to his mouth.

“And what would you have me do then?”, you sneeringly replied back.

Your brother-in-law had been pestering you the whole morning about what your plan was to win your lands back. You knew the long game was your best bet — you didn’t have the numbers to face Rome on your own. Your athair had tried and failed in his attempt. Another defeat like the one your people suffered in Raedykes would destroy your clan. It would wipe you out off the map — everything your ancestors had worked for, gone under the crushing yoke of the Romans.

“I would not have you whoring yourself out to a fucking Roman, that’s for sure. Your athair would be so disappointed in you.” He snapped back at you, anger flowing in his words.

His reply stung badly, so much you unconsciously crossed your arms at chest level — an unvoluntary gesture to protect yourself from his accusation.

“That’s beyond the point”, you barked, the green of your irises burning like hellish fire. “And my father would be just fine with my decision. Need I remind you who he married me off to?”

Torcall’s knuckles went white as his fingers pressed around the spoon harshly. You cocked a brow, unwavering.

Ten years ago, your athair had reached an agreement with Iain of Am Baile Ùr(Insh), the lord of Badenoch whose state was a few miles south of your birthplace. For as long as Caledonia had formed, there had always been internal disputes about who was the rightful heir to the Overlord title.

The clan who held the stronghold at Inbhir Nis had historically always been considered the legitimate title’s holder. Your family had been the keepers of the land for as long as anyone could remember. But it didn’t stop those who were thirsty for power, so your father had to prove himself over and over again.

After several bloody skirmishes, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis had crowned himself, yet again, lord and master of Caledonia. Iain had been a strong contestant against your father and was only appeased when your athair offered you as a consolation prize to him, as if you were a lamb up for sale at the local market. A cheap one at that.

At the tender age of six and ten, you had been shipped off to an unknown land to be wife to a man you had never seen before. The next ten years of your life would be living hell — what you had to endure, you would not wish it upon your worst enemy.

The memories that would crawl back at night would still wake you up, a cold sweat trickling down your spine every time. Abuse in your arranged marriage was your bread and butter. Every time you returned home under the prying, controlling eyes of Iain or your family came to visit, you would lie to them about the new bruise on your cheek, the limp you had for a couple of weeks or the teeth marks on your neck. Murdoch was the last to realise, unable to come to terms with the destiny he had forced upon you. And by the time he did, there was not much he could do without infuriating Iain, without risking another war.

The peace of the Caledonians outweighed your suffering, after all. You were not worth such a bloodshed.

So you pushed through it all and survived — for family, for clan, for honour. Never resented your father either; he had a duty to protect his tribe, and so did you. For a decade you dragged yourself across ember and ash, until you finally caught a break six months ago.

Iain was found dead in the marital bed, his eyes wide open and his expression struck with horror, as if a wraith had taken his life. At the mature age of six and sixty, you had been his third wife, so when his only son and heir from his first marriage ascended, you were no longer needed. With no family of your own tying you to that ghostly place, you packed your things and swiftly left, the Will' O' the Wisps guiding you home.

“I didn’t mean it that way”, his answer burst out in a pitiful whisper. One of your eyebrows raised even further into your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, unfolding your arms and looking at the cold broth in front of you. Grabbing the spoon again, you swirled it in the bowl aimlessly. You didn’t need your most trusted ally questioning your decisions, not when the whole clan depended on your actions. At least he was doing so in the intimacy of a crannog and not in front of your folk.

“I’m just trying my best, Torcall. I know I can win our freedom back, so I need you to have some faith in me. How I get to the endgame is up to me. The means justify the end.” Your words were imbued with unfaltering determination.

“I do trust you, Callie. With my life and the lives of my children”, he mumbled solemnly with a curtsy as his eyes drifted to the other end of the room.

Your niece and nephew, whom you loved dearly, were obliviously playing with some wooden swords their father had handcrafted a while back. They were six years of age, both born during the cold winter months. The twins had filled the blackhole in your heart, one that your marriage had not been able to lade.

“Ah, ye brute!” Your nephew, Daimh, let the sword slip from his fingers to hold his hand close to his chest. “You’ve hurt me, Iona!”

His little feet dabbed towards you, raising his injured hand in the air.

“Auntaidh (auntie), Iona has broken my fingers, look!”, he wept while you cradled his hand.

“Oh, come on here, mo laochain (my little hero). Let me see”, you said while rubbing his hand between yours and kissing it where it hurt.

“What a wimpy!”, Iona complained, running to her father. “I won, daddy!” Her proud, high-pitched voice squealed in excitement, and you couldn’t hide your smile.

“I’m going to tell màthair (mother)!”, Daimh blew raspberries at his sister, and she reciprocated from the other side of the table.

Your heart sunk to your stomach at the mention of Maisie, tears welling up at the corner of your eyes. Both you and Torcall had explained to them that their mother had been reunited with Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, but they were too little to fully understand what that entailed, what it truly meant.

“When is mama coming back from Tech Duinn (House of Dhuosnos), daddy? I miss her dearly”, Iona’s innocent words ripped at your heart.

Torcall and you exchanged mournful glances.

“Aye, me too”, exclaimed Daimh as he snuggled in your arms.

“So do we, sweet pea, so do we”, you mumbled as you kissed the crown of his blonde head.

Daimh stirred in your arms, his green eyes piercing yours. He looked so much like his mother that it was painful. Maisie and you had the same emerald irises, although she had been blonde. Daimh and Iona were living images of her.

“When can we go home? This place smells funny”, your nephew questioned while he sat on your lap.

You wished you could tell him. Your whole family had been living in the castle that now Marcus Acacius occupied. Torcall and his children could not risk staying there, not when the threat of death was hanging above them. If the Romans knew your sister had offspring, they would hunt them down.

Despite the adversity, you had been lucky in a sense. The highlanders had always been wary of strangers — outsiders brought tragedy with them, in the way of disease or war. The Caledonians had learnt to keep their distance, to be extremely cautious. So, when the General and his army arrived, no one spoke of your family, not even when questioned.

Your people, despite the differences that had them at each other’s throats some years back, were loyal to you. And it was their fealty what enabled your plan, what allowed you to pretend, to just be another servant girl.

So Torcall, his children and you had sought refuge in the skirts of town. Your uncail Aengus’ wife had welcomed you into her home.

The crannog was a circular hut with a straw roof, the walls made of mud, rocks, wood. There was only one big, round room, with an open hearth which kept the inside warm. The open shelving gathered some necessary clutter, but there were many things scattered around the place. There were only three beds lined up against the wall, which meant that you shared a bed with Iona and Torcall with his son. Your cousins had moved out to the small barn just a few feet away to make room for you.

It was cramped and very modest in comparison to the thick walls of your castle, but it was a roof over your heads. You were extremely grateful to her. Your heart still wept at the memory of telling her the demise of her husband.

“Soon we will, but in the meantime, we are keeping Bonnie and her sons company. And this place smells just fine. Are you sure it’s not you, you stinky little deamhan (demon)?”, you jested, pinching his nose and then tickling his ribs.

His laughter was a soothing balm on your aching, longing heart.

“Was everything as expected, Dominus?” His Roman servant asked, his head bowed to him.

Marcus patted the corners of his mouth with the rag on his lap and then nodded to Atticus. The food was somewhat decent, a venison stew with some root vegetables he could not identify. The bread, unsurprisingly, was a bit stale, so he had left it untouched.

The great hall was lugubrious, silence filling up the atmosphere. There were two other maids in the room, cowering in a corner with averted eyes. They only spoke a barbarian language he had no wish to learn. Communication with the natives was extremely difficult, as they seemed to be uneducated.

But there was one lass who knew how to speak Latin — you, Callie.

He wondered where you had gone. Marcus had not seen you since your encounter in his new-found bedchamber. It had been three days since then and with each passing one, he found himself searching the room for you. There was something about you that had reeled him in but was unsure of what it was. Maybe it was the eerie, magical aura that surrounded your fiery hair — or maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the way you had briefly but decisively held his gaze. The way you quickly retreated — unwillingly.

Marcus imperceptibly shook his head and waved his hand at Atticus, motioning for him to pour another cup of the bitter wine.

“Yes”, he simply replied, bringing the wooden chalice to his lips.

Atticus signalled the young women to come forward and they quickly cleared the table of dishes and cutlery. When he was alone with his servant, away from enemies’ ears, he signalled at Atticus, who quickly stepped forward.

“Fetch my commanders and bring them here. There are matters I need to discuss with them”, Marcus demanded of him.

His attendant curtsied and vanished from the great hall, leaving him alone.

Marcus was taking in every detail of the room, of the tapestries and their stories, when a scattering sound distracted him. He thought to hear a commotion, then a blasphemy. Curious, he stood up, stepped off the dais and sauntered towards the double doors. The door was slightly ajar, so he only had to push it for it to swing open.

There was nothing in the corridor except for a distinct scent. Rosemary and thyme with a hint of something unrecognisable, he identified. A smell that had loitered in his bedchamber once you left. Wrinkling his aquiline nose, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see how a shadow dissipated at the end of the corridor.

Furrowing his brows and in long strides, Marcus covered the distance, tracking the distinct aroma — like a lost man after the beckoning of a nymph, he followed. As he was about to turn the corner, he almost collided with Maximus, Valerius and Cassius.

“My lord,” Cassius was the first to talk, “we were on our way to you. You wished to see us?”

Marcus tried to conceal his confusion at the sight of the three men. With his head slightly tilted, he asked, “Did you encounter anyone on your way to me, Commander?”

Cassius slowly shook his head no, baffled by the question. “No, Dominus, no one. Were you expecting someone else?”

The General hmphed, taciturn. He needed to be cautious — if the tapestries were right, ungodly, mythical creatures lingered between the walls of the castle. Evil ones at that.

“Worry not”, Marcus rapidly dismissed. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

The four men sat at the rectangular table on the dais, Marcus’ fingers drumming on the wood as Maximus flattened a piece of parchment before him.

“These are some names that have been thrown around in the last few days, people who may act on their rebellious comments. Our spies have been trying their best to mix in with the townies, but they are tough nuts to crack. They are wary even of the people who speak their own language”, Maximus’ index finger slid down the list as he talked.

Marcus’ hand darted forward and pinched one corner of the parchment, pulling it towards him. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar names.

The barbarians did not use surnames, which spoke to their lack of sophistication. Instead, they used patronyms and the land where they were born, so the list made it difficult to identify individuals who might belong to the same family. Knowing what families were a menace would be a great advantage, one they did not have.

“There seems to be a recurrent name here”, Marcus paused, his fingertip pointing to the words scribbled in lead ink. “Seumas and Anndra of Dail an Eich (Dalneigh), sons of Aengus. Who is this Aengus?”, he questioned, looking up to the frowning faces.

“We are not sure, Dominus. As I said, the villagers are not talking much”, Cassius replied, his fingers intertwined, resting atop of the wooden table.

“Well, find out then. I don’t care how you get the information. Just get it”, Marcus’ back reclined against the chair he was sat on. He felt like they were wasting his time with trivial details. He needed more than that.

“You didn’t get Murdoch’s wife to talk, even when she was hanged half dead in a cage off the main tower, after being brutally tortured and whatever else you inflicted upon her, and you expect us to get names just like that?”, Valerius’ insolence spoke for him.

Marcus’ eyes lazily locked on his commander’s. He should have his ill-mannered tongue cut out for such disdainful arrogance. Valerius’ Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he forcefully swallowed, his eyes slightly widened, realising his impertinence.

Whispers flew around the town; his name being cursed from mouth to mouth. Marcus was not too worried about whatever rumours they could spread about him. They probably would be true — he was no saint.

