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vagabond-umlaut · 7 months

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hey, where is the pomegranate tree?

unstoppable force, aka kore, aka gojo, meets immovable object, aka hades, aka you— nothing can ever go wrong from this collision, trust me— n-o-t-h-i-n-g.

▸ gojo satoru x fem!reader; hades and persephone retelling [with a twist ;))]; 1.2k wc; stubbornly persuasive gojo; the reader is js so tired and annoyed [and tired]; enemies to lovers vibes[??]; talks of marriage and children; gojo thinks you are a fool, he is the real clown here

▸ pls don't glare at me if there is more than one inaccuracy here, haha. anyways, the header is from pinterest, the divider is by @benkeibear and the characters used ain't mine. pls don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

▸ update: this fic is now part of a series!!! wreaths of asphodel 😊😊

"you shall spend the rest of your days in tears."

you're foolish; woefully so, gojo thinks, carefully observing you from his place on the chaise lounge, smiling while you continue seething, "and there will be no one who can save you. neither a hero nor a god. neither demeter nor zeus. no. one."

"but why do you think i will need saving, my rose?" the endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, the taste sweetening at the way your pretty lips dip into a deeper frown, "you're not a monster, are you?"

"no!" the defensive reply comes in less than a beat. though the words following it sound a tad less bold; it seems as if you're trying to make yourself believe and not scare him.

"i'm someone far fiercer— hades. the goddess of the dead. the queen of the underworld— and the cause for your misery should you choose to vex me any further."

"aw, no," gojo cries, decidedly making a show by slapping a hand over his eyes and faking a sniffle, "why must the only woman i want as my wife see me as an annoyance?"

then lets his hand drop down to the cushion, willing his eyes to well over with pitiful moisture. "as the god of life, i've only ever given and given– be it grains or fruits or vegetables or flowers– without asking anything in return— yet the first and only time i ask..."

he doesn't bother finishing his sentence, choosing to sob to add to the tragic atmosphere— though that doesn't mean he doesn't note the war of emotions on your face:

pity, confusion, anger, again confusion— you're so easy to read, to steer. very foolish, really.

"you'll not like living here," you eventually break the silence hanging within the room. your voice is much softer now; the god wonders if you sing. if you do, the muses will certainly be put to shame... "your days will be spent in utter boredom and gloom and tears–"

"– and no one can come to my aid then: yes, thank you," he interrupts you, more than a little tired, "you've driven the points too well into my head– so much so that i'm surprised there isn't a gaping hole in there, oozing blood and my brains. but why must you think i'll need rescue, huh??"

if a smidge of force escapes into his words, gojo decides not to pay it any mind— though only until he notices the small flinch you give– his insides twist and torment, quite inexplicably, thereafter.

"okay, look," he says, getting up from his slouch to move near you, but stops on catching the warning glint in your eyes.

"first of all, i'm not some damsel in distress being whisked away in a chariot here– i came here by own volition. and i'm offering my mind, body, heart, soul– the special package that i am, in fewer words– to you, by my own volition. why shall i want anyone to rescue me then?"

"besides," he proceeds to add, allowing an easy smirk to form on his face, "you're just the cute little goddess of the dead– not at all scary like your brother used to be; though i guess you try to imitate him in your glares, don't you? sukuna was quite notori—"

"don't you dare utter my brother's name, foul olympian," a quiet growl slashes gojo's comment, sending it plummetting to the ground— and making him understand why you, the inconspicuous, sheltered sister of the vicious former holder of the name 'hades', was given the crown, in the aftermath of your brother's banishment– instead of the several more well-known candidates...

"i apologise," gojo offers in the very next instant, making it as genuine as he can, "i never meant to upset or offend you. i'm sorry if i did."

you just stare at him for a beat, gojo watches, before your shoulders lift then fall in a sigh. the fire burning in your aura abates by a pinch.

sighing once more, you finally break your silence, "It's okay, and um– suppose i too should apologise. you might be an olympian but you're not as foul as them, no. please forgive me for calling you so."

"no problem, my rose," the god is quick to accept your words with a wave of his hand and a beam, further widening when he notices the sliver of smile on your countenance, "but does this mean i appeal to your tastes? i mean, you called me 'not as foul as them', didn't you?? did you just accept my hand in marriage, then???"

"no, i didn't..." your subtle smile disappears swifter than it appeared. a half of gojo's floral crown, quite inexplicably, wilts on the table before. he watches your eyes fall to it, then snap up to meet his.

"do you love me?"

not yet, but he thinks he can. you might be an idiot but you certainly aren't an unlovable idiot— and one voice in his mind murmurs, those precious, innocent looks of yours aren't even the main reasons why...

the god shoots back a languid smile. "if you want to see me in love with you, so be it."

"that's neither 'yes' nor 'no'," you point out, frowning, before vaulting your second query of the evening, "if we get married, do you want to have children?"

it won't be very unfavourable, if you both do... with the vivid colour of your eyes, or the adorable shape of your nose, or the radiance of your skin, or the— "if you want, i shall be happy to assist," he ekes out with a meaningful wink, albeit he doubts how much of it reaches you.

you're very foolish, after all... and no– it's not because of the awkward way he says it– no! not in the slightest! he wasn't fumbling at all!

you wrap the shawl tighter around your shoulders but don't move any further away, gojo notes. the same way he does the slight tint in your cheeks when you roll your eyes with a scoff.

"you're unbelievable, kore. truly, terribly unbelievable." you press the pads of your thumbs over your forehead before releasing it, gaze an unprecedented mark of sharp when it settles on his face.

"is there nothing you want from our union, eh? i refuse to believe you wish to marry me without any demands, as if on a mere whim– but if it is so, i ought to warn you, kore: my answer is and will always be one firm 'no'."

your words mustn't ignite this odd restlessness in him. they certainly mustn't— still, gojo finds his chest tight and the air heavy as he grins back and says, "i only want to be your husband, your majesty... but if that is too much for you right now–"

the stretch on his lips simmers down to something smaller. yet truer.

"i want you to call me by my name. my real name. can you do that, my rose?"

you don't say anything in response for a long while. so long, in fact, it makes the god wonder if you are ever going to reply to his request.

perhaps not, he thinks quite a bit down-spirited when you suddenly turn on your heel and with a swish of your long shawl, stride out the rooms– o-oh.

you stop just as abruptly at the threshold. a complicated grin shining on your face as you twist to look at him over your shoulder then say:

"good night, gojo satoru. pray the ghosts prowling these halls don't eat you up ere dawn."

you're gone not even few feet away from the door, before gojo falls face-first into the bed, the entire room suddenly erupting into thousands of roses in all colors ever seen. [lolol, he is such a loser for you! xD]

▸ masterlist

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #kit posts 📝

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dawndelion-winery · 7 months

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L for Loser Lover

They're not normally this...pathetic. Really, it's just the way love brings out the worst in people

Ft. Alhaitham, Childe, Scaramouche (Wanderer)

Alhaitham:

Cold, curt, and ever on top of things, he's not exactly what anyone would picture when asked to imagine a doting lover

For someone who knew over twenty languages, he sure didn't have a clue on how to use any of them

At least, that's how people would think his love life would go

So just what was that flower crown of woven roses doing atop his head?

And the funky chicken looking thing sewn onto his handkerchief???

"It's not a chicken, it's an eagle. My lover embroidered it for me earlier this year on Valentine's Day."

Wow, he sure sounded proud of that

Was that a ghost of a smile on his lips? A faint giggle?

Dear archons the world must be ending

Childe:

Puppy love! Except it's more of an orange cat

Now, he wouldn't scream for attention

Actually, he just might

He's beating up some abyssal beast and suddenly he's pausing to shout for you

Y'know, just in case you weren't watching how cool he was

Some vicious weapon of war he is, slashing away at rifthounds and vishaps alike with that manic emptiness in his eyes

Which glints with a brief sparkle of excitement when he calls your name

He's disgustingly whipped and he can't even be insulted for it

Just try and point out how his eyes only light up when he talks about you, the softness in his features akin to the expression he makes when speaking of his family

"Maybe you're just seeing yourself in my eyes...you're the light of my life, after all."

Scaramouche:

Emotional constipation atop the urge to adore you isn't a good look on him

He's so clearly trying to seem unaffected by you and it's even clearer that it isn't working

You're so lovely to him it's actually disgusting and he wants to throw up

Stunning, breathtaking, spectacular, gorgeous...they don't even begin to describe you, and he starts to hate it

What do you mean you don't understand what he means when he says he can't really call you winsome or ravishing?

It's annoying to him beyond belief

"Can you sum up a sunrise with a simple "It's bewitching"? Beguiling doesn't even begin to explain the hold you have on me. Your stupid face...I don't want to look at anyone or anything else if it were an option. Your pulchritude has no comparison...so much so that even if I wanted to like it to anything to help you understand, it can't..."

Yeah, no, he's not elaborating beyond that

If you've gotten him riled up to the point of that sort of monologue...chances are you've lost your pet name privileges for at least a week

Expect terms of endearment to be replaced by "dumbass" or "idiot"

Taglist: @ryuryuryuyurboat @yinyinggie @mx-kamisato @chaosinanutshell @haliyarobin @irethepotato @boundedbyfate @favonius-captain @aqui-soba @tiredsleep @sadlonelybagel @mastering-procrastinating @lemeowade

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demons-i-get · 19 days

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What's in a Name

Destiel fic let's gooooooooo I actually wrote this like, a year ago, but it's not my usual style and a little bit outside my comfort zone so I was never sure about posting it but here we are! I'm still nervous 😅 Let me know what you think! But also pls be gentle with me I am just a litol guy <3 Characters: Dean, Castiel Pairings: Dean/Castiel Warnings: vague sex? Like, it's happening but there's not really any details and it's definitely not explicit at all. Otherwise I can't think of anything else. Please don't hesitate to let me know if I should add anything, though! Word count: 1,324 Ao3

~ ~ ~

Castiel doesn’t understand human ‘pet names’ and ‘terms of endearment’ as well as he would like. He knows them, has heard them and parroted them and tried so hard to understand, but he just cannot grasp why.

