#the hat and the 'surviving the stones' thing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

general-cyno · 5 months

Text

apparently it's the 15th anniversary of zoro's sacrifice in thriller bark (not sure if manga or anime though) so yknow. time for more zolu of course

one of the many things about zoro and luffy is that despite how their approach to certain situations might differ at times, they're still pretty similar at their core, sometimes to a comical degree (see: their definition of what a hero is back in fish man island arc). and this understanding of how the other works is what leads to moments like jaya,

this little one in water 7/enies lobby,

and follows consistently all the way to wano arc.

and I was thinking the other day about how their childhoods too kinda mirror or parallel each other's in a way that emphasizes (to me, at least) how special zoro's particular protectiveness toward luffy is, and why luffy relying on zoro that way is just as special.

the specifics of their childhood stories are different but both luffy and zoro have a turning point of sorts that's marked with the grief and loss of sabo and kuina, respectively, which leads them to say these:

(I cropped the panels, but luffy's also crying here)

it's important to note zoro and luffy had dreams/aspirations before this, to become the greatest swordsman and luffy's secret thing that we've yet to learn about (that ace, sabo and the crew now know). however, losing kuina and sabo is what prompts them to, on top of that, strive to become stronger for other people's sake. for zoro, it's his way to honor his friend and fulfill their shared dream. for luffy, it's to avoid losing the people he loves.

throughout the story, zoro and luffy end up expressing similar frustration and sentiments due to this. there's zoro innerly chiding himself for being too weak as he trains in the aftermath of arcs like little garden, alabasta and thriller bark, where the crew get stuck in situations in which zoro isn't able to help as he wishes he could (the wax cake, the sea prism stone cell, kuma). there's luffy swearing he won't lose a single member of his crew even if it kills him (the davy back fight) and reproaching himself for not being able to save any of the straw hats in sabaody, with the worst of it right after losing ace in marineford.

(and man do I have thoughts about bon turning into zoro, out of all the straw hats, back in impel down.)

anyway. as to why all of this is meaningful - when zoro agrees to join luffy, he mentions that his goal to become the greatest swordsman is all he has. yet as the straw hats go from journey to journey, and with a certain emphasis in luffy, you can see how zoro's view slowly shifts. he's now driving himself to become strong to protect them as well, to the point he's willing to set aside his ambition and offer his own head in exchange for luffy's, if it means he can ensure luffy's life and safety. that's huge. as mihawk inwardly points out, zoro has something, someone he values even more than his ambitions and pride. and it's through his adventures with luffy and the crew that he becomes closer to achieving that initial dream of his.

whenever people wonder why zoro's as loyal as he is to luffy, aside from all the reasons why luffy as a character has earned that loyalty through his actions, I also remember that one line koushiro said to zoro in a flashback: "the pinnacle of swordsmanship is the power to protect what one wishes to protect and cut what one wishes to cut. a blade that injures all that it touches isn't really a sword." while sure, it works in the context of later power ups like haki, imo it perfectly captures zoro's character growth too and what luffy's given him. the current zoro isn't lost or directionless with only one purpose in mind or to live for, bounty hunting as a means to survive. he has a home to return to, people to cherish, to protect and keep getting stronger for, people who nurture him in turn. kuina's death is something zoro couldn't have prevented, and losing people in accidents like those is something that could happen again, but still within the limits of what's preventable - zoro can protect his friends now.

as for luffy... zoro kinda steals the spotlight when it comes to grand gestures of loyalty/devotion and being the MC of the story means luffy fights for different people (both crew and non crew), carrying their wishes and hopes as if they were his own. he gets help and learns from others as well and all members of the crew are important for luffy to achieve his dream one way or the other, but the way he relies on zoro specifically is so subtly meaningful to me. we don't get as much insight on luffy's inner thoughts, still, we do have context.