But Marcus had not been the one who had ordered such distasteful death upon Mòrag, wife of Murdoch. Agricola did, with no respect for his name when he dropped it mid-sentence. Marcus did not even lay an eye on her, even less a hand.

Let them all think what they might. Marcus was used to being the scapegoat of the governor — when something went wrong, Agricola would blame him. And when something went right, he would just take credit for himself, the evil, power-thirsty rat.

He looked at Valerius dead in his eyes, one cocked brow showing his mild incredulity.

“Do you have something to say, Valerius? I hear a certain condemning tone in your words?”, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but the reality was there was a raging fire within him he could not make manifest.

“Absolutely not, my lord”, the man bowed his head to him, his knuckles white.

“Then be gone. All of you. Find those two men or I will have you hanged too.”

The resolution in his tone scared the seasoned warriors, who quickly said their goodbyes and hurriedly left the premises.

Marcus’ elbows sunk in the wooden table, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was angry, but amongst all, he was tired — tired of masking, of cleaning up after Agricola’s hideous actions, of power plays, of trickery, betrayal and deception. He was surrounded by it all.

At eight and forty, he was tired of war and conquest. He had seen it all, lived it all. If retirement would be an option, he would gladly take it. But he knew — he would wield a sword till the day he died in a godforsaken battlefield, till Pluto welcomed him with open arms. Rome would not have him any other way.

Marcus Acacius was truly exhausted.

So it was him who had your beautiful màthair tortured and hanged in a cage until she greeted death. Your blood boiled as your breath quickened. The rage flickered inside you like wild flames burning down an entire civilisation.

When the rangers announced your arrival to a few selected loyal men who had stayed behind, they got out at night to cut the ropes holding the cage your mother had been thrown in. They did not want you to see such act of savagery.

Your kinsmen had really tried to conceal how badly damaged your mother’s body was. Despite the heartache, you had been grateful that they had gone to the effort of making her somewhat presentable. But one look at her mangled body had been enough to understand what type of wickedness you were up against.

In the dead of night, you had buried Mòrag, the woman who so selflessly gave you life, in the outskirts of town. Just like her other children and husband, she would not rest under the family’s chambered cairns. Your family had been wiped out of history as if they were mere droplets in a vast ocean of human tragedy.

With one ear flat against the wooden door to the great hall, you unknowingly squinted your eyes, trying to listen to the rest of the conversation. If someone caught you eavesdropping, you would have a lot of explaining to do. But so far your spying was being productive — you would need to warn your cousins when you got home that night.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps made your heart jolt in your chest.

“Cac (shite)!”, you swore, frantically looking for a place to stow yourself away.

Picking up your skirt so you would not trip, you hid in a nearby garderobe. The cupboard smelt sweet and musty — barrels of wine decorated the whole height of the stone walls. The scent was so intense, you felt it soaking through your skin, appeasing the craze that had a tight grip on your mind. The darkness that surrounded you only accentuated your sense of smell. Could you get inebriated just with the sugary aroma of grape juice?

When the booted treads slowly faded away, you quietly pushed the door open, emerging back into the cold corridor — the contrasting temperature between the garderobe and the hallway gave you goosebumps. Palm flat against the wood and the other hand tightly gripping the iron pull handle, you gently shoved the door back into its frame, hoping to make no noise.

“What are you doing?”, a deep, masculine voice startled you, making you jump on the spot.

A set of warm, firm arms wrapped around you as you stumbled with your feet. They enveloped you so steadfastly, your body involuntarily relaxed against the person behind you. Leaning back, your back met the cold touch of metal.

Swallowing a profanity that would bring a repenting clergyman down to his knees, you turned around, in the arms that held you tight, to face the embodiment of hate. Your hate.

Marcus Acacius was standing, all righteous and proud, intimately close to you. He was wearing an impeccable white armour with golden details. Two flaxen griffins adorned the center of the plackart, their claws wrapping around a floral design. Linen straps, snug around his hips, fell from his waist, covering the fauld and the tasset underneath.

Marcus’ body was a fountain of warmth, even with all the layers enfolding his frame. His arms, although tense around you, did not feel suffocating — in fact, they were almost coddling you into a state of ataraxia as your brain quietened. His hug exuded a sense of security you had not felt in years — as if nothing nor no one could ever harm you as long as you stayed in Marcus’ embrace.

You traced the topography of his plackart with your fingers, your palms resting against the alloy, as your eyes peeked up —he was considerably taller than you— and were met with the fervour of two brown irises. Their gravity pulled you in for an eternal second. With your face near his, you picked up on the tired bearing on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes, the hard press of his lips. A kempt but patchy beard coated his jawline, and salt and peppered hair curled at the nape of his thick, muscular neck — a stray silver lock caressing his forehead, asking to be tucked away.

Your fingertips suddenly itched with longing, your eyes slightly widened, and your mouth partially parted. And then you came back to reality with the full force of your conscience yapping at you. What the hell? You had to control the contortion of your face so your disappointment would not be evident. It’s because I want to slap him so bad, was your afterthought.

Something changed in his expression — Marcus suddenly let you go, leaving you cold again. As if it was a rehearsed move, you both took a step back, breaking the electric contact that snapped between your bodies.

You now realised his clean image was a shocking contrast to how you first met him. Covered in mud, blood and sweat, his untamed expression as he dispatched your father still haunted you at night. And that was how you had to remember him. Sinking his gladius in your father’s belly. And nothing else.

“Well?”, the General insisted after clearing his throat, his eyebrows knitting together as he folded his arms.

You rapidly lowered your gaze when you realised you had been looking at him too intently, too directly. A maid would have fainted at the audacity you had just shown him. But you were no maid — albeit he was not privy of such detail for obvious reasons.

You hoped he didn’t notice, although you could feel his eyes studying you eagerly.

“I— I was looking for wine, Dominus.” You faked the stammering in an attempt to convey innocence. “Cormag, the cook, wants a very specific wine to accompany your supper, Dux Meus (My General/Leader). I was making sure we had it.”

“And what wine is that, if I dare ask?”, he pressed with a steely voice.

Thalla gu taigh na galla (go to hell), you thought, browsing your brain for a quick reply.

“It’s a fine wine imported from Carmo, my lord.” Your father had been a wine enthusiast, so you knew some places he had his wine shipped from. Not that it really meant anything to you, anyway.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his arms falling to his sides, his threatening posture softening.

“Carmo? In the Baetic region of Hispania?”, Marcus’ incredulous voice made you glance up at him through your long eyelashes.

You nodded, your fingers laced at your front as you bowed your head again, showing a deference you didn’t really feel towards him. And you prayed there was at least a few drops left of said wine in one of the barrels, or you would be in trouble come dinner.

“That’s one of my favourites”, he let slip and you instantly knew he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Feigning bravery, you fanned your eyelashes back at him, a half-smile softening your lips. The General almost looked mortified at the fact of letting a stranger know about his likes. You could see it in his eyes — the brief moment of asking himself, “What have I just said?” Although he seemed all stoic and unattainable, he was just a man. Just like any other.

“Is that so?” You did not wait for a reply you knew would never come. “I’ll try and remember that, Dominus, to make sure we never run out.”

He was a hard man to read, you would give him that. His expression didn’t flinch, as if your words had gone over his head. The only sign he had actually listened was a subtle tic on his jaw.

You just needed to drop some hints here and there, let him brew. If you were too obvious with your intentions, Marcus would become suspicious. You knew nothing about the man except he was a cold-blooded murderer, but perceived he was observant. Probably too observant.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I wish to retire now so I can attend to my tasks.” Asking for permission was not something that came naturally to you, but it was a trained response you had learnt from your late husband.

“Take your leave then”, he granted, his hands hiding on his back.

You curtsied. “Thank you, Dux Meus.”

Marcus turned on his heels in a swift whoosh, the sword swaying in front of him, his fingers gripping the handle tight. He intuited his opponent’s next move before it happened, so he bent his knees and ducked his head right under the swing of Maximus’ gladius. With a wild, toothy smile, Marcus pulled back, weighing the blade on his left hand.

“So predictable”, he teased the commander, who was an old friend of his.

If one could have friends in the midst of war, that was. Their friendship easily transformed depending on the circumstances — in war matters, Maximus knew to respect Marcus above everything else. Outside of that, they just were two friends with a long history behind them.

“I’m being gentle, lord General. We have spectators, I don’t want to embarrass you. I know your ego is as fragile as a rose’s petal”, Maximus chaffed, a grin taking over his mouth as they circled each other like two lions on the gladiator’s pit.

Marcus’ tunnel vision had him so tuned in on his friend’s advances, he had not realised that a small group of people had gathered around the makeshift arena. Feeling a sudden heaviness weighing him down, Marcus combed the gathered faces in one sweep.

Until his eyes locked in on yours. He saw a glimpse of wonder metamorphosing into surprise in your emerald greens — then you quickly withdrew your eyes from his at the realisation of getting caught staring.

There was something about you that drew him in — something mysterious, uncanny, but also strangely enticing. Exciting. Your eyes spoke of mischief, of adventure, of the unknown. Of something eerie, almost witchy. The flickering, iridescent fire within them had him under a spell for a brief moment.

Marcus vividly remembered holding you against his chest, your soft curves perfectly moulding to his hard edges. Even through the armour, he had felt the heat your body irradiated, the way it seeped through to envelop him, soothe him. For a moment, having you between his arms felt just right. And that thought had unsettled him gravely, letting go of you as such wild, unnerving concept sank in — his mind point-blank rejecting the notion.

Despite his inner refusal, how you looked back at him would plague him. For days and nights on end.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus watched as Maximus inched forward, the sword aiming at his open flank. Just in the nick of time, the General’s steel deflected the attack.

“Getting distracted? That’s unusual of you, Marcus”, the commander jeered at him, closing in.

Marcus scoffed at his words, bluffing. But the reality was that Maximus had hit the nail in the head. Not that he was going to acknowledge it in public anyway. If he was to successfully bring Maximus down, he needed to focus on the task at hand and not think about a green-eyed nymph.

Studying his adversary’s body language, his feet dragged on the sand. Maximus was on edge, tense, too focused on his sword, so Marcus wagered a distraction would tip the scales in his favour. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly knelt, the fingers of his non-occupied right hand extended, palm down. Maximus’ brows wrinkled when he saw Marcus getting a fistful of sand and the General knew he had the diversion he was looking for.

With Maximus focused on his right hand, too worried with a cloud of sand that would get in his eyes, Marcus took the chance, quickly stood up and swung his heavy sword against his rival’s left loin. Maximus did not have time to prepare for the impact and so dropped to the ground.

Marcus smiled with sufficiency, straightening out his aching back, and offered a hand to his old friend.

With a grunt, Maximus accepted his gesture and got up, palming Marcus’ back soundly.

“You treacherous man, making me believe you were going to blind me”, he quipped as they both started to walk out of the circle people had formed around them.

“There is no treachery in the art of war”, Marcus replied, patting his friend’s back in playful jest.

A loud snort made Marcus look around him. He had no time to fully study your face, but he could swear you had made that disapproving noise before turning on your heels and trotting off.

Confusion and a smidge of curiosity settled in him — what had he done to gain your dissent when a minute ago awe darkened your eyes? The sudden change in your attitude left a lingering question in the back of his head as he and Maximus ushered towards the barracks in the northwest corner of the bailey.

“But you shouldn’t be serving, mo bhean-uasal (my lady)”, whispered the young lass, her hands twisting in her lap with nervousness.

“Shush, Brighid, lower your tone.” Anxiously you checked out your surroundings, ensuring you were alone. You were relieved to know you were. “You cannae refer to me like that. I’m just Callie now, remember?”