He does not understand why he should call Dean anything other than his name, his name which means love and safety and protection and home and strength and power and all that Dean is to him and more. Why would some random word be more special, how could a word that millions of other, simple people use on their other, simple partners mean more than Dean, when that single syllable, those four little letters, are unique and singularly his own. When the sound of Dean rolling off his tongue is the sound of divinity.

But then.

Oh, but then.

Then Dean greats him in the morning as he stumbles into the bunker’s kitchen with a cup of coffee prepared just the way he likes it still warm and fresh and steaming as he wraps his fingers around it with a soft, “Good morning, sunshine,” as he places a gentle, almost reverent kiss on Castiel’s forehead.

And Castiel feels his chest go warm and soft and okay, maybe he can understand it a little better now.

Then Castiel gets hurt on a hunt and Dean is right there beside him, putting pressure on the wound and getting Castiel’s blood all over his hands and shirt but his eyes are wide, and his voice is shaky and terrified as he says, “Hey, hey, Cas, c’mon, stay with me, you gotta stay with me, babe,” and presses their foreheads together and he is begging with Castiel to hold on just a little longer because help is on the way “you just need to hold on a little longer for me, angel, you can’t go to sleep yet, just a little longer.”

And when Castiel wakes up in a hospital bed minutes or hours or days later with Dean’s voice calling him “babe” and “angel” still ringing in his ears and he cannot feel the pain of his wounds because he is filled too much with the warmth and softness and love from Dean’s words to know the feel of anything else, he thinks maybe he does get it now, maybe he is beginning to understand why when Dean says those words with such softness and love and adoration.

Then Dean is hurt and Castiel is panicking because he doesn’t have his Grace anymore, he is painfully, pitifully, uselessly human and he doesn’t know what to do but Dean is holding his hand and making their eyes meet and he is comforting and reassuring Castiel which is wrong, it is wrong because Dean is the one that is hurt and Castiel should be comforting and reassuring him, but Dean is squeezing his hand and saying, “hey, I’m alright, darlin’, it isn't much more than a scratch,” and he’s pressing a kiss to Castiel’s cheek and showing him, “look, it’s already pretty much stopped bleeding, darlin’, I've had much worse than this and come out the other side no worse for wear, yeah?” and Castiel thinks that he is burning bleeding breaking because Dean is hurt and he is bleeding but he is also right and Castiel knows this but he is still freaking out because Dean is hurt and he cannot heal him.

And later, as Castiel runs his hands along the bandage he had wrapped so carefully around Dean’s chest to cover the jagged slash across his breast and ribs that he knows will scar, as he lays there with Dean’s head tucked into the crook of his neck and their legs tangled together within the sheets and wishes wishes wishes that he still had his Grace, he remembers how even bleeding and in pain Dean had called him “darlin’,” had said that word with such gentle, loving reassurance and how just hearing that word fall from Dean’s lips had calmed his racing heart, and he knows why, now, he has to because it cannot feel better than this, cannot possibly mean more than this, here, now.

(Castiel has always spoken Dean’s name like a prayer, has always greeted him with, “Hello, Dean,” like worship, has always known their bond as something sacred and holy and sublime. Castiel is devoted to humanity and Dean is the alter at which he kneels because Dean Winchester is everything good and right and divine about humanity.)

(Castiel is a Fallen Angel of the Lord, but he did not care and he did not regret a single action he had taken nor choice he had made that got him here because he knew what it was to feel true, human love for someone and what it was to be loved truly, deeply, selflessly in return.)

(Castiel was kissing Dean, trailing his fingers along Dean’s scars, tracing constellations between the freckles scattered across Dean’s body like stardust. He was drinking in the color of Dean’s eyes, olive and emerald and gold and amber like sunlight filtering through the trees to dance along the forest floor, like light refracting through a glass of Dean’s favorite aged whiskey, like starlight casting shadows through a stained-glass window. Castiel would kiss and worship and pray and love until Dean could no longer doubt his devotion, until Castiel had wrung every last drop of self-loathing from his body and convinced Dean that he was worthy of being saved, he was worthy of being loved, he was worthy of living, until Dean believed that he did not have to earn their love.)

(Castiel would praise and worship and prostrate himself on the ground at Dean’s feet until Dean no longer thought himself expendable, no longer thought himself nothing more than another obstacle to be placed between his loved ones and anything that wished them harm, no longer thought himself something to be used up and broken down and thrown away with disgust like one might discard rancid meat.)

Then Castiel was unraveling Dean, slowly, carefully, one gorgeous, gossamer thread at a time with his hands and his mouth and Dean was writhing beneath him, rendered breathless by his steady ministrations and Dean was breathing his name like a prayer, gasping it into Castiel’s shoulder like a plea, letting it tumble from his lips like a hymn as he cries out and trembles and comes completely undone and Castiel is kissing bruises into Dean’s skin, marking his flesh and drowning in the taste of him and Castiel is lost in Dean’s ecstasy, he is flying with wings built from all of Dean’s sinful noises and loving touches and then he is nipping Dean’s ear and whispering, “my beloved, my righteous man, ol monons, ozien, obza,” slipping into Enochian, calling and claiming and consoling Dean all at the same time (my heart, mine own, my other half).

And then, oh and then, Castiel finally knew why, finally understood, as he and Dean lay tangled together, warm and full and sated, as Dean turns to him and asks what the Enochian means and Castiel explains, as Dean’s face melts like sugar on Castiel’s tongue into a soft, warm look of such utter love and adoration and tenderness that Castiel forgets how to breathe, as Dean watches him with those honey-whiskey-sage-pine irises still lit from within by an all-encompassing bliss, as Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles and dimples appear at the corners of his kiss-swollen lips and this, Castiel knows, is why, now he understands because it is all about the way Dean looks at him so lovingly, so trustingly, so bashfully at hearing that he is something Castiel treasures and loves and adores and Castiel will spend the rest of their lives branding that look on Dean’s face into his mind just as he burns the words into Dean’s skin with every kiss and bite and breath they ever share.

#dean writes #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #spn #im so normal about them #im so fucking normal about them can you tell #(i am a lying liar who lies i am in no way shape or form normal about them)

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icycoldninja · 3 months

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Allow me to elaborate:

What about the DMC men with a devil hunter reader who seems very stoic, reserved and quiet spoken ( it can be mistaken them as shy ) but is actually a big dinosaur nerd

Like one moment, she can zone out into another dimension but when the topic of dinosaurs came up, immediately “locked in”, and especially interested if it comes to the topic of Jurassic Park and Jurassic world(Reminds me of that one interview where Henry Cavill immediately get interested in the conversation once WarHammer 40K was mentioned)

———————————————————————————

Reader: Did you know that in the novelization version of Jurassic Park…Nedry was killed in a very gruesome way in comparison to the movies ?

Vergil (uninterested yet interested): What about it?

Reader: He got blinded with the acid, which caused him to topple down in pain. After that, he was slashed across his lower abdomen but he was unaware that he was holding his own intestines so it did take tine for him to come to a realization but not long after, the last thing mentioned of him was the Dilophosaurus holding his head in its maw…Yes, it’s bigger than it’s Chibi version in the film ☺️✨

Vergil (unsure what to say in case he hurts her feelings): That was…violent to say the least

Or maybe one day when they accidentally walk into her bedroom, just to find out hundreds of dinosaur related stuff, and a freaking 1:1 ratio of a Velociraptor dressed in Victorian ball gown and a feathered hat on top. Weird but endearing

Lol sure.

Sparda boys + V x Dino nerd!Reader headcannons

¤ Dante ¤

He originally thought you were one of those cold, quiet and reserved types, to which he was used to, and was very surprised to find you had a soft spot for dinosaurs.

-Has no idea what dinosaurs are; all he's ever known are demons, which are somewhat similar to dinosaurs, but not exact.

-He once went into your room to ask you something and found a 1:1 Velociraptor statue smack dab in the middle of it.

-He thinks you're cute when you start rambling on about dinosaurs and their characteristics. Even though he doesn't understand much of it, it's fun to see you smiling and happy.

-Buys you dinosaur figurines because he knows you love them.

-Will certainly re-watch all the Jurassic Park movies with you, and since there's a healthy dose of violence, he actually finds it pretty interesting.

■ Vergil ■

-Vergil always thought you were like him since you were silent and rarely ever disclosed anything about yourself.

-You also had a habit of staring off into space, not paying any mind to the world around you. It was a strange habit, but Vergil didn't mind. He liked the silence.

-Then one day, someone mentioned dinosaurs around you and your whole personality switched. You were instantly on your feet, rambling excitedly about the lore of the dinosaur being discussed.

-Vergil was surprised to see this kind behavior from you, but was also intrigued. You were full of surprises, weren't you?

-He will sit through Jurassic Park movies with you for however long you want and will gladly listen to any fun facts you wish to disclose. It's not long before he develops an interest for dinosaurs himself.

-Vegil eventually finds himself a walking encyclopedia on dinosaur knowledge, and it's all because of you.

□ Nero □

-Nero never expected you to be such a nerd; he'd always pegged you as a serious, stoic individual, but you still managed to surprise him.

-Nero is somewhat familiar with dinosaurs thanks to excitable children with personalites much like yours at the orphanage.

-He only knows the basics, as mentioned before, and was never really fond of them, even in his youth, but you're here to change all that, aren't you?

-Loves to look at your dinosaur collection because he just likes to spend time with you, and if that means staring at all the different figurines you have, so be it.

-He'll watch all the movies you want with you, even if he doesn't find them all that interesting.

-He thinks that velociraptor statue in your room is cool as hell, though, and wonders why it's wearing a dress.

● V ●

-V admired you at first for your quiet mysteriousness, and later, for your hidden dorky side.

-It might be because the hidden nerdy aspect of your personality is just like his; he has his poetry and you have your dinosaurs.

-Speaking of dinosaurs, V would love it if you could tell him more about these magnificent creatures. Did they really roam the earth? Do you really have one in your room? Will it move?