for someone like luffy, who is at his innermost genuinely terrified of being alone and losing the people he loves, the fact that he trusts zoro to protect and keep everyone safe (even luffy himself) is so good. as shown above, luffy vowed to become strong in the first place to ensure he'd never go through loss like sabo's again and this vow is all the more renewed after ace's death. luffy has to be strong for everyone but... the fact that he can trust zoro to follow his lead even when others might not understand his reasons to do x or y, that he's so unwavering in his faith that zoro will protect the others when luffy can't, entrusting the people he cares about to zoro, whom luffy also cherishes - it's all pretty special. everyone in the crew has their strengths and zoro may not be the only fighter, but all of them, including sanji, fall under his protection whenever it's needed.

it's not only about raw strength though. zoro's also there to set luffy straight and remind him of what's important when the circumstances arise, like in water 7 or punk hazard. and even when they don't necessarily agree, like wrt vivi's situation after the reverie in marijoa, luffy knows when zoro's right and acquiesces (albeit grumbling a little) because, once again, he's also aware that zoro wouldn't just risk everyone's safety. luffy listens to him. and their reunion in wano too, luffy's sheer happiness at the sight of him again, is a very clear example of how much luffy adores zoro even beyond all that.

although luffy isn't aware of what happened in thriller bark (that we know of), zoro's actions are proof of why luffy trusts, has faith in, and relies on zoro as much as he does and why it's so important for luffy to have him by his side, considering how afraid he is of being unable to keep his loved ones safe. this is more on a speculative note, but I can imagine how comforting that must be for luffy - to not shoulder that on his own.

happy anniversary!

#zolu #tp #long post #yeah it's me. again #happy anniversary to zoro reinventing love and devotion for luffy y'all #I meant to add but I would've gone on a longer tangent if I had AJSJ #that yeah you could count whiskey peak as the one time luffy didn't trust zoro but eh it's like #1) I'm not sure how much of it was meant to be serious 2) their chemistry is so ridiculous they can't even fight properly #without falling into sync with one another and 3) luffy doesn't doubt zoro's intentions after that again #aaand you could argue this whole unwavering faith in zoro may have its drawbacks (sabaody) but #within the story it's not really something he holds against luffy but it is something that at least motivates him #to tell luffy to get his shit together. which is tasty imo #jay reads op

252 notes · View notes

calypso707 · 5 months

Note

hey i adore your writing!

i was wondering how astarion would take care of his s/o who suffers from migraines and severe photosensitivity. my friends always call me a vampire because of it so i thought it’d be a funny dynamic 😆

this one is actually funny because i suffer from migraines as well, so here we are! I don't know if I'm proud of what I've written, but it was fun to do! enjoy! ❤

OS - Astarion x gn drow reader : Simple things.

Living on the surface had proved more complicated than the Underdark. Being born, growing up and spending a significant part of your life in the darkness had certainly had its advantages, but now that you were living on the surface, you realised just how different things were. Whether it was people's lifestyles or all those bright colours. So yes, there were bright colours in the Underdark, but they were often signs of danger, such as explosive mushrooms or plants releasing deadly spores.

You may have been used to the dark and could see in the night better than your companions, but constant exposure to the sun had its drawbacks. So, sure, it was nice to feel the light warming your skin, you could now appreciate things like the colour of the sky, listen to birdsong or even hear the sound of the wind, but your eyes still couldn't handle so much brightness. And on top of that, you had a tadpole in your skull that was not only making its own little nest but was also giving you migraines on a regular basis.

But you still tried to stay positive, because thanks to all the adventures you'd been through, however farfetched, you'd met your current companions, who had turned out to be loyal allies and faithful friends.

And above all, you had met Astarion.

A magnificient two-century-old vampire.

It was almost poetic, two beings of darkness who found themselves having to survive under the sun. So what was it between you two? It was a tricky question, but you cared about him as much as he cared about you, and knowing that was more than enough. Though, Astarion was handling the conditions and opportunities this adventure offered him better than you were. He had always loved sunbathing as soon as the first lights appeared. You enjoyed them too, but in small doses.