Upon your arrival to Inbhir Nis, Torcall and your father’s retinue —now yours, you guessed— had made everyone aware that the Romans thought you dead and hence, concealing your identity was of utmost importance. A slip of a tongue and you would be hanging in a cage too. Every passing day you feared someone might forget and show you deference publicly — but you had to trust that no one would run off at the mouth and rat you out.

“Duilich (sorry), mo bh— Callie. I—I promise I didn’t mean to”, she profusely apologised, her big wide eyes begging for your pardon. The wee lass could not stop fidgeting.

“I know, I know”, you tried to calm her down, placing your hand on her forearm. “But please, I need to take your place tonight.”

“Cormag will fire me for not turning up. I cannae afford that, my family depends on me.” Her pleading plucked some fast beats out of your heart.

“Don’t fret about it, lass. I’ll speak to that old crank of a man, he owes me. You’ll get paid, awright? He’ll be fine with it, I promise.” You gently squeezed her forearm, so your words would sink in.

Her eyes broadened in understanding. Before the girl could think about her actions, she jolted forward, her arms wrapping around your shoulders. You could only smile at her relief and let out a soft cackle when Brighid lumbered back, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, do Ghras (Your Grace).” Her excitement was so palpable the poor girl didn’t notice the second blunder.

“BRIGHID!”, a raspy threat left your tongue as you jerked her closer to you by the elbow. “For the love of Morrìgan, do watch your mouth!”

The young servant covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes speaking of self-reproach as it dawned on her. “I’ll have it sewn”, she muttered with great remorse.

The guilt splayed across her heart-shaped face brought a smirk to your lips. “Off you go now, before your runny tongue gets me into trouble.”

Brighid scurried away towards the barbican, and you hurried along to the kitchens. You followed the tangled web of corridors and passages thoughtlessly — you had played hide and seek countless times with your siblings between the stone walls, there was no nook nor cranny you were not familiar with.

The air got denser as you approached, the thick smoke of the open hearth filling your lungs. Repressing a cough, you entered the galley as good ol’ Cormag was shouting orders at the helping lads. The head cook had an aging face, creases around his grey eyes and bulbous nose, and a thick bush of white hair — hair strands shooting in every direction, almost comically. He was short and round around the belly, living proof of his good, delicious cooking.

“Keep fanning the fire, ye lazy ass! Don’t you see it’s going to die out? Faster, stronger! Aren’t you supposed to be young and full of life?!”, Cormag had wrapped his thick fingers around the brittle wrists of the lad, forcing his feeble arms up and down, fingers tight around a thin plank of wood. “Tiugainn (come on), with more enthusiasm, ye numpty!”

“Do you really think that’s how you motivate the young lads to do a good job, Cormag?” You questioned his teaching approach, with folded arms and a cocked brow.

An oath escaped his mouth as the cook turned around, his face downcast at your reprimand. “Callie!”

Thank the gods someone remembered how to approach you now. It came easier to Cormag though, considering that he was almost like family to you. The old man had seen you grow, having served your father since before you were even born. He was there, on the background, to wave you goodbye every time you had to return to Am Baile Ùr. And each time you came back, he had a full plate of haggis with a side of neeps and tatties waiting for you.

“No wonder your apprentices quit so fast if you treat them like that, Cormag. Have you no manners?” You kidded — the man had the filthiest mouth of the shire.

“I was raised by an ogre, young lady, of course I don’t”, he jokingly replied, cleaning his dirty hands on the apron tied around his round belly.

“Aye, and Nessie was your pet. I’ve heard that story before awright. I am still to see proof of such claims though.” Unfolding your arms you approached him, immediately going in for a bear hug.

Cormag palmed your back enthusiastically and you circled his stout frame, sinking in the comfort of his presence. In the blink of an eye, you were a five-year-old crybaby being consoled by a younger Cormag because there were no more mutton pies left that you could shove down your tiny mouth.

“I heard you were back, fear beag (little one). Wondered when you’d come visit this old git.” With a last squeeze, he took a step back, his hands placed on your shoulders. “Know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times now, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

His whisper was loaded with a heavy affection that shot your heart down to your stomach. Pressing your lips to stop your face from contorting at the memory of being alone in this world, you nodded, almost frantically, and sniffed. His eyes were a reflection of yours — the friendship between your athair and Cormag had been a staple in your life for as long as you could remember.

“But let’s not get all teary now!”, his demeanour changed as he rubbed your shoulders before taking a step back. “Got something for you.”

He turned around to rummage through a rattan basket on one of the counters. Cormag exclaimed an enthusiastic “Ha!” when he got his hands on what he was looking for. Then he presented his discovery to you with a flourish that made you crow.

When you saw the peachy plum on the palm of his hand, you almost squealed. “Plums!” You quickly snatched it, afraid he would take it away.

“I arranged for these to be brought from Fachabair (Fochabers). The cook who serves the clan chief there is an old friend of mine.”

“But Cormag, plums are not in season yet!” You marvelled at the sight, munching on the delicious fruit eagerly. Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head.

“I know.” He winked at you mysteriously, but you didn’t press the matter if it meant you could get your hands on some more plums.

“I did come to you with a favour to ask”, you batted your eyelashes at him, anticipating his disapproval.

He looked at you, inquisitorial — it was his turn to fold arms at the chest. Cormag snapped his tongue as if to say, “do go on”.

“I already convinced Brighid so you cannae be mad at her. In fact, I promised her you wouldn’t.” You grinned at him, his face already puckering with exasperation. “I’m taking her place tonight as a serving maid.”

“Have you lost your damn mind, lass? Nay, I’m not having it”, he quickly dismissed you, grunting.

“I’m not asking for permission. I need to be there, I—” Just in time, you remembered that the two lads were still running around the fireplace, trying to keep the flames alive. “I’ll fill you in later, but I have to be there, there’s no discussion about it.”

“What? Serving that Roman scoundrel? There’s more royal blood in you than there is in him.” He was more offended than you were.

You laughed, patting his forearm. The old man already hated the Romans more than you did, and that was difficult to accomplish.

“Aye, and that’s not the worst bit, Cormag”, you teased him, because you knew he would lose his mind with rage.

“Enlighten me”, he said between gritted teeth.

“We are serving the Corma wine tonight with supper”, you pursed your lips, watching his reaction.

His round face turned all shades of red, and his nostrils flared. If it was physically possible, his ears would be steaming too, like a ceramic pot with boiling water over the open fire.

“NAY, OVER MY DEAD FUCKING BODY!”, he exploded, shaking his arms over his head in disbelief, and you burst into laughter. Cormag was too expressive. “Ah, no, NO. We are not wasting such finery on that murderous cunt!”

You blinked rapidly at him to appease his fury, but his rage just gleamed brighter.

“Well… I kinda told him we would. You winnae make me look like a liar, right, Cormag?”, you muttered, as if you were a child who had committed the grave felony of stealing a sweet off the counter.

“You did WHAT?!”, he snorted angrily.

“Tìoraidh (bye)!”, you effusively waved him goodbye as you bit into the plum, sprinting off and ducking when you heard the wooden spoon flying by your ear.

“Trobhad (come here)!”, but you had already turned the corner into the hallway.

Why he was so taut, he did not fully understand. Marcus’ body was in high alert, and he had his suspicions about the cause.

You were just a woman like any other. Sure, your green eyes flickered like hellfire, your red hair was so bright it looked like you were up in flames, your upturned nose covered in freckles twitched adorably, and the skin on your hands was unusually soft — but that was it, really.

So you were nothing out of the ordinary, he kept telling himself. But it was hard to keep to that line of thought when your breast would brush against his shoulder every time you approached to clear the table from empty plates, when your velvety fingers would briefly caress the back of his hand while reaching for his cutlery, or when you would talk too close to his ear, a tingling sensation on the back of his neck almost making him shiver uncomfortably.

Marcus did not know if you were doing it on purpose or not — your face had an innocent look to it that was hard to read for him. The most prudent thing would be to ignore it all — ignore you. Surely you were only being suggestive in his imagination. And he still had the feeling something had upset you that afternoon when you stormed off after his training session.

“How’s the wine, Dux Meus?”, your sweet voice trickled from your plush lips like honey.

The way you kept referring to him as Dux Meus unsettled him. The first time you had said it during your encounter in the corridor, it caused certain havoc in his mind — and body.

Although it was appropriate for his title, no one really referred to him like that. My leader, my general, my god. It was the last connotation what made him feel… uneasy, for lack of a better word. It just sounded too intimate, the way it would pour from your oval-shaped mouth.

Marcus blamed it on Latin not being your first language. If you knew how seductively it rolled from your lips, he was sure you would stop addressing him like that straight away. Which meant he should correct you, tell you to just stick to Dominus.

But for whatever inexplicable reason, he did not.

“It’s as tasty and earthy as I remember it.” He replied, his fingers wrapping around the chalice with more strength than what was necessary.

You smiled at him, one of your hands gently placed on his right shoulder giving him a subtle squeeze.

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord”, you mumbled, Marcus’ eyes following the movement of your hand when you broke contact.

You inched forward over his shoulder to grab the glass jug and refill his cup, gifting him with the sight of your generous cleavage — your breasts almost spilling over the neckline of the dark blue, linen dress that so tightly wrapped around your hourglass figure.

Marcus had to swallow hard, tension suddenly building up on his groin. Was he getting hard just by the mere touch of a woman? He sucked in his breath while forcing himself to look forward, not down.

He just nodded in reply, unable to find his voice. If he had talked, he would have just groaned in frustration. Marcus had to readjust his posture as he saw you walking away, your waist evocatively swaying sideways with every step you took.

“I’m sure the wine is not the only tasty thing around here.”

Maximus’ whispered jest forced Marcus to look in his direction, turning to his left. They, along with the other commanders and a few other people of importance, were sat on the table on the dais, facing the crowd. Other tables were scattered around the great hall, where some legionnaires were enjoying a meal and a drink, sharing a joke and bursting in laughter.

“I don’t follow”, he grunted, feigning ignorance, before taking a sip.

“Oh, you do follow. At least your eyes do.” Maximus mocked him while Marcus just sneered at him, eyes squinting. “No one would blame you though. We are far away in an unknown land, and we all have needs to satisfy. I myself am considering getting laid tonight.”

“I did not doubt you would.” Men like Maximus had no consideration for their wives.

Neither does Livia, the intrusive thought wiggled its way through his mind. Despite the lack of passion in bed with his spouse, Marcus had been a faithful husband. While others looked for warmth in the folds of a pleasure woman after a battle, the General would tend to his wounds and rest, focusing on what next skirmish lied ahead.

And while he had been loyal although there was never love between them, Livia had been fucking the “love of her life”, as she had referred to the man stuffing her cunt full during his long absences. Marcus was yet to know his name. What he would do with that information, he did not know.

Thinking of his perfidious wife had an extinguishing effect on him. The strain against his subligaculum (underwear) had softened.

“You’re too tense, Marcus. You need to relax, have some fun. I bet you two denarii that she will fuck the stress out of you expertly, I can tell.” Maximus pressed maliciously, conscious of how uncomfortable the conversation would make Marcus feel.

“Just shut up, will you?”, Marcus snapped back, tired of his friend’s quips, and downing the drink in his cup.

Maximus laughed it off and turned to talk to Cassius when you sauntered towards the table again, stopping right behind him.

“More wine, Dux Meus?”, you asked, infusing your honeyed voice with a sweet touch of flirtation.

You bent over his shoulder again, hand lazily looking for the wine jug in front of him. His hazel eyes fell on your bosom again and your nipples involuntarily hardened at the desire you saw in him — you were sure he noticed them peeking through the thin fabric.

In your attempts to arouse him, your body was betraying you, getting warm in all the wrong places. As much as you wanted to be immune to your own provocative games, you were not. But it wasn’t him who made you wet with lust, you told yourself. It was your own actions, nothing else. The long game.