-Upon seeing the dinosaur statue in your room, V is astonished. He's never seen such a large creature that hasn't tried to kill him, and finds it adorable that you put a Victorian dress on it.

-He watches all the movies you set up for him with glee, and even though some parts can be quite violent, it's nothing he hasn't seen before.

-Slowly becomes as much of a dino nerd as you are. As a result, chatting about dinosaur trivia becomes a daily, if not hourly, occurrence.

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upontherisers · 3 months

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if you're feeling it, could i please request "playing with each other’s fingers" for an oc of your choice👀 — @shoshiwrites

happy (belated) bday my dear shosh. here is a very very belated prompt to celebrate. this is an AU i've had for years but @loveduringthewar's beautiful West Wing AU inspired me to get some real writing done on it. summary: poet laureate mattie james is dutifully protected by secret service special agent joe toye.

a friday in autumn, 2:19 pm

Joe finds himself in a chair across from Mattie, who’s surrounded by a gaggle of vigilantly curious middle schoolers as she holds his palm and moves his hand around.

“See?” she says, angling his fingers toward the fluorescent lights overhead, “it’s too big. So,” she lets his hand down once more and slips her wire work off his finger. “We gotta make it smaller but if we squeeze it—”

“There’ll be a bend, like, a little point.” One of the kids makes a ‘V’ with his hands and Mattie beams.

“Exactly! Let me show you how to avoid that.” She sits back with the paperclip ring and the circle of kids closes around her once more.

Joe takes a moment to look around for help from any of the other adults in the room, hoping someone else is willing to jump in and play model while he gets back to his very serious job of protecting a representative of the state, but he’s only met with endeared smiles from the teachers and duty-bound refusal from his fellow agents. Bull’s at the door with a sympathetic but ultimately unmoved nod, Bill’s glancing over with a smug, thrilled sneer between chatting to one of the instructors, and Johnny shakes his head before looking at the floor. Joe knows what that means—you made your bed, now lie in it.

Or, as Mattie likes to say, grow a spine.

It’s not like Joe doesn’t have a spine. He spends his days telling people what they can and can’t do, where they can and can’t go, and who they can and can’t speak to, all without getting caught up in their pleas and compromises. This job does not allow for missteps; he’s not a man who takes chances. But this, and but is doing a lot of work here says the Mattie in his brain because she lives there now, this is different.

This is the fourth school they’ve been to this week and it goes the same every time. They arrive to a warm, overenthusiastic welcome from the teachers and an excited-slash-confused-to-borderline-hostile reception from the students. Mattie’s music isn’t necessarily targeted toward the middle grades, her poetry even less so. But she gets up there nonetheless.

Hi, I’m Mattie. I make music and I write poems.

Are you good at it? a kid will ask, always a boy—this one proudly introduced himself as Tyler, always towards the back of the room, always accompanied by giggles.

Mattie shrugs. Some people think I am, some people think I’m trash. And the shock of that admission, from an adult, from a capital-I important adult, breaks the spell of awkwardness and within a few minutes, she’s charmed the whole room. The kids are eating out of her palm. Even the ones who were determined to be difficult have either bought in or are about to.

Joe is now familiar with the mix of admiration and jealousy on a teacher’s face when they realize that Mattie’s nearing a participation rate that Maria Montessori would be jealous of. Johnny leans over to them with a grimace of empathy. It’s not you, it’s her. She’s a magician with this stuff.

Then, her least favorite part. She asks for a volunteer, just for a moment, just for a prompt. We can’t theorize our way into making art. We gotta do it. All the energy that had built up and the excitement on the kids’ faces fizzle. She’ll give it a few seconds and look at the adults in the room rather than the kids, half-pleading, half-resigned, then laugh like that was expected, like she asked them to skydive with no parachute.

She’ll let off steam about it later, when they’re in the car, when they’re back in her suite at the Library of Congress. How hard is it to set an example? They introduce me like I’m Nelson fucking Mandela but as soon as I ask them to engage for the sake of their kids, crickets.

Mattie, Johnny’ll say, it’s not that—

It’s because they don’t take this seriously. All this talk about how important artistic outlets are, but God forbid you have to do that art yourself. Because that’s not serious, that’s not real. She lets her bag hit the ground harder than necessary and runs her hands over her face before ripping open her beat-up laptop, mumbling to herself. It’s fine. It’s about the kids, it’s about the kids.

Bill’ll send a get a load of this guy eyebrow around to the other three, but Joe usually finds himself nodding in agreement with Mattie. Poet Laureate is quite a title, but it doesn’t mean anything when no one’s listening. People should listen.

So, on this particular Friday as Tyler, who reminds Joe of Bull—well-built and curly blonde—takes the awkward silence to look at him and the rest of the agents rather than his teachers or Mattie, Joe decides that it changes today. He knows the answers to her prompts already—think of a fruit, apple; think of a color that’s not also the color of an apple, purple. A four-man detail has one redundant agent and all entrances and exits have been secured; the other three can spare him for a while.

He pushes off the eastern wall or the room and half-raises a hand before fully raising it when he sees Mattie’s eyes light up upon realizing what he’s doing. He answers her questions only slightly disquieted by the sudden amount of eyes on him, but as she starts her poem building exercise with a thankful wink, he feels pretty good about it. He’s doing the thing, making art instead of theorizing, setting the example.

More like sitting the example. In his two months with Mattie, he forgot that making art could mean… y’know, making it, not just writing it down. It’s the whole point of the exercise, actually. Ten minutes of silent work, discussion, ten minutes of work with light conversation—Mattie’s the queen of light conversation, then presentations from anyone who wants to. The only rules are that you have to make something, whether it be using the poem prompt she walks them through or something from the classroom supplies at your teacher’s discretion.

The kids who wanted to write set off with their paper and pencils and Mattie walks around for a bit before settling into an empty chair and fiddling with the paper clips a girl is using crafts. Tyler wanders by first, then two of his friends, next a few of their friends, and soon, there’s a bundle of 7th graders watching Mattie make a paper clip ring. And of course, they want to make one too and of course, Mattie needs a model for show because if all of the kids are making one and she’s teaching, then who’s driving the boat? And of course Joe gets pulled in because he volunteered so nicely before.

The circle of children parts like the Red Sea and he’s face-to-face with Mattie again as she wraps the ring around his finger, her hands working around his to fit the metal securely. She’s full of focus, eyes locked on where their skin meets, still in her shoulders and steady in her breathing in the way she only ever is when she’s in the zone. He wants to laugh at the dedication to this tiny strip of wire, but he won’t, not in present company; he can’t have them think he’s laughing at her.

Maybe you don’t have to have volunteers, Johnny offers after their third visit with no adult participation.

Mattie sighs. It’s about the principle of the thing.

Oh, Bill snarks, the principle of the thing.

The kids don’t need to follow the teachers, they follow you just fine, Bull says from his spot at the door.

Johnny nods sagely. Yeah, monkey see, monkey do.

Well, Mattie says, tilting her head in sad consideration, maybe I’d hoped there’d be better monkeys.

Joe is being a better monkey, so no laughing. Instead, he looks from her face to their hands, wondering as always what she sees and how she sees it. It’s not just metal and space to her because nothing is ever just anything to her.

Her brain’s wired different than ours, as Bill says. And Johnny says, your brain isn’t wired at all.

He’s sure she’s watching the steel atoms bump into each other or she’s far beyond, watching the solar system spin on its galactic arm, just a blip in the rapidly approaching collision with Andromeda. Or she’s in both places at once, and here with him, too, capable of holding onto every eon and tense and time zone at once. He doesn’t understand it, not yet, where the poet ends and the person begins.

“There!” Mattie says, sitting back. Joe holds still for what seems like far too long as the kids investigate her handiwork and investigate him. Their inquisitive gazes wander from the ring to his face, some of them leaning in to squint at him, evaluative and unimpressed.

Most of them have figured what he’s doing here, with three other guys who have similar enough haircuts and stand with hands clasped at rest in front of them, plain clothed but suspiciously so. He likes kids, or at least, he’s discovered that he likes them more than he thought he would. They don’t understand that it’s some people’s job to fly under the radar. They meet his gaze as much as they meet Mattie’s instead of politely ignoring him and his fellow agents like adults know to do. And when they do look at him, they don’t care. He has to respect that.

He’s watching Mattie shape a paperclip for a kid when Tyler suddenly fills up his entire field of vision, staring wide-eyed like Joe is a fish in a tank. “Do you have a gun?”

“Okay,” Mattie says, reaching out and clapping Tyler on the shoulder, “it seems like we’re ready for presentations! Let’s take our seats.”

Joe bolts out of his chair and takes his place along the wall again as Mattie wraps up.

He doesn’t realize he still has the heart-shaped ring on until they’re back at the Library of Congress and walking into Mattie’s suite. It’s so light that he forgets he's wearing it and it’s only as she sets her bag down and the flower ring one of the girls gave her catches the sun that he remembers what sits on his finger.

He slips it off and holds it out to her. “Here.”

She takes it gently, turning it over in her decorated hands before flipping it back to him like a coin. “It’s a gift,” she says with a wink, “for being my guinea pig.”

His mouth opens to say something, anything, but the words die in his throat. Taking a moment, he studies it for the first time. It’s a delicate thing, slightly springy if he squeezes the sides, more of a square than a circle, and so very Mattie that he’d pick her if someone had him guess at the maker. The heart has been roughly colored by a red Crayola marker which she’d gotten all over a desk and apologetically wiped up and the imperfections of it—the bends that won’t come out from the original shape, the matte sheen from all the handling—makes it more beautiful.

He doesn’t know where to put it. It’ll fall right off the chain of his cross, and he can’t wear it and risk it getting snagged on something, but he wants it around. He wants to be able to see it and remember a day that was good, a day when he felt like they made a difference, that he made a difference. He hadn’t had a day like that in a long time.

It ends up in his locker at the D.C. headquarters office. Bringing it home feels too… too close, but this is a good spot, halfway between head and heart. He places it on the little shelf in the back next to his spare sunglasses and his old dog tags. He can’t seem to bring those home, either.

Johnny shakes his head as he passes on the way to his locker.