While you were enjoying a moment's respite from this chaotic and probably deadly mission, you had given yourselves a break and were strolling through the alleys of Baldur's Gate. Astarion was describing the things his former master, Cazador Szarr, had made him do, a certain bitterness in his voice. You tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but the sun was at its zenith, there were no clouds in the sky to dim its brightness and you felt as if your eyes were burning and your skull was splitting in two.

"Are you even listening when I am talking to you?", grumbled Astarion.

"Sorry… Can we take a short break?" you asked, using your hand to shade your eyes as you looked at him.

"My dear, are you sure that you are not a vampire?" said Astarion with a smirk.

"Hilarious" you sighed.

You took a few steps into the shadow under a stall on the main street leading to the Wyrm's Rock fortress. Astarion was looking at you with a slightly concerned expression; he seemed to be thinking.

"Hm.. I think I have an idea. Stay put." It was almost an order.

Before you could reply, he was heading off into "Carm's Garm" shop. You wondered what had gone through his mind. You decided to wait for him and you leaned against the stone wall behind you, watching the passers-by go about their business, carefree. You listened the trout seller shouting about how fresh his fish were and the wholesaler who was delighted with his harvest.

Long minutes passed, during which you examined everyone who passed in the street. You didn't hear Astarion come back, and you were startled when he cleared his throat once he was beside you. You looked at him and noticed that he was holding several hats under his arms. You tried to hide your smile but it was complicated.

"Let's see…" He put the pile of accessories at his feet and picked up a first hat and placed it on your head. It was a sort of pointy wizard's hat with hideous embroidery that went all the way around, and before you could even give your opinion, Astarion took it off, shaking his head and frowning. "Awful"

He then picked up a sort of adjustable steel helmet, and didn't even take the time to let you try it on before he tossed it aside, doing the same with a brightly coloured top hat. Finally, he took a simple brown hat with silver wings embroidered on the stiff leather and placed it on your head as gently as possible. The brim of the hat was wide enough to keep your face in the shade.

He stood back and examined you for a few seconds, his index finger resting on his chin: "Hm.. I think this one will do, darling. Of course, I still am the fashion icon of our group, but I can assure you you are not far from it now."

You readjusted your hat slightly and took a long look at him, biting your lower lip to hold back your smile. You were pleasantly surprised by his gesture and his words made you chuckle. Astarion moved closer to you and put his hands on your shoulders, pressing them lightly as you put yours against his chest.

"I am impressed, so you are able to do sweet things." you said.

"Sweet? What an idea" He grinned before tilting his head to the side, a thin smile on his lips. "It just should not be so unbearable to enjoy the simple things of life."

And he was right.

═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═

thanks for reading this OS, i hope you liked it!

don't hesitate to read my other writings on Astarion! ❤

Astarion x gn druid tav : On your skin.

Astarion x gn tav : No place for love.

Astarion x gn tav : A thousand thanks.

Fiction - Astation x fem!tav bard : Fruit of The Poisonned Tree

#romance #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion vampire #baldur's gate iii #astarion x gn reader #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion my beloved #astarion ancunin #astarion x gn!tav

259 notes · View notes

im-a-wonderling · 1 month

Text

Survival Mechanisms ~ George Weasley

This is part three, so make sure you read Is It Still Punishment if It's Worth It? and Clumsy, Clumsy first!

Warnings: none

Word count: 4k

The N.E.W.T. preparatory witch was absolute rubbish.

With the exams looming, Umbridge had allowed for a dodgy witch from the Ministry to host an exam study session of sorts on the Patronus Charm. It was hard to believe that Umbridge could hate so many things and yet endorse a witch that wore a hat with green shamrocks and orange balloons.

A load of the Gryffindors were lounging around on the seats that had been pushed against the walls, having produced a fully corporeal Patronus. They cracked jokes and laughed with each other. Every so often, one of them would lazily sweep their gaze across the room at the students still struggling with the spell. Their palpable arrogance seemed to bounce against the stone walls, weighing down the room.