But Marcus quickly tamed his expression, grinding his jaw and looking away.

“No, I’m okay”, he rejected your offer, hovering his hand over the chalice so you would not pour more.

You forced your lips into a flat line. You needed the man to let go of his defences. Having him drunk would help with that. But not tonight, apparently.

You nodded.

“Of course, Dominus.” You placed the jug back down on the table, your left breast brushing his right shoulder again.

You bit down your bottom lip, your free fingers curling on the back of his chair. It’s just the game, you thought to yourself again, your core slick and hot.

Slowly you retreated to the kitchens, fully aware of Marcus’ eyes feasting on your body. You smiled to yourself — he might be a taut General, but he was just a man.

A deceitful man at that, who thought there was no treachery in the art of war. Was that how he defeated your father? With deception? You had been too far to see and hear how the fight between your father and Marcus had unfolded, but having been witness to how the General distracted his opponent that afternoon, you wondered if he had followed similar tactics with Murdoch. If your father’s demise was just a byproduct of Marcus’ boldness.

The memory of Marcus being your father’s executioner put out the liquid fire in your crotch. And rightly so.

It wasn’t long before the Romans started to vanish from the great hall, retreating to the barracks or to town, maybe looking for the comfort only a woman could offer.

When you walked back out to clear the last plates, you saw the General leaving the room. Alone. Where he intended to go you did not know, but you had to make sure he was not considering joining the men in town — if he was to choose a woman to enliven his bed, he should pick you.

“Isla, I’ll be back in a minute.” The lass gave you a puzzled look as the bits you had gathered previously clattered against the wooden table when you let go of them.

You hurried forward to meet him as he swung the double doors open, the cold breeze of the corridor filtering into the great hall.

“Dux Meus, wait please”, you interjected in the hopes he would stop walking.

Indeed, he did. His whole body stiffened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. You were not sure what to make of that reaction — exasperation or frustration. You hoped for the second, especially the good kind of frustration.

As soon as you reached him, you placed a daring hand on his forearm — an unusual surge of energy sparked at the contact between your skins, giving you goosebumps. You quickly retrieved your hand with certain surprise, the tingling sensation evaporating right after.

“I trust everything was good?”, you queried, tilting your head to one side.

“Yes. Now I’ll retire to my bedchambers. Bonum noctis (good night)”, his words dragged for a second, “Callie.”

There it was again, your name falling from his lips as if it belonged to him. It angered and pleased you equally. If he pronounced it like that on purpose you did not know, but it surely felt like it.

Before you could come up with an answer, he trudged to his right and you took a step forward.

“That is not the way to the main bedchamber, my lord. You should follow this other corridor instead”, you pointed to the left.

He paused and turned around to face you. A lingering question danced in his pupils, but whatever it was, he did not say out loud. Instead, he nodded.

“I am aware. However, I have taken a different bedroom.” He did not give you an explanation, but you could have a good guess. Your father always complained his bed was like a blanket of spikey rocks. “I am now lodged in the second tower, the room in the top floor.”

You tamed your face into nothingness, but internally you flinched at his reply. He was sleeping in your room, in your bed. The thought of him naked with your bedlinen draped around his waist and thick legs made you gush. Fuck.

This was unknown territory to you — although you had been married for ten years, you had not known pleasure in the bedchamber. Iain just chased his own release, using you in disgusting ways, proving you that you were the problem, not him — that your womb was barren. You had been told by your friends that fucking was enjoyable for both parties, but you were yet to discover that. Maybe the dampness your legs harboured was a start?

“I see”, you curtsied, fingers laced on your back, looking up at him through your long eyelashes.

“How come you speak Latin?” His question blurted out, catching you completely off guard.

Marcus had a nick for inconvenience, forcing you to come up with lies on the spot. Luckily you were astute and creative.

“My late father was a scrivener to Murdoch. He taught me how to speak Latin, as it was his favourite language.”

“He passed?” You simply nodded. “I trust you still have family around though?”

You shook your head no. You killed them all, ye cunt. But you could not express your hatred out loud. Although when the time came, you would. Aye, you definitely would.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” For a second you believed him, his tone almost sorrowful.

“It was a long time ago.” You lied through your teeth, shrugging. “I’ll leave you to your rest now. Oidhche mhath (good night), Marcus.”

You heard a loud sigh being drawn into his lungs, possibly because of your cheekiness — calling him by his first name was a very bold move on your part. Maybe too bold.

Before he could reprimand you for your audacity, you scuttled back into the great hall, a sufficient grin tugging at your lips.

@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey

@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87

@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel @pepperstories

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oswildin · 2 days

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(Possibly?) Controversial opinion incoming:

(Throwing it back to 2012/2013 here lmao)

I feel like the theory that Loki was mind controlled during the Avengers actually takes away the complexity of his character.

w-wait- waIT- HEAR ME OUT!

I think Loki was INFLUENCED by the mind stone for sure, but, to me, he was not controlled.

His anger, his fear, his need for validation and revenge are all what drove him to the events of the Avengers movie. He had just been, what he felt, was cast out by Thor and Odin and his home - those he considered his family and people, he had fallen through space, ended up in such a bad state that Thanos found him and used him for his own gain. (Although, Loki is smart enough to play at that game, ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ type of thing. EDIT: I mean this sentence in a ‘Loki is good at twisting things to his advantage’ way, not that it means he couldn’t have been manipulated himself in the process.)

I don’t think Thanos or the mind stone had any control over Loki’s mind, not in the way most theories speak of. Loki was controlled by the consequences he would face if he failed his mission, not that he was physically being controlled. I think Loki was given the mind stone because Thanos knew it would enhance those feelings of venom Loki was experiencing - it was an aid of sorts to give him his conviction, which even then, Agent Coulson saw through it.

“You lack conviction.”

Those simple words got to Loki. Because he knew it was true.

Loki never wanted the throne but yet, that was what he was telling everyone was his goal, his reasoning, his motivation… When in his heart, he knew it wasn’t. His motivation was truly fuelled from his hurt, his pain… Not an ambition for a throne.

And that is what makes Loki so interesting.

And that is why I find the theory that Loki had no control over his actions and had no idea what he was doing, takes away from his character, his complexity…

(PSA: I am not here to tell you what you can or cannot headcannon or what theories you believe, it’s a fictional character in a fictional story in a fictional universe… It isn’t that deep, this is just my own personal opinion and preference! If you like the theory for your own reasons, that’s fine too! /gen)

#loki #loki laufeyson #Loki mcu #marvel Loki #avengers 2012 #avengers loki #loki odinson

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urdreamydoodles · 3 days

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X-Men x Reader (Part.2)

You smacks their ass as they walk past (Part.2)

Each X-Man reacts with a mix of surprise and playful teasing when you smacks their ass as they walk past, leading to affectionate and mischievous moments.

Characters: Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Emma Frost, Mystique, Kitty Pryde, Jubilee, Wanda Maximoff, Laura Kinney, Psylocke & Blink

Ororo Munroe (Storm):

Ororo stands by the large bay window, her presence always commanding yet graceful as she gazes out at the darkening sky. There’s a calmness about her, an ethereal quality that never fails to leave you in awe. As you pass behind her, unable to resist the temptation, you give her a playful smack on the ass and then continue walking as if nothing happened.

Ororo freezes for a moment, the shock evident in the way her body stiffens ever so slightly. Then, with a quiet chuckle, she turns her head, one elegant eyebrow raised in amusement as her striking blue eyes lock onto yours. “Y/N,” she says in that soft, velvety voice, though there’s a teasing tone underneath. “Did you just…?”

You try to play it off, shrugging innocently. “What? Just passing by,” you say, though the grin on your face betrays you.

Ororo smiles, shaking her head as she walks over to you, her every movement fluid and effortless, as if she’s floating rather than walking. “You’re lucky I find your mischief endearing,” she says with a light laugh. “But you should know better than to provoke someone who controls the weather.”

She reaches out, her fingertips lightly brushing your arm, and you feel a faint static charge beneath your skin, a subtle reminder of her power. “Next time, I might let a little thunder roll just to make my point clear,” she teases, though her tone is warm and playful.

Ororo’s presence is so strong, yet there’s always this underlying softness in her touch, the way she leans in, her lips brushing your cheek as she murmurs, “Just be glad the skies are clear today, love.” There’s a lightness in the air around her, and you can’t help but smile at the playful energy she exudes, even when she’s reminding you not to test your luck.

Rogue:

Rogue is lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine, her southern drawl humming softly as she reads aloud to herself. You’ve always loved how at ease she looks in these quiet moments, her usual tough exterior softened when it’s just the two of you. As you walk by, you decide to break the silence with a cheeky smack on her ass.

Rogue’s eyes widen, and she lets out a surprised yelp, dropping the magazine as she twists around to look at you, her mouth hanging open in shock. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, her voice filled with laughter. “Did you just smack my ass?”

You grin, shrugging nonchalantly. “Maybe.”

Rogue narrows her eyes, though the smile playing at the corners of her lips betrays her amusement. She stands up, crossing her arms as she saunters toward you, a challenging glint in her eyes. “You’re really askin’ for it now, sugah,” she teases, her voice low and full of playful threat. “Y’know, I don’t take kindly to people sneakin’ up on me.”

She’s close now, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her body, her green eyes flashing with mischief as she tilts her head. “What are you gonna do if I get payback?” she asks, her voice dropping into a sultry whisper, her southern accent drawing out every word in the most enticing way.

You smirk, meeting her gaze with confidence. “Maybe I’m counting on it.”

Rogue grins, stepping even closer, her gloved fingers tracing a light line down your arm. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” she murmurs, her lips hovering near yours, her breath warm against your skin. “But don’t think for a second I won’t get you back when you least expect it.”

She winks, pulling back with a laugh, but you know she’s already plotting her next move, and with Rogue, it’s never just a harmless game.

Emma Frost:

Emma sits at the dining table, her poise as perfect as ever, a glass of wine in her hand while she flips through a business report. There’s an aura of icy elegance about her, as always, but you know better than anyone how to get under that cool exterior. As you walk by, feeling a little mischievous, you reach out and give her a playful smack on the ass.

Emma doesn’t flinch, but her eyes flick up from her papers slowly, her lips curling into an amused smirk. “Darling,” she purrs, setting down her wine glass with deliberate precision. “Did you just lay your hands on me without permission?”

You grin, knowing exactly what game you’re playing with her. “Maybe,” you reply, feigning innocence.

Emma rises from her seat with the grace of a queen, her icy blue eyes never leaving yours as she glides over, each step measured and confident. She leans in, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers, “You forget who’s in charge here, don’t you, love?”

Her voice sends shivers down your spine, and before you can respond, she steps back, her hands brushing lightly across your chest, a faint smile playing on her lips. “You’ll pay for that little stunt,” she teases, her tone dangerously sweet. “But I do admire your audacity.”

Emma always manages to keep you on your toes, and as she walks back to her seat, she throws a look over her shoulder. “Next time you feel like testing boundaries, darling, remember—I’m far more dangerous than you give me credit for.” Her playful smirk leaves you both excited and just a little nervous about what she might have in store.

Mystique:

Mystique is leaning against the counter, her sharp eyes scanning the room as she absentmindedly fiddles with her gun. You’ve always loved her commanding presence, the way she takes charge of any situation without blinking an eye. As you walk by, you can’t help but playfully smack her ass, testing the waters with a woman who’s known for her lethal skills and quick temper.

She stiffens slightly, and before you even take another step, she’s shifted into someone else—her body changing shape with the speed only Mystique possesses. You turn around to find yourself staring at your own reflection, a mirror image of yourself standing there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in amusement.

“Well, well,” she says in your voice, her lips curling into a smirk that looks disturbingly familiar. “Feeling brave, aren’t we?”