Joe pauses. “What?”

“You can’t say no to that girl.”

This is what Johnny’s amusement was about earlier in the classroom. There was nothing wrong with Joe stepping up or sitting down for a demonstration—it’s encouraged actually, especially at schools, something about giving the Service a friendlier face. Johnny’s gripe is with who Joe stepped up for and why he did it.

“No favorites, Joe.”

“You think I’m playing favorites?”

“I think you don’t understand her.”

“And you do?”

Johnny shrugs and shuts his locker. “No, but I don’t try to. You can’t let it go.”

“I think,” Joe starts as he follows the other agent down to check-out, “that if we understand her, we can understand this guy and get him.”

It’s the one thing that bothers Joe about this case. Lots of people get threats—protecting those people is eighty percent of his job—but there’s something about the ones Mattie gets that doesn’t sit right with him, hasn’t since the beginning. The letters are the one inroad that anyone has to solve this thing and as more show up with diminishing progress from the combined efforts of the Service and the FBI, he thinks it’s time to get a move on. Maybe the missing link is in the protectee and not the thing they’re protecting her from.

What’s the harm in trying? He keeps thinking about where Mattie gets stuck in her job, where she’s given status but no authority, and how she keeps returning to her painted corner with a brave smile, gracious to wait there until she gets called up to do her tricks again. People listen to poetry but they don’t understand it, she says and that’s not fair. When he looks at Mattie, he sees a girl who should be understood as completely as possible, if ever possible.

Johnny flashes his badge at the front desk sensor and looks back at Joe. “It’s not your job to understand. It’s your job to stand there. What if something happened while you were getting your ring sized?”

Joe’s offended. “Sitting down means I’m compromised?”

“Getting involved means you’re compromised.” Johnny’s facing him now that they’re both in the exit lobby, a pensive look on his face as his bag is slung over his shoulder. “Look, Joe, they’re not paying us to think on this one. If you think something’s up, talk to Dick, otherwise, this is not the kind of work you bring home.”

Right, ‘cause Johnny’s a family man now, with a wife and a kid and a baby on the way.

“I didn’t bring it home,” Joe says.

Johnny nods but his eyes are far away. “Yeah, but you thought about it.”

Silence falls for a moment before Johnny sniffs and shoulders his bag. “Who’s on duty tonight?”

“Talbert and Grant,” Joe replies.

Johnny nods. “Make sure they take a look at the cameras, see if they can figure out why they’re down.”

“Yeah,” Joe sighs and heads out with a nod.

The drive home is quiet except for the radio and as he pulls into the parking lot, one of Mattie’s songs comes on the folk station he’s been lurking on. He sits for as long as it takes to play—eyes closed, head rested on his seat—and lets her voice wash over him. She sings like she speaks, brassy and casual, effortless, not having to reach for what she wants, alluring, magnetic in a way that gets under his skin. He listens for anything that could teach him something and he’s so caught up in the mystery of the girl and the thing that goes bump in the night, that he doesn’t listen to the lyrics until the chorus.

But I’m in so deep, she sings, you know I’m such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger, oh. Do you have to let it linger?

“What the hell do you know about The Cranberries?” he asks to the air, smiling softly.

It ends too soon, but the cool night outside shocks the spell of Mattie’s voice from his system as he enters his dark apartment. His nights off-duty are more and more standard as this assignment goes on; he’ll check in with his older sister as he gets dinner ready—Mom’s arthritis is flaring worse than usual and his niece is deciding between swim and soccer camp, catch the Pirates highlights on ESPN, do the dishes, then do his readings.

He started them on a curious whim, just to see what the hype was about and ended up standing in the aisle of a Brentwood bookstore for fifteen minutes, engrossed, until the attendant asked him if he was going to be making a purchase. He bought three books, none of them very long, but he’s not a book guy so they’ve been a task to get through.

He read Letters from a Convict Child first because it’s the book that put Mattie on the map and wrote a man out of incarceration and he’s not sure that he got all of it—he’s not sure that he got any of it—but he understands her now, at least more than he did two months ago. Each poem that paints a picture of the world paints a picture of the writer, too, and sometimes he wants to look away as Mattie touches her own raw nerves to get the words out. But he stays for her, he stays because people always look away. That’s why she writes.

As of yesterday, he’s officially halfway through reading grow lemon grow poem by poem and as he finds tonight’s selection, he’s struck by the opening lines.

Wire hurts my hands, makes my fingers stink But I bend another paperclip

He underlines in his shitty pencil and reads the poem over and over again until his eyes start to droop close and he drags himself to bed wondering what Mattie’s night was like, if she offered her dinner to Tab and Chuck like she does he and Johnny, what music she played. It was Nina last week, but she’d spent the morning humming the Lumineers. Did she skip eleven songs before settling on the twelfth, or did she demand silence and curl up on the chair in the corner of her patio, legs tangled together, and write until Tab had to shuffle her to bed?

Did she make them rings despite the way the metal presses lines into the pads of her fingers? What did she say? Did either of them listen?

He jolts up in the dull gray light of morning, scrambling to shut off his alarm as his chest heaves. In the bathroom, he splashes his face with cold water until the scenes of his dreams—lemon trees, paper clip rings, the shredded and smoking hull of an armored vehicle in the desert, a shadowed figure slipping a letter under Mattie’s door—wash away with the chill. His phone dings.

From B. Guarnere: Ur on coffee duty. Hurry up

#mail call #Anonymous #shoshi's bday bash #i meant to publish this yesterday but when i went to reread it i added two more pages oops!#mattie james #mattie x joe #my writing #wordsmith au #shoshi tag

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fantasyinallforms · 1 year

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20 + Bagginshield for the kissy prompt? 💕