I gripped my wand tightly enough to feel every ridge of it against my skin.

Why were they still here? If they’d successfully completed the exercise, they could take their boisterousness somewhere else, preferably over the balcony of the Astronomy Tower.

“Expecto Patronum!” I said firmly, circling my wand. The most pathetic stream of silver yet flowed from the tip of my wand, disappearing in an instant. I grit my teeth, circling my wand again. “Expecto Patronum!”

“No, dear,” said the supervising witch, waddling over to me. “The wand movement must flow. Like this.” She demonstrated, and the silver form of a dog burst forth, running through the air in the classroom with its tongue hanging out.

I ducked my head in thanks, and she walked away to help a Hufflepuff. I glared after her, imagining transfiguring her stupid hat into a flower pot of marigolds. When I turned back to the fake dementor, it wasn’t the only dummy standing there.

George leaned an elbow on the dementor’s shoulder, looking at me with his grin reeking with complications. “All right?”

I extended my wand towards the fake dementor, waiting for George to get out of the way. But he remained squarely where he was. “What?” I asked tersely.

“Nothing.” His tone was far too smug for that to be true. “You’re just cute when you’re frustrated.”

Just then, George Weasley should’ve thanked every star in the sky that I wasn’t born a Welsh Green, otherwise he’d be a pile of cinders. Gritting my teeth, I flicked my wand at him, trying to scare him away, but George didn’t so much as flinch. “Go away,” I finally said. “I’m busy.”

George stood up straight, his arm leaving the dummy. But instead of going to join his housemates, he ambled closer. He had such a funny and easygoing way of walking. He put one foot in front of the other like it didn’t even matter where his feet ended up, because he was content wherever he was. “Struggling, are we?”

“Expecto Patronum!”

George side-stepped the spurt of silver that left my wand, and when it faded, he looked back at me. “Do you want help?”

“George, I’m not in the mood,” I warned.

“What’s your memory?”

I shot him a withering glare. “I’m not telling you.”

George brought both his hands to his chest, sticking out his lower lip. “You wound me.”

“I will if you don’t get out of the way,” I seethed.

George tilted his head to the side in the way he always did when he seemed to be sizing me up. Then he bent down and leaned in, and I prepared my wand, ready to cast the Revulsion Jinx if he so much as laid a finger on me. “Meet me on the sixth floor,” he said quietly, his words tickling my ear, “by the portrait of Edgar Stroulger.”

“So you and your Gryffindor pals can ambush me?” I bit back, turning my head to look him directly in the eye. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you never trust anybody?” George’s soft question paired with his unassuming eyes almost made me feel guilty.

“If you want trust,” I replied, “go bestow your relentless charms on a Hufflepuff.”

George straightened, looking down on me with furrowed brows. For a moment, we simply stood there, staring at each other. Had I finally gone too far? Was he going to throw in the towel? Would he take the advice I wasn’t sure I meant and go find someone easier to talk to?

Then his face split into a grin. “You think I’m charming?”

How could he do that? I’d never known someone who could receive such acidic words from someone and spin them as if they’d been given a compliment. “Why would you help me?”

“Because we’re friends now.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” George’s eyes flicked over to the witch who’d just finished demonstrating how her own patronus walked on all fours, “you said you don’t snog your friends. We’ve never snogged, therefore we’re friends.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the flipping of my stomach. “I don’t think that’s how logic works.”

“Innit?” George straightened. “If you want help, you know where I’ll be.” And with that, he walked in his unhurried way out of the room.

The dark eyes of the dementor dummy bored into mine as I considered my options: staying and hoping the witch somehow became more helpful or taking a chance on George. I glanced at the witch, who was leading one of the other Slytherins in what appeared to be a breathing exercise.

Okay, clearly George could offer as much, if not more than, the witch. But the humiliation of failing in front of the witch meant nothing compared to how I would feel if George laughed at me.

Could I take that risk for the benefit of learning this charm?

I looked out the door George had just walked out of.