You chuckle, meeting her gaze. “Couldn’t resist.”

Mystique shifts back to her usual form, her golden eyes gleaming with both mischief and warning. She steps toward you, her finger trailing down your chest as she speaks. “You know, I could be anyone, at any time. You’d never see it coming.” Her voice is low, dangerous, but laced with that familiar seductive charm that always draws you in.

She leans in close, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers, “But don’t worry—I’ll let you live. This time.” There’s a teasing edge in her voice, but you know better than to push your luck too far with Mystique. She always has a plan, and you’re never quite sure what she’s capable of next.

Kitty Pryde:

Kitty is sprawled out on the couch, working on her laptop as she types away, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s completely absorbed in her work, so naturally, you can’t resist the urge to tease her a little. As you walk by, you reach out and smack her ass, grinning as the sound catches her attention.

Kitty lets out a surprised yelp, her laptop nearly falling off her lap as she twists around to look at you, her cheeks flushing pink. “Y/N!” she exclaims, her eyes wide, though you can tell she’s trying not to laugh.

You lean against the arm of the couch, shrugging casually. “What? Just keeping you on your toes.”

Kitty narrows her eyes at you, clearly trying to come up with a witty comeback. “Oh, you think you’re funny, don’t you?” she says, but her smile is already starting to break through.

She stands up, facing you with her arms crossed, but there’s a playful glint in her eyes. “I could phase you through the floor, you know,” she teases, stepping closer. “Or maybe just leave you stuck halfway through the wall. How’d you like that?”

You chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll take my chances.”

Kitty rolls her eyes, though you can tell she’s enjoying the banter. She steps even closer, her hands finding your waist as she looks up at you with a mischievous smile. “You’re lucky I love you,” she says softly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “But don’t think for a second I won’t get you back for that.”

She winks before turning back to her laptop, leaving you wondering just what kind of payback she has in mind.

Jubilee:

Jubilee is sitting on the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal as her legs swing back and forth, her energy always infectious and bright. You love how her smile seems to light up the entire room, and as you walk by, you can’t help but be a little playful. So, with a quick flick of your wrist, you give her a light smack on the ass as you pass.

She nearly chokes on her cereal, eyes wide in surprise as she turns to look at you with a mock-offended expression. “Oh, no you didn’t!” she exclaims, her voice filled with that familiar spark of mischief.

You can’t help but laugh, shrugging innocently. “I’m just keeping you on your toes, Jubes.”

Jubilee sets her bowl down, hopping off the counter with her typical bounce, a smirk playing on her lips. “Oh, you think you’re funny, huh? Well, guess what, buddy—two can play at that game.”

Before you can respond, she raises her hands, and you’re momentarily blinded by a series of colorful fireworks that burst into the air. You blink away the spots in your vision as she stands there, arms crossed, a smug look on her face. “That’s what you get for messing with me,” she teases, though you can see the laughter dancing in her eyes.

She steps closer, her grin widening. “But you know, I like a little trouble now and then,” she says with a wink, leaning in to give you a quick kiss before darting back to her spot on the counter. “Just don’t be surprised if next time, the fireworks are a little bigger.”

Wanda Maximoff:

Wanda is sitting at the table, quietly flipping through one of her many old, leather-bound books, her fingers tracing the pages delicately. She’s always so focused when she’s studying, her concentration and grace mesmerizing. But as you walk by, you can’t resist the urge to inject a bit of playfulness into the moment, giving her a gentle smack on the ass as you pass.

Wanda’s eyes widen in shock, her hand freezing mid-turn of a page. She slowly lifts her gaze, her lips parting slightly in disbelief, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in her deep, mysterious eyes. “Y/N…” she says, her voice soft but carrying that hint of danger that sends a shiver down your spine. “Did you really just do that?”

You grin, leaning casually against the table. “Maybe. What are you going to do about it?”

Wanda closes her book carefully, setting it aside with deliberate slowness. She stands, her movements graceful and fluid as she steps toward you, her fingers lightly grazing your arm. “You do realize who you’re teasing, right?” she whispers, her voice smooth as silk.

Before you can respond, you feel a slight shift in the air, and suddenly you’re weightless, floating just a few inches off the ground. Wanda’s power surrounds you, holding you suspended in the air as she looks up at you, a smile playing on her lips. “Perhaps I’ll keep you like this for a while,” she teases, her fingers tracing your arm as you float. “Just to remind you who’s really in control.”

Her touch is warm, electric, and you feel your pulse quicken as she lowers you back down. “But,” she says softly, leaning in close, “I’ll let you off the hook this time.” She presses a light kiss to your lips, her magic still humming in the air between you. “Just remember—I always have the upper hand.”

X-23/Wolverine (Laura Kinney):

Laura is sharpening one of her many knives at the kitchen table, her expression focused and serious as she drags the blade across the whetstone. She’s always had that intensity about her, a fierce and determined energy that’s hard to break through. But as you walk by, you decide to try anyway, giving her a playful smack on the ass.

Laura immediately stiffens, her hand pausing mid-sharpen as her head snaps up to look at you. Her eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you wonder if maybe teasing a trained assassin wasn’t the best idea. “Did you just smack my ass?” she asks, her voice low and dangerously calm.

You hold up your hands in mock defense, grinning. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

For a second, you think she might leap across the table and pin you to the floor, but then you see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re lucky I like you,” she mutters, setting the knife down with a soft clink. “Otherwise, I’d be tempted to teach you a lesson.”

Laura stands up, walking toward you with that predatory grace that makes your heart race. She stops right in front of you, crossing her arms as she looks up into your eyes. “You know, not everyone gets away with something like that,” she says, her voice still holding that serious edge, though there’s a flicker of amusement in her gaze.

Before you can respond, she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, “But I guess I’ll let you off the hook this time. Just don’t make a habit of it.” There’s a teasing note in her voice, and as she pulls back, you catch the slightest grin on her face before she returns to her sharpening, leaving you both relieved and intrigued by her reaction.

Psylocke (Betsy Braddock):

Betsy stands in the training room, her katana slicing through the air with deadly precision as she moves through her forms, each step graceful and controlled. Her concentration is razor-sharp, her purple hair swaying slightly with each movement. You watch her from the doorway, admiring her strength and elegance. Feeling a bit mischievous, you walk past her and, with a swift hand, give her a playful smack on the ass.

The reaction is immediate. Betsy’s katana comes to a halt mid-swing, and she turns to look at you, her eyes narrowed but not without a hint of amusement. "Y/N…" she says, her British accent soft but carrying a warning edge. "You have a death wish, don’t you?"

You chuckle, stepping closer. "Just trying to get your attention."

She raises an eyebrow, her gaze steady as she studies you, clearly deciding whether to indulge in this game. Slowly, she sheathes her katana, her movements deliberate as she steps toward you, her expression calm but mischievous. "If you wanted my attention, love, all you had to do was ask," she murmurs, her voice smooth as silk.

Betsy closes the distance between you, her fingers lightly trailing across your arm. "But you’re not getting away with that without a little…payback." Before you can react, you feel her telepathic presence in your mind, a light, teasing brush that makes your head spin. She smirks, clearly enjoying the effect she has on you. "Next time, be prepared for the consequences," she says, her voice low as she leans in and kisses you softly, a warning and a promise wrapped in one.

Blink (Clarice Ferguson):

Clarice sits cross-legged on the living room floor, her portal-creating daggers resting beside her as she meditates, her eyes closed in peaceful focus. You’ve always admired her calm nature, the way she can find serenity amidst the chaos of mutant life. But today, you feel like breaking that tranquility, if only for a moment. As you walk by, you give her a playful smack on the ass, grinning to yourself as you wait for her reaction.

Blink’s eyes shoot open, and in an instant, one of her pink, glowing daggers is in her hand. She turns her head to look at you, her expression caught between surprise and amusement. "Y/N!" she exclaims, her lips quirking into a smile despite herself. "What was that for?"

You shrug, feigning innocence. "Just wanted to see if I could get a rise out of you."

Clarice stands up, twirling her dagger effortlessly in her hand before making it disappear. She walks over to you, her green eyes shining with playful intent. "Well, you got your wish," she says, her voice soft and teasing. "But don’t think you can just get away with it."

She steps closer, her smile widening. "Maybe next time, I’ll open a portal and drop you somewhere far, far away," she jokes, though the glint in her eyes tells you she might just be serious. "Or maybe…" She leans in, her breath warm against your ear as she whispers, "I’ll let you wonder when I’ll get my revenge."

Before you can respond, she gives you a quick kiss on the cheek and phases through a nearby portal, leaving you to contemplate just how she might retaliate.

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mllemaenad · 2 days

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It always strikes me as weird that there’s no point at which the Brotherhood and Minutemen automatically come into conflict that I can find. One would think that the Brotherhood’s methods of gathering supplies (basically racketeering) would automatically lead to issues with the Minutemen, whose job is to defend against such raiders. I know the game mechanics reason for this, but can you think of anything in-universe to explain it?

I think there are a few things going on here – some gameplay related, some thematically related. But to be honest I don't think it's always easy to separate those two things.

Point one - who's in charge?

If you follow Fallout 4's opening quests then you are the General of the Minutemen. That means that your Sole Survivor gets to make big important decisions like "do we go to war with this new group?" You do not lead the Brotherhood, Railroad or Institute (you may, of course, inherit control of the Institute at the end of the game, but that's after all these decisions take place) and consequently decisions about who your enemies are take place over your head. You can pick a side if two factions you belong to come into conflict ... but you can't ultimately change their politics.

There is no point in the story where you are forced to go to war with the Brotherhood as the General of the Minutemen ... but you absolutely can go to war with the Brotherhood as the General of the Minutemen.

So this is both a gameplay and narrative point: what does your Sole Survivor think of the Brotherhood of Steel? Maybe they are also a dedicated member of the Brotherhood, and have no problem with them "commandeering" supplies. Maybe you work with the Railroad, and their attitudes frighten you. Maybe you're a pure Minuteman character and just resent another group of raiders causing problems for your settlements.

Every other faction makes the decision of when to invoke "War never changes" for you. This one's on you.

Point two – who shot first?

Obviously, the Brotherhood of Steel does end up in forced conflict with the Railroad as part of the main quest. There's no way to make peace between them, no matter how many quests you've done for either faction.

But. Well. I mean – there's an obvious aggressor in this one. It's not like Desdemona wakes up one morning, finishes her Sugar Bombs and coffee and says "Hey, guys, given that we've just barely clawed our way back from extinction, doesn't picking a fight with a group of heavily armed thugs sound like a great idea?"

There are no Railroad quests that require you to directly attack the Brotherhood until after the Brotherhood tries to murder them. While Brotherhood and Railroad ideals are pretty clearly in conflict, the Railroad absolutely does not want to start another war. They're up to their eyeballs dealing with the Institute. The Brotherhood impose that conflict on them.

Why? Well, they tell you. The first reason is that the Brotherhood are intent on committing genocide, and they are aware that the Railroad's mission would require them to rescue and protect synths.

Even with their relatively small numbers, the Railroad is a constant threat to our operations. They've already proven to be resilient against superior forces, with a knack for disappearing when cornered. Worse still, they possess the capability to help synths flee the Institute. If we intend to end the synth menace, we need to plug the leaks. – Lancer Captain Kells Dialogue, Fallout 4

The other reason is because the Railroad has PAM, and the Brotherhood wants to steal her.