Thank you for the Prompt! @camibispace! I hope you enjoy this kissing scars drabble!

~~~~~

Scars to dwarves are like trophies. Great symbols of triumph and fortitude, and any dwarf that made it past 180 was likely to have their share of them. Thorin had more than most. His scars were memories of his trials, and not all of them were in battle. Many he had gained from working in the villages of men for over 40 years. Men who treated him like a greedy beggar. Who did everything they could to steal and cheat him until the only way to save his money was to sleep in the streets. He had wrapped so many stab wounds and cuts on his own body that he could put Oin’s work to shame. So unlike his kin, he did not appreciate or even like his scars. They were a sign of how low he had been forced to sink.

Those days of working like a dog for scraps were over. Never again would he need to lower himself to that kind of work. He lay on his opulent bed, king under the mountain, with his lovely half-naked hobbit consort curled lazily over his chest. Bilbo was tracing his tattoos as he normally did as they enjoyed the afterglow of an evening well spent. This time, however, his fingers seemed to wander away from the dark inked marks on his body and to the darker shadows of former wounds.

“How did you get these here?” Bilbo smoothed his fingers over the many raised lines on his arm.

“Men.” The answer seemed apt enough for him, but Bilbo frowned.

“And what about these?” His hands ran over the three slashes on his chest, marked clearly by the lack of hair on his otherwise furry chest.

“Men.” was his answer again. Bilbo’s frown deepened, and Thorin didn't like the look of it. He rolled them over until Bilbo was under him, his curious hands pinned above his head. Bilbo would not be swayed from his line of questioning. Ever his curious hobbit.

“Y-you never really talk about, ahhh, your scars. I know others -” Another moan escaped him as Thorin doubled down on the soft skin of Bilbo’s neck. “Thorin, please let me speak.” Bilbo struggled under him, and he let go immediately. He sat up looking very flushed, with several new dark spots forming where his lips had just been. “Thank you. I mean to say that I notice others take great pride in showing off their scars. You couldn't get Kili to put a shirt on for months after he healed. You, however, are never without one. Not even when you’re burning up in the forge. Not unless we’re here. As special as I feel that I’m the only one who gets to see that part of you, I have to wonder why?” There was sincerity in Bilbo’s voice, and it was endearing. He reached up to run his hands through those tawny curls and sighed.

“Because I’m ashamed of them. Others earned their scars in glorious deeds, perhaps even stupid ones, but not me. I couldn't even properly fight back against most of my assailants. Not if I wanted to make any money. These are symbols of how low I had to fall in the name of my people. They’re ugly reminders.” Thorin felt the sudden need to cover himself and grabbed for the blanket, but Bilbo would have none of it. There was a look of fierceness in his eyes. Then, to his shock, Bilbo leaned him back and started kissing along the scars on his chest. He took his time. Each kiss was feather light but sure as stone. When he was done with one scar, he moved on to the next, leaving Thorin nearly gasping for air out of love and lust but also an acceptance he didn't think he deserved until this moment. When he caught his breath again, he cradled Bilbo’s head in his hands.

“It’s my turn to show appreciation.” He kissed the scar that ran from Bilbo’s cheek all the way under his jaw. The physical manifestation of what Bilbo had been willing to give up when he threw himself into Azog only to be swatted away. He kissed every inch of that beautiful mark in the same manner that Bilbo had done his.

“What a pair we make.” Bilbo breathed.

______

Fun kissing prompt game to be found here!

#bagginshield #the hobbit #thilbo #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #bilbo x thorin #FIAF(me)fics #kissing prompts

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loremaster · 6 months

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hello hello! I just came to drop by to say that I very much love your vvyk playlist, I've been listening to it weekly (would listen to it more often if it didn't make me too sad ;_;) Also. I gotta ask about Between My Teeth, are you thinking that's from Yakou's pov or Vivia's? I feel like it could fit them both even if I'm leaning towards it being from Yakou's pov especially since the words 'I don't want your heart between my teeth' could then be taken both metaphorically and literally.

omg!!! I was having an awful day and this just made my mood do a 180 :D

I'm so glad you like my sad playlist, there's a lot of love that went into it ;u;

For Between My Teeth, I was definitely thinking Yakou for that reason haha... #cannibalmoment

"I'm too broken to save you too, I admit it" hits hard... and "you deserve someone else who can treat you like I want to" ;-; Especially with the DLC context I think Yakou would be soooo scared of any serious relationship, blaming himself for failing his wife-slash-client whom he was supposed to protect... he doesn't think he deserves a second shot at happiness because he's such a fuckup

but I think that makes him more endearing to Vivia, the fact that this total fuckup, someone who's so weak-willed and selfish and lazy and hypocritical... can still be loyal and earnest and kind enough to go out of his way to help other people who need it, at his own expense... means so much more ;-;

but of course neither of them ever communicate any of this to each other 💀

#spoilers and rambles under the read more.....#vvyk

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coredrill · 7 months

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8ravern now that i’ve slept on it. “the episode’s not even out yet” yes however there are TWO promo images in which isami looks vaguely happy therefore i fear the end times

i know i have been on the “smith fucking dies on february 29th 2024” train for like a month BUT LIKE. IDK WHAT TO THINK ANYMORE. cause like. the episode previews have, as far as i remember, only revealed stuff that happens in the A part of the episode and the back half remains a complete mystery so who knows how much of that is bait and switch again. NOT ME

bravern and superbia call him “lewis smith” rather than just “smith”, which seems to indicate either isami or lulu says the title, but also there have been tweaks in some of the titles between preview and episode release so it could change to be “lewis smith” instead i suppose

but it’s just. it’s TOO obvious. right????? you don’t give someone that many obvious death flags and then actually kill them. especially in this fucking show. right??????? but like also however. if there is literally anything that would inspire large change in/motivate isami as a character to achieve whatever the Real end goal of the show is. i mean. it would be smith dying. however the option of him being otherwise fucked up could have the same effect in a way that would likely not be true of other characters (bravern, lulu, etc). like i still think “he gets physically fucked up and (part of) his soul winds up in his brainwave mecha either intentionally or not cause that is the only way to save Any part of him and then isami’s gotta do Something abt it” is possible………….augh

i did call multiple deathdrives at once though. i will take that win LMAO. like this story ain’t abt them and it’s never been abt them!!!! we have never needed to monster-of-the-week it!!!!

as i have been typing this post out i realized that maybe its not that i have changed my mind at all and just that i have become severely endeared to this character in the recent weeks and don’t want to see him die ☹️ even if i don’t think he’d be completely gone for good in the slightest it would be a gut punch if they played it that way LIKE IT WOULD BE A GOOD STORY. BUT ALSO. [i proceed to make dialup noises w my mouth]

once again i feel like a fool. supwr robot enjoyer tricked into enjoying a love triangle/romcom/romance story. guess all they needed to do was put it in a super-slash-real-robot-ish property in which the two of them perform some sort of musical duet meant to represent their bond and otherwise move at the speed of light and in which the MC is a japanese dude who does Not Wanna Be There and the other one is some guy with light hair who Fucking Dies and in whapcjejbthch hehd ,&$:$,)akdjfjfndkow!:!3&0:84$/&irdj-aakrkfmm. forget the fucking time travel theories the only one stuck in a timeloop is ME

#i feel lije i am going to THROW UP i need to take a sick day from work on thursday fndbnfjdbdbdbshn #i won’t ofc but like. You Know #a: bravern #bravern spoilers #t.bbbb

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originemesis · 1 month

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@flowercrxwned xxx

When the smoke started at first she thought a soul was joining her, albeit in an unusual way, but as its tendrils and sickening arms of blackness began to crawl up her legs her heart froze. The realization barely had time to form in her mind before she was falling, or what felt like falling, into nothingness with its destination slowly creeping into view of her swimming eyes. The view of a place she hadn't laid eyes on in many thousands of years, but knew intimately. Eden. A few seconds to take in her whereabouts was all too quickly processed when she saw the giant tree before her. The tree that started and ended it all for humanity at her hand. Her biggest mistake loomed over her in every sense of the word, but instead of the once flourishing shades of life it was gnarled and smelled of decay.

As she watched the sight before her there was pure heart-gripping horror dousing her in ice and fire, her chest aching and burning with all the pain and passion a mother has for her most lost child. As purgatory as her cage she was accustomed and even endeared to what most found horrifying, but watching her son's limp body hanging from inside the tree's grasp what she felt went beyond what the deepest parts of that hopeless place could think up to torment her with. A drop of blood on her cheek fell down her face like a tear, the tears she'd cried as he died in her arms coming back as fresh as they were they day Cain committed that awful deed upon her second son. It was her fault. All of humanity's suffering was her fault. This tree has shown her many things; the fruit taught her the truth of the world and now its roots were teaching her the price she paid for that knowledge. "Abel?" He coughed, he moved, he spoke... but how much of it was him? He was in there somewhere, she could tell by the way he looked to her and smiled, memories of his boyish antics flooding back to her as new tears washed away the first one that marked her upon his emergence. Her cries were soon drowned out by the shrieking screams of whatever monster lied within her precious child. Adam had blamed Cain, Cain had blamed god, and Eve... Eve blamed herself. How could it not be anyone else's fault but hers? She had eaten the apple, she brought knowledge of good and evil to humanity, she was responsible for raising her children, she was to blame and she was the one who needed to set it right.

She stood, facing with the strength that she was only able to garner after eons in banishment. In the folds of her flowing black dress she opened her bag of purgatory sand, pulling the powdered granules out and forming them into a smoky glass blade. She lunged forward, slashing at the nearest twisting wooden appendage engulfing her baby. "My son belongs to me and I will cut him from you limb by limb."

"...M-Ma." He'd answer her if only briefly because the vines of the tree of knowledge's root system had decided that this intruder (whether welcomed in by the will of God or not) was not welcome within its blood letting sanctum. This it let her know by 'breathing' inwards towards the ceiling of earth's crust within the underground cavern, drawing its sustenance provider in like a hug that would not relent so easily, especially not in front of a mother that had let him leave her sights on that miserable morning despite any miniscule misgivings she had at the time. Wincing, he swiveled his gaze over to her as it was the only thing he could do while under the tree's deeply rooted control, a puppet to continuously bleed and supply its shriveled demand for nutrients out in the void in which they now crossed paths.

With a frustrated jerk of a metallic shoulder pad as if to bat the tightening roots back from his attempt to swipe a heavy arm through the air as if he actually has the means to claw his way back over to her, he soon loses that sentiment in a tightening of tendrils just under the jugular. They tense as if prepared to rip his throat out themselves and spare its appetite the slow drain of blood in favor of a steady stream, but stalls just long enough for the intruder of the time pocket to drive her blade into a thick portion of the root system. The tendril screeches and writhes backwards with an assaulted octopus's strength, twisting in upon itself as if if could staunch its own decapitation while the lack of its once sturdy support on the thigh it once constricted causes Abel to drop off his upright axis and hang suspended halfway upside down a good foot or so below the vine around his neck's reach. "Grk!" He chokes, his freed arm frantically finding the rough texture of the root's noose to pull at it like a much too tightly fastened necktie.