Our sources tell us that the Railroad has some sort of experimental or prototype robot in their headquarters. They're calling the "Predictive Analytic Machine," or "P.A.M." for short. Cute, huh? They use the robot for complex strategic calculations that are much more efficient than anything we can generate here. If you could use this holotape to decrypt the security on P.A.M.'s terminal, it will force the unit to return to the Prydwen. I'm certain we could put P.A.M.'s computing power to good use. Otherwise, destroy it. We wouldn't want it to fall into the Institute's hands. – Proctor Ingram Dialogue, Fallout 4

The conflict between the Brotherhood and Railroad occurs purely at the Brotherhood's instigation. While the Railroad doesn't like the Brotherhood they don't want to fight them unless they have to.

Which brings me back to the Minutemen. As an organisation, the Minutemen are pretty well indifferent to synths. Oh, they're one hundred percent opposed to the Institute sacking settlements with Gen 2s, or people being replaced by synths, or any other scenario where the people they've pledged to protect get hurt ... but there's no official policy on synths themselves.

Preston is broadly pro-freeing the synths because he's a good guy:

I never really thought about synths that way before, but it's hard to argue that they don't deserve freedom like everyone else. – Preston Garvey Dialogue, Fallout 4

But nothing about being involved with the Minutemen actually forces you to help a synth. So they are not on the Brotherhood's radar the way the Railroad are.

The Minutemen is also a pretty low tech organisation. Their signature weapon is the laser musket. Their big rebuilding quest, Old Guns, is about setting up some very old-school artillery. Nothing about that is going to make the Brotherhood start salivating and plotting to steal their stuff. Now, obviously that artillery can turn out to be very effective at dealing with the Prydwen if it comes to that, but that's a very Brotherhood mistake: they think shiny tech will protect them from superior numbers and rational tactics. They made the same error at HELIOS ONE.

So unlike the Railroad, the Minutemen are unlikely targets for Brotherhood aggression at this stage. They aren't forcing a conflict. But like the Railroad, the Minutemen start the game a hair's breadth from annihilation. Most of the game is spent rebuilding both their forces and their credibility. They clear raider strongholds and nests of feral ghouls. They're not much more likely to be actively pushing for an all-out-war than the Railroad.

Point Three - who the hell are these guys, anyway?

After all of that, I recognise there's still a problem, though. Because Feeding the Troops is still a pretty obnoxious quest and it does feel like a thing that would cause issues.

Fallout 4 does a lot with misinformation; appearance versus reality; what someone says and then what they do. I know I've brought it up before, but a big one is the difference between Diamond City and Goodneighbor. And one of the key points about that is that things change: Diamond City wasn't always run by the Institute; Goodneighbor wasn't always setting itself up as a haven for the lost. Things change. Bad things can improve, and good things can slip into evil.

Earlier games had a karma system associated with them: this is good, this is bad. Fallout 4 replaces this with companion opinions, which fits pretty well with its themes and ideas. It's not going to tell you which one is the good karma option. You've got to play the game and figure it out. And yes, sometimes the answer is "there's no good answer".

Two things about the Brotherhood: they arrive relatively late in the game, at the start of Act 2 ... and they were the good guys in Fallout 3. They were very explicitly the good karma option in Fallout 3. While, obviously, each game is going to pick up a bunch of new players who haven't played the older ones, it's also important to recognise that Fallout is a series, and the narrative continues from one game to the next.

By the time Fallout 4 starts all the various factions in the Commonwealth have been locked in conflict with the Institute for decades. Asking them to pivot and immediately start fighting these guys who turned up last Tuesday is a lot. While the Sole Survivor could never have heard of the Brotherhood of Steel, there's a really solid chance that you, the player, have heard of them. And you might make some assumptions, based on that.

They were the good guys, right? Okay, yes, kind of arseholes and a bit of a problem if you were from Underworld but ... they fought the Enclave! They defended Project Purity! They protected people from super mutants! It's a whole thing!

But. Well, there's clearly been a change in leadership since then. And they've specifically reintegrated the Outcasts, i.e. the anti-helping people Brotherhood faction.

Also, the Commonwealth is not the Capital Wasteland. The conflict there was Brotherhood-versus-Enclave and the Enclave was so very bad that virtually anyone could look heroic opposing them. The super mutants never coalesced into a coherent faction who wanted anything; they operated more like a plague. Simpler times. In the Commonwealth there are more factions, more differing ideals. The water needs purifying, sure, but if we could solve the political problems farming wouldn't be a major issue.

You see all this difficulty and ambivalence in the game's characters, too:

The Brotherhood. In Capital Wasteland, they really weren't bad. But now. – Deacon Dialogue, Fallout 4 Those Super Mutants are a threat to everyone in the whole Commonwealth. I'm glad to have the Brotherhood's help to take them out. – Preston Garvey Dialogue, Fallout 4 Long as the Brotherhood of Steel keeps the heavy artillery out of the city limits, they're welcome here. – Diamond City Security Dialogue, Fallout 4 Flying that ship into the heart of the Commonwealth. Mark my words, the Brotherhood's here to start a war. – Nick Valentine Dialogue, Fallout 4

Characters are aware that the Brotherhood did good in the past. They're concerned about the giant airship in their space. They're grateful when the Brotherhood does something that happens to be helpful, even if their reasons were selfish. The decision about what do about them is floating in the air, from the day they turn up.

So now I'm back to my first point. You're the General of the Minutemen. Odds are, defending the Commonwealth as a Minuteman was one of the very first pledges you made at the start of the game. And sure, you're visiting all the factions and doing their quests, because that's how these games work.

Cool. So – I mean, they've asked you to bully and steal from the farmers you swore to protect. If you take your non-human companions to the Prydwen they will say the most horrible things about them. They've sent you to murder your friend Danse, even though he hasn't done anything and it's not like he can choose to not be a synth. They're powering up this really scary robot they can use to terrorise people. They're sending you to slaughter the Railroad, unprovoked, because they want their robot. At what point have you had enough? At what point do you go "Ohhhhh. This is the bad karma faction"?

There's a warning, right at the beginning of their quest line, from Haylen:

Field Scribe Haylen, personal log entry 324A. I'm starting to wonder if joining the Brotherhood of Steel was a good choice. I originally signed up seeking protection and comradeship but I'm worried that I've traded away a bit of my humanity in the process. The Brotherhood's message of hope for the future is idealistic and noble but their methods leave a lot to be desired. The leadership seems especially misguided. Instead of diplomacy, they wield violent confrontation to exert control. Despite all that, I've been successfully avoiding the fighting by following the career path of a field scribe. I suppose only time will tell how long I can stand the sight of spilled blood over my own moral fiber. – Scribe Haylen's Personal Log, Fallout 4

If you can recognise some foreshadowing, you can see where this is going.

I think the game doesn't force you to fight the Brotherhood with the Minutemen because you are the General of the Minutemen. It doesn't have karma options, it asks you to review the situation and make a decision what to do. You can fight the Brotherhood, if you choose to. In fact, you kind of swore that you would.

Yeah, they're running a protection racket. What are you going to do about it?

And I think that's very in line with the sort of story Fallout 4 wants to tell.

#fallout #fallout 4 #fallout 3

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dragon-toad · 2 days

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HOT TAKE : Makarov was a bad father (and a bad grandfather)

I'm expecting a big wave of hate with this one... BUT LET ME EXPLAIN

We can dive into the generational trauma theory : we know Yuri has been profoundly hurt by his wife's death (giving birth to Makarov) and this is a thing we should consider. In most cases, people live with the burden of the death of their partner until they die, which could have been Yuri's case. And the idea that somehow his wife died for his son... Well, angst potential.

Now : death of a loved one + wife who dies giving birth to his son = difficult father-son relationship

And even if Yuri didn't do it intentionally, there could have been a distance between the father and the son, and it has repercussions on the futur.

So yes, it maybe happened completely differently, but let's consider this hypothesis to understand what comes after :

Makarov was raised in the guild, where everybody is friendly. The only thing is his daddy issues. He ends up considering the guild more important, so the thing to cherish and protect at all cost.

Everything is fine.

Then, Ivan enters the game.

I know it's very fun to have an antagonist in the family of the master, the man presented as the most loving, a father for all the lost children, etc. BUT maybe we can go a little deeper.

We sometimes have this idea that some characters are born meaner than others, it allows us to ignore psychology and sociology, but it's not fun.

We can suppose Ivan was born in the guild, like Makarov and certainly Laxus. And as it's shown every single second that Fairy Tail is a very healthy environment, a "big family", so even if Ivan was a bit twisted, he would not have been so mean with his colleagues, provoking his exclusion, and he would have not tried to destroy the guild.

Unless he have daddy issues too. Let's consider : Makarov has a son and the mother is nowhere to be found. Doesn't it remind you of something ? But Makarov know his relationship with his father wasn't awesome, so he tries differently.

So two possibilities can be explored :

1- Ivan is a spoiled child. Being the master's son allows him to do reprehensible things and not be punished after, or not too much, and Makarov wants to give him all the freedom he didn't have. Until he almost kills another member of the guild. Then Makarov is forced to expel him. He takes away the thing that gave Ivan an almost unlimited power, and he doesn't like it. So if he can't have Fairy Tail, nobody will.

2- Makarov prefers the guild to his son. He doesn't know how to raise a kid, what if he screws like his father ? (Spoiler : he does) So when Precht makes him the new master, he puts all his soul into his job. But Ivan wants a father. So he does everything to make his father notice him, to make his father proud. It leads him to dark places, and thus, being strong = being good enough. Unfortunately, it doesn't work, because he ends up expelled. So, by pure rage, he decides to destroy the thing his father loved more than him. (It's my favorite version)

In both cases, Ivan manipulates his son into believing that being strong is the only way for him to be respected, to be seen.

Which leads us to the Laxus part (finally)

It's canon that Ivan pushed his son to be the strongest (to the point he put a lacrima in his body) so yeah, Laxus has daddy issues. But he has gampa issues too.

Let's continue with the theory we built on this post : Makarov doesn't really raise his son, why would he raise his grandson ?

But we see Makarov taking care of a very young Laxus. Thus, Laxus once loved his grandfather. Except Ivan didn't. So we can suppose he decided to keep his son under his control by manipulating him into thinking he has to be the strongest.

Then Ivan was banned.

The problem with an abusive relationship is that the victim thinks the abuser is on the right, which explains why Laxus was all but happy his father was expelled. But he stayed in Fairy Tail, because despite everything, Fairy Tail is his home. But this home is controlled by the man who banned his father (his abuser)

Laxus becomes a rank-S mage, which means he's the strongest. He has all the rights to make Fairy Tail his home, not Makarov's.

Well yes, but no.

Because there's Mirajane, a prodigy so fucking strong she becomes a rank-S mage too. But Lisanna dies, and suddenly everybody loves Mirajane. She even becomes the right arm of Makarov, because she's too weak now to create problems now.

And there's Natsu and Gray, Makarov's little boys. They're noisy, annoying, but they have potential. They have the potential to become stronger than Laxus. And Makarov loves them.

But more important, because there's Erza, who is so strong, so kind, so nice... Who is his grandfather's favorite. The same grandfather who did nothing when Ivan imprisoned Laxus into a psychological jail and who banned Ivan for somebody else's weakness. And Laxus knows it : she is the future master of Fairy Tail. She will steal his home and make it even weaker.

So he has to take Fairy Tail now, even if his grandfather dies in the process. Better, it will make things easier !

But in the end, Laxus loves Fairy Tail. He loves the guild enough to not betray everybody by joining his father's guild.

Laxus broke the cycle. And I don't think it was thanks to Makarov. If Laxus broke the cycle, it's because despite everything, he has weirdos to stick with. The Raijinshuu are a safe place for Laxus, they are strong enough to be his friends colleagues, they don't call him "psychotic" when he tells them he wants the guild, and more important, they care for him.

Laxus broke the cycle thanks to people who cared for him. They even wanted to follow him when he was banned ! But he said no, because he care for them and he knows they will be better in Fairy Tail.

Now, let's consider : travelling must have felt like therapy for Laxus : he's not part of Fairy Tail anymore and he's sure he will never have the possibility to come back, but he will not join his father because he doesn't want to put his friends in danger. So he has to do something by himself, not under the influence of his father. And I believe this emancipation was beneficial for him. He could learn what it means to be himself, not Ivan's son or Makarov's grandson.

I don't think he fully forgave Makarov for his inaction and for loving other more than him, and he's not completely out of Ivan's philosophy, those things need time, but he escaped the cycle.

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judetuude · 1 day

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Character Cards for Agnes and Erik

I think I am a little too obsessed with Agnes and Erik... well, is it even possible to be too obsessed with character's you love? I am not sure. I don't know where the limit is.

Anyways. Here are some character cards for these two. I am planning on doing these for all major character's in my Crumplebottom Lepacy! I think it is fun, and I cry constantly about Erik being dead.

Also, the reason I put their zodiac signs on there is because I am insane and downloaded a mod that requires a couple to have the exact same zodiac sign for high compatibility... because I need to control my sims within an inch of their lives and they are not allowed to date anyone without my approval. So my sims in-game all have the wrong zodiac signs haha... so yeah. Sue me I guess.

See my Agnes and Erik Machinima under the cut! 💖

i made a machinima about Agnes and Erik over on my main YouTube channel. Feel free to check it out here:

youtube

#sims 3 #sims 3 machinima #sims 3 story #my stuff #character: agnes #character: erik #story: crumplebottom lepacy #EA why did you have to kill that man #Youtube

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imbecominggayer · 3 days

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How To Write Characters With Addiction

From @differentnighttale: "I am curious if you give advice about writing people with addictions for example substance. I have reasons my male MC does it. But how can I describe the addictions the MC has correctly."

In this post we are going to be talking about addiction! From alcoholism, substance abuse, nymphomania, to everything else that can be a possible addiction. This post will be all about making this realistic and complex :)

A) What Are The Benefits?, Make It Convincing

Grab a fucking piece of paper or whatever you have and just write a paragraph from your addict's perspective on the situation. Omit the bad stuff. Make it highly convincing. if you aren't thinking "hmm, understandable" after you've written and read it, you did it wrong.

What do they get out of it?

Why did they like it at first?

Are they calmer, more intensely concentrated, does it take the edge off?

Are they more confident?

Does it ease the sense of being fundamentally wrong or dull some other pain?

Is it fun to do something rebellious?

What made them like this thing so much they tried it again, and again, and again?

B) Think About The Consequences, And Ignore It

Oftentime, at least in my experience, people will continue with a bad habit if it means they don't have to be the one to think about the consequences.

The Consequences For Addiction Include:

Financial. Depending on what your character uses to get their fix and how much they use, they might be spending hundreds a week if they are a particularly aggressive user. People often steal money from their loved ones. Addiction also tends to get people fired. Write a scene where your drunk character gets fired for operating machinery. Have them be a burdenous sponge.

Social. It's common for addicts to lose their loved ones since it often gets to a point where it's impossible to care about these people despite how much you love them. Make love ones leave your character! And don't blame them

Physical. STDs, Overdose, Liver Failure, and a shit ton of other issues from the chronic to the fatal either cause, exacerbate, or are linked with addiction. Recovery can't automatically save your character so don't write that story.

Psychological. Being an addict isn't fun since you get to struggle with points 1, 2, and 3 all at the same time! Write about your character issues. Their lack of control. Their spiralling life.

Write all about your character's suffering. And then have them justify it. Make it convincing.

They need it. It's not their fault that this is the only that helps them! Everyone just doesn't get it. I'm trying to work on it, OK?! It'll all work out! They know that it's wrong but...

My most hated shit is when a character's arc is easy. They struggle with some things like a big dramatic argument with their wife, they cry a bit, and then they learn that "drugs are bad" so everything is fine :D

NO!!! Why don't you write about a friendship that doesn't get mended? A chronic illness they now have to pay huge medicine bills for? A fucked-up rap sheet that they can't escape?

And it's not because we want to punich addicts. It's because it doesn't matter if you care about addicts if you don't care about the messy shit!

It's easy to sympathize with an addict if you make them the most innocent victim who never hurts someone intentionally and who gets rid of the addiction in a second and never struggles with it ever again!

Do the hard shit. Make your readers sympathize with the unsympathetic asshole addict! Addicts aren't always good people! They can be dickbags. And they still deserve resources. Life isn't some kind of karma game where dickbags suffer and good people rise! Everyone deserves to not suffer!

Addiction is ultimately a disease. But it's a disease that can make someone you love into an absolutely unlikeable person. And this is coming from someone with an alcoholic dad <3 He does good things and bad things. I can sympathise with my dad and not let him walk all over me.

C) Withdrawal Is Leaving An Ex, Relapse Is Returning

Addiction is a motherfucker trying to leave. It's basically the equivalent of a clingy ex who keeps contacting you, asking for just one conversation, and the moment you so much as acknowledge them you are fucked.

And suffering the brunt of a clingy ex who won't take the hint tends to cause the same symptoms as withdrawal!

Obviously, withdrawal symptoms depend on what type of ex you have and what age you are and yada yada yada. Research for specificity :)

Withdrawal symptoms can include:

Headaches

Insomnia

Fatigue

Hallucinations

Seizures

Tremors

Cravings

etc.

BE AWARE: Relapses are when someone returns back to their drug if they were going cold turkey or going back to their original dose. Relapses can sometimes result in an overdose due to the fact that the brain has been weened off the substance and is now overwhelmed by the high dose.

Relapses often happen when a person makes the deliberate choice in order to stop these fucking nightmarish symptoms. To use the analogy of a clingy ex, you start talking to them in order to tell them to stop contacting.

Relapses can also happen through being in a setting where the behaviors associated with the addiction such as sex, gambling, drinking, substance use, and all manner of things are normalized.

This setting could be a party, a bar, or even a friend group.

Relapse is made more likely if someone is self-detoxing away from a support group or a doctor.

Writing about withdrawal and relapses are an important part in making a story feel more authentic. Just like with mental illness, people rarely learn the lesson and follow it perfectly. They make mistakes. Slip back into old habits. Do shitty things.

We aren't writing their suffering to punish them. We are doing it because you can't say you care if all you are willing to do is look at the easy parts.

D) Little Tidbits To Keep Track Off

This is the miscellanious things that didn't fit into their own boxes.

Friends!

Do they have friends who also have their addiction? How do they hang out? What are they like? How are their substance using friends different from their non-addict ones?

Slang!

Don't just look up slang for your substance of choice. You'll need to look at some first-hand accounts of addiction. Find an influence who has struggled with substance abuse in the past and see how they talk about it!

Variables!

Remember to keep their geographical location, socioeconomic status, time, and a host of other factors. If your character is a penniless alcoholic then it's unlikely they'll get their hands on some type of expensive gin. They'll probably use rubbing alcohol. Keep the price of your drug in mind.

A character's status will also impact their slang. No one unironically says doobie anymore.

A character's location will also impact how they get their shit and how other characters will react to that addiction.

A character's financial status also impacts how the consequences of their actions impact them. A low-income character wont be able to afford the same medication as a rich addict. They also won't have the same luxury for quality therapy, rehab, programs, time, anything really.

Look At The Addict And The Loved Ones

Try not the skew the reality of addiction to paint the addict as the victim and the loved ones as evil for not being forgiving and tolerant enough.

Keep sympathy for both the addict and the loved ones. Or drop sympathy for both of those characters.

E) RESOURCES

FDA and DEA online databases and drug resources

Social Networking Groups

Medical Journals

Local medical professionals, police, and medical examiners

The US national poison center

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fauxnotice · 3 days

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ALIEN SKINCARE. v! blue lock/male! reader. originally posted on quotev. masterlist.

CHAPTER I. YOU JUST LOVE BEING NOTHING, RIGHT?

Your daily routine is a terribly ordinary, if not a rather dull one.

That’s fine, however. Its normalcy comes from predictability, and with predictability comes a sense of control. Every and each new possible variant is easily molded to fit into what is already established.

Days come and go, much like clouds in the sky, and you’re content. You love your painfully droll, boring routine.

Which would be a lie by definition, so to deny your restlessness would be the same as trying to deny that humans need air to survive. Or to deny that the Japanese football team will never win the World Cup.

But alas, you live.

One of your classmates, Hamada, you think pensively, since you make a passable effort at remembering names of the people you have to spend considerable hours of the day with, is acting rather friendly today.

You think he wants something from you. That’s probably why he’s asking you to go somewhere with him after school. Sadly, it seems he’s unaware of the few universal truths of life.

That is that you’re never free after classes.

Everyone in your immediate vicinity is aware of this, so you’re led to believe that Hamada is extraordinarily out of the loop. Or maybe he’s being a contrarian just to appear unique in your eyes.

Which is not working, by the way.

“Sorry, but I’m busy today.” You say, an apologetical smile creasing your face in a familiar way.

“Oh.” He recoils, losing confidence at your rejection. “Maybe some other day, then?”

Whatever. He should just steal all of your money and fill your shoes with nails at this point. He should spit at you and kick you until you’re a stain on the floor. Unfortunately, you’re [L/n] [Y/n], so you nod. Kindly. With all the positive hidden implications in the world.

Hamada regains some of his previous enthusiasm. Thankfully, the teacher enters the room before he could take your politeness as an invitation to further communication.

Like a good student, you listen and take notes carefully. This teacher in particular talks very slowly and often loses track of his thoughts, which greatly gets on your nerves.

That’s okay. You’ll live.

School time passes by comfortably. You demonstrate your gracefulness and virtue at every chance. Some students swoon. Plenty of girls, and curiously, a good chunk of boys as well. Some scoff at your supposed imitation of perfection. Talk about how you’re probably a faker, eager for attention and praise and whatnot. Not that you mind. They must think about you a lot, enough to start making theories on the topic of you and the nuances of your character.

Not that they'll ever get any confirmation. You let the invested have fun. Do the divine throw bricks at the religious? No.

Your school’s football team is having a game tomorrow. Obviously, you make your way to practice. Though, ultimately, you believe you’d be making a better use of your time by trying to fold a thousand origami cranes with just your feet and then wishing for a better team. Yet, here you are.

You move across the field like a corpse. Metaphorically, of course. To the other’s untrained eye, it looks like you’re giving it your all. However, in your head, you’re trying to to remember at least the first ten digits of pi (you’re failing), so you switch to creating a satirical retelling of some subpar movie you and Bachira watched at the premiere some time ago (you got reasonably angry at the mediocrity of the so-called social commentary that was flaunted around as “never seen before” and “a heart clenching story that dives into the complexities of our society”, and Bachira got bored, so you both ditched it, wasted money be damned).

All that, and yet nothing of worth is happening before you. For shame, since you do think your teammates are decent people, in the same way drivers who stop their cars before they hit you are decent people. Except the probably forty something father of two who let you safely cross the street this morning probably had more ball expertise than these frankly appalling clowns throwing themselves around do.

Of course, you pride yourself on your ever persisting decorum, so you keep your mouth shut as you pass the ball to the guy a bit to your left, since you’re a good teammate and teamwork makes the dreamwork and yadda yadda. Even with your absent minded play, he just needs to push the ball with some semblance of force and boom, it’s a simple and clean goal.

But as if by some otherworldly intervention, the boy trips. Genuinely gets sent sprawling over the central object of the game.

It takes you every drop of self control to not lunge at him with the intent of questioning just how does this happen a day! A day! Before the match. Now, keep in mind, this strange specimen is known for his blunders. At least to you, but the rest of the team and the coach seem to hold this guy in some type of high regard. Which is crazy, since you don’t think he’d be able to score a goal without you specifically holding his hand, making the whole predicament even more baffling since you’re the actual ace of the team.