The roots don't seem to care about his floundering now though, needle tipped ends twisting in like the heads of snakes to observe the woman now deemed a threat over a mere inconvenience with her severance of one of its oldest support beams. With a warning rattle, they would violently surge- but not towards her.

Still grappling with the vine's grip on his airway, Abel would snap suddenly up to the ceiling in a vicious overcorrection of dropping him but even a few inches just to as quickly slam him back down until he hit dirt hard with the majority of the root system now perched heavily upon and pinning him down in the rubble with the persistence of a feline not so easily removed from a lap.

The three remaining heftier tendrils begin to whip the air with warning cracks, and between each pause of the wind up and release, Abel musters a dazed cough beneath the pile. "Please. I don't...want it to get you too-" The vines protruding from his ribs yank him back to his boots, serving as the standing strength that his slumped shoulders indicates he'd lack without the assist. Another haunting pitch leaves a mouth half parted without him ever having lipped them.

"Y̷o̷u̶ ̶c̴a̵n̸'̵t̴ ̷s̸a̶v̴e̴ ̷h̷i̶m̷ ̴a̷n̶y̶w̵a̵y̵.̷ ̷Y̷o̶u̴ ̵n̶e̸v̶e̵r̷ ̵c̷o̷u̴l̸d̵."

"M̵̨̭͓͉̆i̴̗̔͠ṣ̴̠̉͒͐͆ẗ̷̺̯͓́̍̄͑a̷̭͈̓̄k̷̢͖̳̏̌͝ë̷̱̗͓̰́̾̏͝͠ͅ ̸͙̳͑̉̅ȍ̴͙͕̦̦̄́́f̴̧̭͚̀̽̕̕ ̷̦̜͖͂̈́̂ä̵̢̛̯́̀ ̷̧̥̇̑̿m̶͔͚̗̥͎͐͘o̴̙͇̤͊ṫ̷̮̫̭̙̲̅h̶̘̣͇̯̋͘͜͠ẻ̸̙̜͒̓̄ͅr̸̯̭̻͒̒͆̂!̵̧̆̾́"

#unholy crusade #v ; // unholy crusade #ready and abel ; //#flowercrxwned #long post #body horror cw

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turkleader · 2 years

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[ooc] I found this dialogue from Heidegger fascinating, largely because throughout the entire free Midgar DLC, he’s been picking this fight with Hojo specifically, as though the Professor gets under his skin.

Hojo, being Hojo, wouldn’t give more than a cursory piece of attention to Heidegger, and I doubt the man is ever on his mind for any reason other than the necessity of interaction or possible, fleeting usefulness.

But, it’s a fascinating thing to note the “long-haired” comment. It stood out to me at first, because why mention Hojo’s hair length of all things when there are countless other “low hanging fruits” that a machismo military man could have picked on? Heidegger could have brought up Hojo’s heritage (as he’s been headcanoned as Wutaian for years), his intellect (second rate to Gast, stole Lucrecia’s research for himself, etc.), his personality or way of carrying himself (could’ve mentioned him being a “creep” or “unsettling”, etc.), and if addressing his appearance, he could have brought up his small frame, his perpetual scowl and the way his eyes take in everything you didn’t like people to know, his wrinkles or how he appears disheveled because appearance is secondary to his studies and work. But we went for, specifically, long hair?

Oh, but wait. Because it comes full circle in a very interesting way. Because look at what Heidegger has to say about Sephiroth.

There’s a surprising affection mixed with Heidegger’s admiration of Sephiroth. He says, “I could tell he was going to be special the moment I first saw him.” And in the following messages, he speaks with a moving elegance that we don’t often see him express, mentioning how Sephiroth slashed mechs in half “with ease” and how it wasn’t just his strength that “endeared him” to people.

If you’re beginning to see the signs, then “he had quite the face as well” really swings us into queer leanings. Small wonder the world was in love with Sephiroth though, born of Jenova’s shapeshifting and deceptive prowess and cultured under the guidance of the best equipped scientists on all of Gaia. But to see that Sephiroth had sway over even a man like Heidegger, to the extent that he still talks with such open compliments about him five years after his disappearance, shows that Sephiroth left a lasting impact on Heidegger’s thoughts. He must have seen him often enough, considering his executive role would have put him in contact with Sephiroth during the efforts of the Wutai War. I think anyone who would have been physically around the offspring of Jenova wouldn’t have been able to resist that innate allure to at least some minor extent. Heidegger, with his lust for power, would have been exactly the right kind to fall in awe of Sephiroth’s casual feats of strength.

You can feel how Sephiroth’s disappearance still bothers him. When talking about it, we get one of the rare instances where Heidegger mentions public opinion. “After Sephiroth went missing five years ago, we - and the entirety of Midgar - felt his loss.” One of Heidegger’s defining characteristics is his absolute disdain for the concerns of others, let alone the public. He placates the will of his employer and gets away with his boisterous arrogance because President Shinra tolerates and even enjoys, on occasion, his displays of machismo. But he doesn’t answer to anyone else, and therefore, he doesn’t consider their opinions. He has no need or desire to do so, and his seat of comfort at the right hand of Shinra means he doesn’t have to care what the public thinks. President Shinra does that for him.

But here, we see him confessing his attachment when he uses “we” and then we see him swiftly excavate himself from the confession by bringing in the one thing he doesn’t care about: public opinion-- “and the entirety of Midgar - felt his loss.”

Using this shielding technique, he continues, “He fought admirably in the war against Wutai, and the people absolutely adored him - even more than they do our mascot Stamp!” Whereas “admirably” is acceptable, he’s flying too close to the truth he doesn’t want to address when he uses “absolutely adored him”, so we get another instance where he cuts off into another side note that’s got nothing to do with what he’s talking about, public opinion about Stamp, the canine mascot for the Shinra armed forces. But if you haven’t played FF7R, then you wouldn’t even know Stamp was a dog, because Heidegger never explains it. It’s a throwaway comment, added to the end of a sentence that maybe runs too near to thoughts he never speaks aloud, unless he’s talking to a lonely powerwasher who isn’t going to have anyone of import to tell this to, and who doesn’t know Heidegger well enough to piece two and two together.

And then what does he end with? A hollow bluff, severing his connection to his feelings about Sephiroth with his comfortably arrogant persona: "Although, once they see the military marvel that is the airbuster, they'll forget Sephiroth even existed! Hahaha!”

Feelings for Sephiroth aside, along with the potentially dangerous implications this reveals and that we could at some point get into about how much possible sexual abuse/harassment Sephiroth had to go through, growing up under Shinra’s unblinking eyes and invasive influence, let’s pull it all back--full circle.

Because, what does Heidegger say right smack in the middle of all his praise of Sephiroth? Right before he starts confessing more potential attraction for the former First Class SOLDIER and then cutting himself off over and over again?

“Though, in my opinion, a hero shouldn't grow his hair quite so long.”

Where have we heard this before? *Raises an eyebrow*

“I find it hilarious that long-haired lunatic [Hojo] doesn't think his 'precious creations' are next. Hahaha!”

Well. This wasn’t what I thought I was going to discover while playing this free DLC, but~ It certainly lends credence to Heidegger’s ostentatious arrogance--coupled with his military machismo--being a deflecting tactic to hide possible self-hatred for any homosexual thoughts about Sephiroth and Hojo. And if there’s the potential for it there, then it makes me wonder what else we might garner from other dialogues Heidegger’s involved in. I can’t remember anything right off the bat from FFVII or FF7R, but if I find anything else, I’ll be certain to share. Just thought this was quite the interesting little tidbit, and a complexity to Heidegger’s personality that I find very intriguing.

#PowerWash Simulator #FF7R #Heidegger #Professor Hojo #Sephiroth #.tmunspeech #.obonff #.crossoverthoughts #.ffviirthoughts #.oboffviir #.obcheidegger #.obchojo #.obcsephiroth

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rocicrew · 1 year

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wip/draft i never posted number 3 (i think)

Taking care of someone is the simplest way to show someone what you're feeling about them. And yet, it is one of the most intricate. There is no one way to do it. No guarantee you're going to do it right. Because people are complex and their needs even more so.

It starts simple. Holden is a trembling, pale, feverish mess, and it's impossible for Naomi to ignore that. Not when she feels him squeeze her hand with what must be whatever strength he's left and look at her like-- like she's worth believing in. It's been so long since she felt like that, something more than the shell she made herself to be to survive. Opening up again to the world seems like tearing the stitches open from a half-healed wound and letting the pain back in.

She doesn't do that. She's not ready yet. But she can take care of him in return. Wipe the sweat away from his forehead. Keep a steady hand on his back as his stomach spasms, his body suffers from the incredible amount of radiation, and everything feels out of control. Stay with him, holding his hand as he drifts in and out of consciousness to not let him drift away from their reach.

It doesn't matter, though, because she does more or less the same for Miller because the duty of an XO is to assist the Captain. At least, that's what she repeats over and over to herself because getting attached still feels like too much of a risk.

It does matter, though, because she's seeing glimpses of who Holden really is. She's seen them before, throughout their journey from the Knight to Eros, but the vulnerability paints a different picture. That feels like too much as well because she's seeing pieces of him bare with the lack of energy stripping him of any fake bravado, and Naomi could never give that back. Could never offer pieces of herself like that.

His gaze, even through half lidded eyes, is intense. Naomi is busy with pulling his blanket a little higher at the first signs of shivers, but she can feel his eyes following her every move.

"I'm not cold," he manages to mumble in reply, even if she's more worried about his temperature rising once again. The back of her fingers grace his forehead gently to confirm that, but she's happy to be proven wrong this time. Tremors, then.

Holden leans into her touch subconsciously, and she has to fight the urge to run her fingers through his hair. Where did that even come from?

It's- it's nothing. It's a natural reaction to one of her crew being gravely sick. Holden is still the same infuriating, stubborn, endearing second officer slash new XO slash now captain of their little group.

She tugs at his hair instead, shaking away the unwanted thoughts, and tries to ignore the dopey smile that spreads on his lips at her teasing. "You get to keep your hair. But that means you'll still need that stupid hat as a disguise."

Holden laughs, same as when they were at the bar only lower in strength, and she regrets to acknowledge that it's a pleasant sound. "Ouch, Naomi," he huffs. "Take it easy on a dying man."

But suddenly, the laughter turns into a coughing fit with a thick, wet sound. Whatever teasing remains is wiped from her face and tone in seconds. Healing from radiation poisoning isn't linear, and whatever progress he's shown might be taken a few steps back.

Naomi tries though to keep herself from doing frantic movements. She pretends to smooth out the blanket as she lightly brushes his abdomen and gently asks. "Are you feeling sick again?"

"No."

The reply comes out in the form of a grunt, but he's genuine. She's known in the past week of taking care of him when he pretends to feel better than he actually does. She’s been quite adamant about him being completely honest so as to accurately track his recovery process.

"Think I've been pumped enough anti-nausea stims to last me a year," Holden continues, words slightly dragging from the effort, but his smile is still there. It's enough to offer him a smile of her own. He'll be alright with their help.

"That's good. I've been more familiar with your stomach lining than I'd like," Naomi says, though her tone still stays lighthearted. It is rooted in truth, but it's not taking care of her that bothered her. But finding him in that position.

He chuckles weakly and nods. "Me too."

His eyes droop by the minute, and Naomi finds herself getting up from the stool next to his auto-doc chair.

Holden needs all the rest he can get, and she doesn't want him to be kept awake by her presence. The fact that she's treading into dangerous waters, the barely there blooming emotions and newfound fondness, is one she prefers to ignore.

That's how she has lived for the past decade. Ignore, suppress, and move on. Numb herself enough to wake up day after day after day.

The past weeks have been different, though. They've awoken not only the beginnings of a bond between people she barely knows despite working together for years but an older flame. One that drew her to terrible decisions, yet one that is necessary to survive in the Belt. For if she extinguishes it, how many more innocent Belters will pay the price of Inners' wrath. A whole station is already gone, and no one but the five of them know it.

"You promised to teach me how to win at cards," Holden's shaky voice whines, and it pulls her back in an instant.

One disaster at a time, Naomi.

First, they'd get the crew back on their feet and then, they could plan the next steps forward.

"Mhmm, no sa sa," Naomi shrugs with her hands. "Can't betray Amos like that."

A smug smile suddenly crosses his face, and it is difficult to acknowledge that instead of the usual contempt, relief blooms in its place. Even if Holden still looks far too pale, even for his standards.

"I knew you too always found a way to cheat. Made the rest of us look like idiots every time."

There weren't many things to do on long hauls, even with a crew as large as the Cant's. The weekly card games between decks were a usual occurrence. Usually, they were held among the Belters of the crew and turned into who could get away with the most without others noticing. Counting cards, alliances, all were fair. It was a way to change up the games in the routine.

Most Inners came for a few games and then left after realizing that winning would be difficult. It's not like they bet anything other than shitty and less shitty shifts. Holden was one of the few from the upper decks that stayed even after continuously losing. He didn't always come, but it was at an enough frequency that meant he, at least, enjoyed himself.

"You kept coming anyway," Naomi retorts back, neither denying nor accepting the accusation.

"I had fun."

"Then, we'll play again when you're not minutes away from passing out." Naomi offers, a playful grin raising her mouth. "Might even take it easy on you, Captain."

Holden agrees despite her teasing tone, but a yawn muffles his reply, "Deal."

"Get some rest, Jim."

"You too, Naomi."

Before she even makes it out the door, he's already asleep, and for the first time in a while, Naomi manages to sleep peacefully for a few hours.

#nolden #mine : fics.#the expanse

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angeltiique · 10 months

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OH MY GOD.

i just realised.

this is my blog.

i can do whatever i want.

so heres a giant fucking ramble with as many thoughts on Shenggou Ye as i can manage (who if you dont know is an oc belonging to my wonderful best friend reese aka rai aka rai.diate and her story universe Liar Liar Chaos Fire 😁 she doesnt know im doing this, this is for me):

if you dont know how did you NOT know shenggou ye accidentally became a biiiiiiit of a hyperfixation for me (exaggerating). reese and i can't exactly pinpoint when it started but we think its around the time we started a zombie apocolypse roleplay with us two and another friend <3

i love him so much i daydream and fantasise about him every moment i get. i see the colour red, or a wild dog or hyena, something to do with kung fu, or any obscure thing that i manage to tie him to and i go absolutely FERAL. hyenas are now my favourite animal because of him. i see a ricecooker and laugh at how he loves rice because his asian ass is so goofy (just like me fr). i love the colours red and teal which are his main colours. my favourite songs are loose cannon by set it off and mama by mcr which are his songs. he is TAKING OVER MY LIFE /POS

i feel bad that i dont get like this with other characters, especially my other friends and even my OWN, but thats just what ended up happening and i cannot seem to control myself lol

i even made up a list of why i kin him do you want to see it well too bad youre seeing it anyway i told you this is a megapost megalist mega fuckfest okay not a fuckfest but you get the idea:

SHENGGOU KIN MOMENTS:

- large hearts, both literally and metaphorically

- imposter syndrome (self-doubt, feeling like a fraud/liar)

- scared of being disowned/losing loved ones

- making jokes during serious moments (struggling to cope so makes light of the situation = ends up brushing it off/ignoring it)

- loving our best friend from high school fr fr /gen /pl and being so excited when we see them <3

- saying fucky ass and baybee (im the reason he says it LMAOOO)

- gayass motherfuckers (both bi)

- WE BOTH HAVE PUSSIES LMAOOOO and we aren't really dysphoric about it hell yeah (im trans and sheng is intersex 💪)

- lying lying chaos crying (i know a lot of them lie but shhhhhh)

- not being good at voice regulation/shutting the fuck up LMAO (apparently its a sign of autism... shenggou ye autism real!!? /j)

- having silly laughs <3 idk my mama makes fun of my laughs and he has a silly laugh it counts sshhhh

- he probably sits on surfaces weirdly or on places you wouldn't normally sit on, and i sit weirdly so YEAH

- sex jokes? yes please (they are funny !!!)

- dramatic as hell but its because we are silly goofy

- annoying as fuck but its slash pos

and thats all i had but theres probably more in fact im doing things because he does them, like saying "L" LMAOO BUT i mean it in an endearing way 🫶

ive also been calling my mother mama a LOT more like thats WHAT ive been calling her exclusively and i know for a fact its because shenggou calls HIS MOTHER mama and the song mama by mcr again. tsk tsk this hyperfixation is legit taking over. but i love it so much.

hes all i want to daydream about. we (friends and i) have a running joke that he is my husband, i love calling him my dearest darling husband shenggou ye. its great. but i like thinking about him with me during the day, maybe doing something stupid or dangerous and laughing at him, him helping me calm tf down when im stressed. its a weird coping mechanism but strangely effective!! i prefer keeping to myself but thinking about him with me makes me feel more seen and heard and loved. and reese is a bit like him, so its also like having my best friend with me even if shes not really. i like to think i can tell shenggou anything because thats how i feel about her. again, its all really stupid and cringe but its really nice and fun

im only now realising this is probably just turning a friends oc into a para. or like. something like a para. i mean the daydreams do get vivid.. Huh!

anyway thats about all i feel like sharing, i dont expect anyone to see this like all my other posts, i just enjoy screaming into the void and seeing if anyone screams back. let it be known, having weird coping mechanisms is cool and youre so.valid. /gen biggest hugest thank you to my bestie reese for creating this goober i am obsessed with. without her art that captures his handsomeness and her writing that demonstrates his personality i would never have fallen so deeply in love with him to the point of delusion.

Now if you'll Excuse me. i am going to dream the Best dreams (shenggou will be in it). thank you and Goodnight ^_^

#long post #rambles #its probably the autism #im a bit insane #sillyposting #🧨<3

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the-avengers-ate-my-tongue · 2 years

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In His Eyes

Summary: after Morpheus' rescue, where does that leave both of you?

Pairing: Morpheus x Witch!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of blood. Second part of must be the season of the witch.

English is not my first language, if you see any mistake, let me know!

Word count: 1764

Morpheus laid your body on the bed carefully, taking a strand of your hair from your face with tenderness. Lucienne watched from afar, always amazed by your relationship with the Dream Lord and how he reacted to you.

"She never gave up on you, my lord. Assisted me with the Dreaming while sleeping, spent the day looking for you when awake." She assured, knowing how the situation was when you departed years ago, the last time she'd seen you in the throne room and the heart of the Dreaming. She and Jessamy could hear your screams from all the way down to the library, but Morpheus remained stoic as ever. You came out sobbing, and swearing never to come back or see him again.

And you fulfilled your promise. That is, until the moment you found out he was missing and Lucienne needed your help. You were stubborn, that much was true; but you couldn't bear the thought of Morpheus being in trouble somehow, even if you understood the magnitude of his powers.

Therefore, you stayed. Lingering and feeding on scraps from the Dream Lord's lost presence. Twenty years go by, years that felt like days. Thirty. Fifty. Seventy. Each year becoming more unbearable.

"Now that I have recovered my totems, the restoring of the Dreaming shall begin. I no longer need her strength." Morpheus stepped closer, sitting on the bed and holding your face with tenderness, his thumb caressing your cheeks.

"So that's the mighty saviour, uh?" Matthew cawed, eyeing you with curiosity.

"Perhaps Lord Morpheus needs some privacy at this moment, Matthew. Shall we?" Lucienne raised an eyebrow to the raven, inciting him to leave with a nod of her head.

The last vision she had before she shut the bedroom's doors was Morpheus' lips touching yours softly, as if he was afraid of breaking you.

A month before Morpheus' rescue

You knew what you had to do. It was simple. Would it make Morpheus mad when he found out? Perhaps. However, you were never one to follow rules or commandments, and that was part of his endearment for you.

So, one night, you didn't return to The Dreaming. Instead, you picked some candles, a ceremonial dagger, some herbs, and summoned another one of the Endless, one you knew for a fact you would easily get along with.

With the dagger, you slashed one of your wrists open, allowing the blood to flow. Your eyes turned completely white, and you chanted some old spells for a while until the air felt thick and heavy with power.

"It is not your time yet, Y/n Y/l/n. Why do you summon me?" A soft voice reached your ears, and you couldn't help but smile lightly.

"Hello, Death. It's an honour, really." You turned to face her, being temporarily mesmerized by how beautiful she was. The ebony skin, bright eyes and kind smile made your heart jump in your chest. What a pleasant trap it was. Who would want to follow Death if she wasn't alluring somehow? "I think we both know why.

She sighed, crossing her arms. Of course she knew.

"There's nothing I can do, you know. He's too stubborn and proud to ask for help from any of us." She pointed, sitting in front of you and starting to play with one of the candles, avoiding your stare. "However… When it comes to you, he tends to be more… reasonable."

You chuckled, distracted by the act of sealing the gash on your wrist with some magic. Then, it occurred to you.

"Hold on a second, he has mentioned me, hasn't he?" You couldn't hold a little smirk, feeling your cheeks flush a bit.

"He might have" Death winked at you, getting up. "There's nothing I can do if he doesn't request my aid directly, Y/n. My little brother's known for his thick head. As much as it pains me…"

"I have the means to rescue him. The Dreaming's been decaying fast, I will not let it crumble. It needs its ruler."

"You underestimate yourself, wielder of magic. There is no need for my help. You have been using your powers with excellency when it comes to ability, but you own more potential than you fathom. Focus on your emotions. On how bad you want to find him. That should be enough. A bit cliché, but true" She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I wish I could help more. But we're not supposed to meddle in our sibling's affairs."

"I understand. It's been a pleasure to finally meet you, despite the circumstances. Morpheus speaks very highly of you."

She rolled her eyes with a little smirk, and you wondered for a moment how your relationship with your siblings would've been if they had survived their birth.

"I'll tell you this; as you know, my brother can be very stoic when it comes to his feelings, but all you need to know resides in his eyes. And when he speaks of you, they glow differently. He has not been the same since your quarrel. I hope you can make amends in the future."

You felt blood rush to your face, lowering your gaze to the floor. What were you now, a teenager? Get it together, Y/n!

When you raised your face again, however, Death was gone. You sighed, remembering Sonja for a moment. You wished she were here to assist you, regretting for a moment her abandonment centuries ago. If she were here, however, she would say you could do this. You were the first cradle witch to survive in a very long time. There was nothing you couldn't do.