Now, you think this team could go places, if you had the time to score more, but you have to spend it making sure your companions don’t sabotage the game by playing like it’s their first time seeing a football. You surely have grinded quite a bit of your teeth mass down by pretending to be content with this charade, just so the court jester of a coach wouldn’t call you uncooperative or something similarly humiliating again. God forbid he sends you to meet the bench.

The comically incapable guy turns to you, after all the shock and laughter has faded from the group. “Ah, I’m sorry for ruining your pass, [L/n]-kun. I guess my nerves have been getting to me, haha.”

You wish it was “the nerves”.

“Don’t worry about it.” You respond, channeling every bit of kindness you could find remaining within yourself. “I’m sure you’ll do fine tomorrow.”

Well, he doesn’t do fine, that’s for sure.

The morning of the next day came quickly. As usual, you woke up early, got out of bed, and went through your usual routine with the goal of looking the best you possibly could, which did turn out to be a rather lengthy process, although that was nothing new. You still thought it was an insanely long and dumb.

What meets you next is the sight of your legal guardian, sprawled across the couch, still clad in her work clothes. You conclude that last night was a busy one, so you sneak past her quietly. Making things worse for her is the last thing you want, after all.

Next is making a nutritious breakfast. As a product of meticulous repetition, you’re quickly done with it, making sure to leave a portion for Sayaka as well, along with a note about your plans for today.

It’s a nice, sunny Saturday. So, like you always do, you set out on a morning jog. Chiba has quite a few pleasing sights, especially when there are no hideous eyesores scrambling around in the form of people. You specifically pick a time when the crowd’s minimal, right after the early workers leave for their job. Beautiful. The fresh air stirs up every fiber of your lungs.

All this joy and wonder, you almost forgot about the match that’s supposed to be held in the afternoon. In fact, the memory of that shitshow of a football practice from yesterday almost entirely left your mind. From your increasing frustration, you don’t notice how your pleasant jog turned into a full blown sprint. After a good hour or so of this, you notice just how sweaty you were.

Gross. You’d have to shower again.

Right as you’re about to open the gate of your residence, a weight slams against your back at full force. You remain entirely unbothered, however, as you’re already very well versed in such occurrences.

Bachira Meguru has his arms wrapped around your back, clinging onto you much like an eccentrically colored koala. It seems like the fabric soggy with your sweat doesn’t bother him at all. He’s always been a bit strange like that.

“Bachira-kun.” You smile. It comes easier to you. “Good morning.”

“Good morning!” He grins, lips pulling back to reveal the full expanse of teeth. “You didn’t invite me to go jogging! Again!”

Having a conversation in this position, with your posture being as straight as a tree and Bachira acting as some type of a humanoid backpack or a large parasite, would be inconvenient to most, but the two of you have long made this a part of your “normalcy”.

“That’s because you’re never awake that early.” You retort easily, with a light teasing tone. “I’m surprised you’re even up right now.”

“My monster got restless, so I wanted to play football.” He says, like that’s a totally normal thing to say. Like pointing out how the weather is nice or such.

Listen, you genuinely do like Bachira (as far as someone like you is capable of liking), and you suppose he shares the same sentiment to some degree, because his whole “Monster” thing isn’t something that you talk about with just anyone, unless you want to be wheeled off to the nearest institution and shunned forever. You pride yourself on your patience and understanding, so you tend to brush this topic off whenever it comes up in a conversation. Mostly because you have no idea what to say that wouldn’t be extremely harsh. You want to honor Bachira’s companionship and trust in you, which means that him getting upset over something you stupidly spat out without thinking is not on your to-do list.

You do think that seeing a professional sometime in the future would do him some good, though.

Putting that aside, you nod in understanding. “I see. But-” You poke at his leg. “-Can you get off, please? I want to take a shower.”

Bachira hums a long tune, but he makes no move to do what you’ve requested of him. After a passage of silence, he asks a question, even if he knows the answer already.

“Hey, can we play together? Just for a bit?”

He can’t see your face, but he can clearly visualize the apologetic expression that graces it. It looks the same, every time he asks. “Sorry, but I need to save energy for later. Maybe next time?”

There it is again. Despite it being a few years since you two met, both lovers of football and everything football related, you’ve rejected his proposal again and again. You always have an excuse, something about being busy, or not feeling well, or this and that.

Bachira has been resigned to it. Yet, he still repeats the inquiry, like you’ll change your mind someday. Maybe next time? As if that will ever come.

He lets it go, as he always does.

Finally stepping down, he leans onto your side. He’s rather sweaty too, you notice. “Right! You have a match today! Make sure to score lots of goals, ‘kay? I’ll be there to cheer for you!”

Bachira thinks you’re not aware of the fondness you let slip into your gaze. It’s for the best, though, since if you knew you’d probably try to mask it with some form of artificial politeness. He likes you the most when you’re honest, in these small tidbits of time, after all.

“Sure.” You say, simply, as some things are.

The tensions are high before the match. For what reason, you don’t know. The match is purely for practice, although you’re curious on how a low tier school such as Kagayaku High managed to schedule a match against some bigshot from Kanagawa. You’d think they’d consider it a waste of time, but you guess not.

A notification lights up the screen of your phone just as you’re finishing putting your jersey on.

Sayaka

I’m so sorry that I won’t be able to make it to your game!!!! Work is hell today 𖦹 ´ ᯅ ` 𖦹

But I hope your team does well! Do your best ৻( •̀ ᗜ •́ ৻)

You snort at the woman’s usage of kaomojis. It was hard to imagine that she was nearly forty years old. Keeping your eye on the clock, you quickly type a response.

You

Please don’t worry about it!

Take care of yourself!

Sayaka

You’re too nice to me, haha

The breakfast was delicious, by the way! It really made my day Ｏ(≧∇≦)Ｏ

I’m gonna make us something to eat later, as a celebration and payback! ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ

You gnawed at your lip worrieldy. While you truly did appreciate the sentiment, Sayaka’s cooking skills … weren’t something you’d write home about. Her message truly left you worried for the safety of the stove. Before you could try to change her mind (and save the neighborhood from a possible fire), one of your teammates gestures for you to move.

Ah. It’s time.

You

The game is starting, ttyl

The match goes just as well as you thought it would.

The opponent’s defense tears through the clumsy guy like a knife through butter within the first few minutes of the game. They’re not too shabby, you have to admit. But the more you watch them, the more holes ripe for exploatation you notice.

The rush of excitement still evades you, as you circle an opposing player who is attempting to take the ball from you. Your mind is still in its autopilot mode, where you make boring, yet entirely rational plays that have carried your team to where it is now. Move your leg and lean to the right, and when the guy is still thinking of his next move, kick the ball between his legs. A safe and classic nutmeg. After that-

A movement leaves you startled; someone dashes past you with unforseen speed and snatches the football right from your possession. You’re forced to be wide awake, left feeling like a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head.

Huh?

For what seems to be the first time in years, your heartbeat echoes loudly in your ears and shakes your very core.

You gape at the distancing back of the player who had just turned your world around. In bold letters, the name Itoshi acts as a mockery of you. Helpless in your shock, you can do nothing but watch as your newest adversary scores a clean goal into the net, while Kagayaku High’s goalkeeper does nothing.

For once, you don’t blame him.

The clowns of your circus are talking amongst themselves. You think they’re trying to include you as well, but you’re too busy rebooting your brain to care.

You wanted Itoshi gone. An irritation so strong its frightening festers under your skin as you stare, long and hard, at the intruder who had come to ruin everything for you.

But was he truly ruining anything?

When a teammate of yours moves with the ball, you abandon all uniform strategy. This stupid team could go to hell. Both yours and the enemy’s. This game should be just between you and him.

Much to the shock of your team, who had probably gotten too comfortable with your usually passive way of playing, you pick up the pace, with the speed and technique built up through many regular torturous sessions of trying to polish yourself to your extremes.

It’s something you had to do, lest you want to be left in the dust when the real threat appears.

Is Itoshi a real threat?

A wispy smile still hangs from your lips. It looks … out of place, possibly, as it’s no longer a carefully planned tool of deceit.

Astonished shouts of your team as you steal the ball from your own comrade is nothing but background noise.

There he comes. His gaze is glacier cold as he weaves between the humanoid obstacles in his path. Surely, he’s wholy confident in his domination of this match. You wait.

Itoshi moves with clear intent of making you crumble under his might. That won’t do. Who does he think he is? Who does he think you are? Does he think you’re a mere bug, a speck of dust on his road to victory? That doesn’t make sense at all.

“Pass to me!” Someone yells at you, as if you weren’t the damned ace, as if you weren’t the one who gave this shitty team the ability to get off the ground in the first place.

You’re nowhere near the penalty area. The other team’s defense is scattered around, trying to cut off all your routes. Now aware of the possible danger you represent, Itoshi is right by your side, with his eyelash rimmed eyes watching you like he might tear you apart. At least he’s fast on the uptake, you muse, as you almost carelessly roll the ball across the grass.

The angle is terribly narrow, but it’ll do.

Avoiding Itoshi’s attempt at ridding you of the ball, you raise your leg and deliver a swift kick to it, sending it flying in a rather flimsy arc (your brows furrow slightly at that), which manages to slam into the net at a spot left open.

1-1.

You stop and take a long look at the goal. That was a five out of ten. Hell, maybe even four. But it seemed like it was enough to make your current “rival” appear like he wants to explode you with his mind.

That makes you … giddy? Edges of your lips wobble as you attempt to keep your expression under control. Even if you just single handedly destroyed the foundation of your team as well as the way its members saw you, you still had appearances to keep. From the corner of your eye, you spot Bachira watching, with a grin so manic it bordered on deranged.

In the end, you lose the game. And yet, to you, it feels like a victory, sweeter than any other. You managed to keep Itoshi from scoring another goal (well, you didn’t score another one either, but that was fine), and you got the front seat to the slow unraveling of his stoic disposition.

His team manages to secure a victory with their goal. But their ace, visibly pissed, makes his way to you. His tone is biting, befitting of an untouchable beauty such as himself.

“Next time, I’ll crush you.”

And then he leaves. One for dramatics, that’s for sure. Mommy’s little edgelord. Deciding to play along, you wave at his retreating back, signature smile set in place. “If you say so, Itoshi.”

Pointedly ignoring the troupe of mongrels, you collect your belongings and make a swift departure. Of course, nothing is that simple for you, because Bachira is waiting for you outside. Predictably, he lunges at you, but is considerate enough to take note of your possible exhaustion and not jump on your back like he usually does, instead opting to sling an arm around your shoulders.

“That was pretty insane, you know.” He begins, although you note the sharpness of his grin that was unknown to you, up until now. “I never knew you could play like that.”

Then, he goes on to speak more, but you’re already ensnared within your own mind. A familiar thing; anger, ire, all-consuming, starts to ignite your entire being. A combination of many factors give way to its rise, both from Bachira’s subtle and probably unintentional downplaying of your perceived capability, and from … well, everything about the game. Especially Itoshi. What, did they all think you were some insignificant ant? A poser, perhaps? Maybe a-

You pause all thought. Suddenly, your legs feel weak. Not from tiredness, of course not. Embarrassingly, the weight of emotions was always a bigger burden than anything of physical kind.

That was your weakness. A flaw that you needed to demolish.

“Bachira,” you gasp out, voice small and uneven. “Bachira-”

The boy in question tilts his head. “Huh? What is it?”

“Hold me.” You say, just before you collapse.

#blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock x male reader #male reader #x male reader #reader insert #male reader insert #various x reader #anime x reader #manga x reader #alien skincare posting #the texting format doesnt work on tumblr ughgh whatever

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