You started to prepare yourself for the next full moon, when your power would be blossoming and thriving. Gathering some materials, you followed the path to the woods near your cottage, where you used to energize yourself to perform great rituals.

It had to work. You would bring Morpheus back even if it demanded your last drop of energy and power.

Now

Your eyes fluttered open, and you felt exhausted. Memories started to float on your brain, confused, chaotic.

Morpheus was finally free.

You smiled slightly, caressing the sheets under you with ease. You hadn't slept this peacefully in… well… a century. Dreamless sleep had never been restoring to you, you craved the fantastic scenarios your mind had the ability to create ever since you were born, being a skilled lucid dreamer.

You scanned the huge bedroom you were in, being completely alone. With a sigh, you sat on the comfortable and large bed, caressing the long, silky beige nightgown you were wearing. Beautiful. A sight at the mirror to fix your messy appearance and you felt ready to look for the ruler of nightmares around the castle, which you realized it was starting to be rebuilt.

You thought for a few seconds and picked a robe so you wouldn't feel so exposed, tying it in front of the mirror while humming an old song you knew. After that, you picked up a brush from the nightstand, brushing your tangled bed hair with patience. You pinched your cheeks to look more alive, and voilá.

With a little smile, you opened the bedroom's doors, pacing around the castle towards the throne room, imagining he was probably filled with tasks and duties now that he was back.

Touché. There he was, looking absorbed with a pile of books. You took a moment to admire his serious expression, lips pursed in an eternal pout, disheveled dark hair as a halo around his head. Oh, to touch those soft locks again.

"I see you, Y/n. Come closer."

You clicked your tongue, annoyed. Even after centuries, you were never capable of sneak up on the Endless. Morpheus held a sly smirk, closing the book and getting off his throne, facing you.

For a moment, you could see millions of stars in his eyes, remembering Death's words instantly. All you need to know resides in his eyes.

"I've missed you so much, Morpheus." You said, almost whispering, shutting your eyes to try to control your emotions. "You have no idea how those years were for me. Please, forgive me. I never wish to part from you again."

In seconds, his hands were on your face, and he kissed your tears away.

"I know how resentful you can be. I will wait a million years for you to forgive me, if that's what it takes…"

"That will not be necessary." Morpheus interrupted you, sighing.

"You really hurt me, Morpheus."

"I know, dearest. I was wrong to meddle in your affairs, and even more to be angry when you protested." You blinked a few times, surprised. Morpheus admitting he was wrong? Miracles do happen. "I did not mean I deemed you incapable of knowing the best for yourself."

"I know. I overreacted. Sonja's loss completely took me out of the rails. I was spiteful and revolted, and I took it on you. That will not happen again."

He nodded once, the warmth of his body making you dizzy. How you'd missed him. You nuzzled your face against his neck like a hungry kitty, an infatuated smile crossing your lips.

"I thought of you greatly during my imprisonment.” His index finger traced patterns on your cheek, while the other one rolled a lock of your hair. You felt yourself melt within his touch, his voice, his warmth. "Lucienne told me you never gave up. I am grateful."

"Don't be, this was no favour. The Dreaming is my refuge, and I love it with all my heart. When I heard you were missing, I was so worried. I thought of Lucienne having to administrate everything by herself… so I came." You shrugged, smiling lightly.

You didn't get an answer, at least not a spoken one, for Morpheus' lips crashed against yours with such a passion he hadn't displayed so far. Taken by surprise, you needed a moment to react, grabbing the hair on the back of his neck, receiving a low growl in response that reverberated through your chest.

When you parted, you gasped for air with a pleasant smile, biting your lip with the sight of his swollen red ones.

"Stay" was his simple plea, the eyes glowing with the shine of a whole galaxy.

"Learn to be more humble on your requests, Dream of the Endless" you repeated the words he had once said to you centuries ago, on the night you'd met.

Nevertheless, you knew you would stay. For him, you would do anything.

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catcze · 3 years

Text

⠀ [ ᝰ ] When you get hurt

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

!!⠀Feat : Xiao, Kazuha, Childe (separate) x GN! Reader

!!⠀## : Fluff !! hurt/comfort, I suppose.

!!⠀CWs : super vague mentions of injuries, w/ no graphic descriptions.

Barely re-read and edited bc I have to post this asap n I don’t wanna lose my bet w Tea HAHHA

⠀ ᝰ Xiao

Probably concerned. Like, really concerned, and he wants to help, but he doesn’t know how.

Xiao wants to touch and help patch you up and make you feel better, but he’s so worried that if he touches you, his karma is somehow going to make you injury worse :(

It’s just a scrape, you tell him, a flesh wound. It just looks much, much worse than it actually is. And yet Xiao is still hovering around you, his hands poised like he wants to place them on your injured leg in some way, but he doesn’t. Already, he had rushed you back to the inn in the closest thing to panic that you’ve ever seen in his expression, setting you down carefully on one of the seats on his balcony. His worry would be endearing and something to aww over, if not for the poorly-hidden distress on his face.

“Xiao, it’s okay,” you tell him, causing his eyes to snap to yours. He doesn’t say anything, merely nodding quietly and eyeing your leg as if he expected it to blow up or something. The bandages he had gotten from Verr (practically scaring the poor woman out of her skin when he appeared at her workspace with a flurry) are still in your hands, sitting limply.

“It’s not that bad,” you say, smiling through the sting of the wound. Yes, it might not be life-threatening or anything, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt in its own right. Xiao apparently catches the wince you try to hide, and his frown only deepens.

“You humans are so fragile,” he says, brows furrowed. His pretty green eyes are dark, even in the light of the inn’s lanterns. “Even something as menial as this could be the cause for your death.”

A bit of a reach, maybe. It is just a scrape, after all. Just… a little more bloody than it should be. After weighing your actions for a second, you beckon him closer with a hand, smiling when he easily does so. You hold out the bandages, pain nearly forgotten when he looks at them blankly and you have to fight the urge to chuckle. “You can help, if you’re so worried.”

He doesn’t take them, not until you grab his hand yourself and plop it on his palm. Xiao’s hands don’t move, and if anything there’s even more conflict on his face as his eyes dart between his closed hands and the wound that’s still on your leg. Your hand drapes over his, curling his fingers tighter around the cloth in his palm, giving it a comforting pat for good measure. “You won’t hurt me,” you tell him. So earnest, so believing. “I trust you.”

Warmth zings through his veins at that, and despite himself, he has to hold down the flush to his cheeks. After a second, he exhales, kneeling down before you to be level with your injury, unrolls the strip of bandages, and prays to every god he knows to help him do this right.

⠀ ᝰ Kazuha

He’s worried, but he keeps his composure and his hands remain steady, though there’s an underlying urgency with his movements.

He’s a calming presence, soothing your every hiss of pain. With his own soft murmur. Considering his years wandering Inazuma alone, he likely knows how to treat some wounds, so he knows what he’s doing.

“Hold still,” Kazuha murmurs, fully concentrated as he wraps your upper arm in bandages. His movements are quick, precise. The bandage doesn’t cut off your circulation, and you’re still able to move relatively well (he had asked you several times if it was okay, if it hurt, if it was too tight) but it didn’t have any risk of coming loose anytime soon.

He’s been focused like this since you’ve gotten to a safe space, away from the hostile kairagi that you came across. With how concentrated and quiet he’s been over something like a slash, merely skin-deep and only enough for you to bleed a bit, you’ve probably been more concerned for him than you have for yourself.

Under Kazuha’s experienced hands, it takes no time at all before the bleeding stops, and both of you breathe a sigh of relief. Still, it doesn’t escape your notice when the tips of his fingers still linger near the bandage, touch as light as a feather and his gaze far away.

You wonder what he thinks, at times like these. He’s told you of his time before he joined the Crux, of course, but you know there are memories he still has yet to share. Details that he may have glossed over when he told them to you late at night on the deck of the Alcor, when the stars had been the only witness to your midnight rendezvous.

Kazuha is still silent, and your eyes go to his bandaged hand, to the burns that sit beneath the cloth, and wonder if he thinks of the night where he’d had to hastily bandage his own injury with trembling hands and a grieving heart, all alone with nothing but a cold vision to keep him company.

With your good arm, you nudge him with your elbow, effectively breaking his trance, drawing his gaze up to meet yours.

“Thank you,” you say, hoping that a smile on your face would reassure him. Your fingers interlock easily, naturally. A movement practiced a hundred times over. “Dunno what I would’ve done without you, ‘Zuha.”

It takes a moment for your words to get to him, for his gaze to finally refocus into the present, but when it does he smiles sweetly, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. Tingles rise where his lips touch your skin, and race up your spine when he regards you with a soft, earnest look.

“Think nothing of it, my love.”

⠀ ᝰ Childe

When he sees the way you so much as wince, Childe immediately knows something’s up.

He’s worried —of course he is— and his brain immediately slips into business mode. He wants to assess the damage, get all the information, make sure you’re taken care of, then make whoever did that to you very sorry.

“What happened, sweetheart?” Childe asks, brows furrowing as he reaches out, noting the odd way that you’re holding your arm. Cradling it to your body, holding it close to your chest. There’s something wrong, his brain unhelpfully supplies, like it isn’t obvious. Movement slow, cautious, he reaches out like and you instinctively flinch, which only causes his worry to mount.

“Can I see? Please.” The furrow in his brow only grows deeper as he looks at the tired, spooked way you hold yourself. He doesn’t move again, not until you swallow and nod.

So carefully, Childe takes your arm and your injured hand. His touch is ginger, handling you delicately as he takes a look. It doesn’t escape him when you grit your teeth at the small movement, or how your whole arm trembles from the pain that radiates from your hand. You’re disoriented from it, really, and you’ve been fighting the urge to lose your lunch for the better half of the past hour.

But you don’t let a peep escape you as Childe assesses the damage with the gaze of a man who’s seen plenty of injuries in his life, not even when a pulse of pain shoots through your hand again. His jaw ticks in quiet anger, and yet his touch on you never turns callous or rough— if anything, it becomes even softer, which warms your heart amidst the pain.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Childe asks, his eyes already roving over you, concerned and worried.

“No,” you say, voice quiet. Tired. “Just that.”

He nods, letting you pull your injured arm back to your chest so you can hold it as comfortably as you could, then gingerly takes hold of your good hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles that has you smiling wobbly in spite of everything.

“Let’s get you to to one of our doctors,” he says, twining your fingers together and pulling you along. His gaze is on you, focused on getting you better and getting your injury treated, but you can see the coil behind his eyes, like a cat steadying itself on its haunches, thinking of the next prey he will have in his claws. Childe presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you can feel his lips brush against your skin when he speaks. “I’ll hold your hand while you get treated, then you can tell me everything that happened, and who I need to have a little talk with, okay?”

#Xiao x reader #Kazuha x reader #Kaedehara Kazuha x reader #Childe x reader #Genshin Impact x reader #Cw GN Reader #Catte’s Works 🦩

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