Stopping at the entrance of the Study of Ancient Runes classroom, I glanced around the corner, waiting for any sign of danger. Seeing none and walking slowly, I rounded the corner, coming face to face with the portrait.

Edgar Stroulger, the inventor of the Sneakoscope, looked warily down at me as he reached into his wrinkled purple robes to pull out the Dark Detector. It didn’t light up, spin, or whistle, which meant no one was doing anything untrustworthy nearby.

Did George pick this portrait to make sure that I wasn’t planning anything sinister? Or did he pick it so that I could be sure he wasn’t planning anything sinister?

Suddenly, the portrait swung outward.

My wand slid into my hand in an instant, and I pointed it, ready for action. “Calm down, it’s only me,” George said lightly, stepping out and closing the portrait behind him.

I waited a beat, just to see if George would start squirming, but he didn’t look the least bit concerned by having the tip of my wand an inch away from the tip of his freckled nose.

“Another make-out spot?” I asked, finally lowering my arm.

“Not yet, but there’s always time,” George replied with a cheeky grin. I waited for him to lead me somewhere, but he just stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at me.

“What?” I finally asked.

“You came.”

Were the words born of surprise? Excitement? Disappointment? I was unnerved by the fact that I couldn’t tell. “I don’t like failing.”

“Everyone knows that,” George chuckled. He gave a grand bow, indicating the hallway I’d just come through. “Shall we?”

I eyed George. Were we going to the Ancient Runes classroom? Or did he have somewhere else in mind? Was he bringing me to a second location? Wasn’t it common knowledge that one was never supposed to let a kidnapper take them to a second location?

“Well, we can’t practice charms in the hallway, can we?” he said, correctly interpreting my silence.

I sighed. “I’ll follow you then.”

George smiled and swept down the hallway, walking straight towards an empty stone wall. Was George about to walk right into it? And if so, did I have time to get snacks to watch? Just as I started to debate this, before my very eyes grew a large door, as if it’d just pooled out of the wall like melted chocolate.

“How did you–” I started to ask, a bit breathless. “How did that door just…appear?

George looked pleased at my response. “Hogwarts is full of surprises.”

I shook my head. If anyone would know about a secret door in Hogwarts, my money was on the nosy Weasley twins, but still.

George opened the door and made a little bow. “After you.”

My curiosity winning over my paranoia, I walked inside, glancing all about the room.

There was no furniture, only a wide-open space with a fire burning in the hearth across from the entrance. A few training dummies, similar to the ones the witch had been using, lined the walls. There lay an inherent conflict in the room between the cool, blue light from the windows which bounced off the mirrors and the yellow light of the glowing chandelier.

“Alright,” George said, rolling the sleeves of his uniform above his elbow as he brushed past me to stand in the very center of the room. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I followed him, dutifully pulling out my wand and keeping my eyes focused on one of the training dummies and not George. “Expecto Patronum.”

“You’re spiraling too big,” George said.

I tried again.

“No, not like–here.” The next thing I knew, George was at my back, his hand moving down my arm to encase my wand hand. “Smaller, softer.” My lips parted as his warm breath skittered across my cheek. His wrist moved, guiding my wand through the motions. “It’s not meant to be harsh.”

I glanced at the mirror across from us to see that George’s eyes weren’t focused on my hand, but on my face, which was steadily turning crimson.

If bringing me to this room was some sort of romantic move, I was determined that it would fail. The portrait of Edgar Stroulger would not become another make-out spot, and neither would this room. At least not with me. I kept my eyes studiously forward, waving my wand as instructed.

“Brilliant.” He spoke in a whisper, but it felt as though he were shouting.

"Expecto Patronum!" Silver mist flowed from my wand, more than before, and it didn’t fade as quickly.

“Better,” George said encouragingly. “Again.”

“Expecto Patronum!” Same result.

“Try again.”

I repeated the action, and the silver mist was gone in a moment. “Augh, this bloody charm is impossible!”

George rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and the appraising manner with which he looked at me made me nervous. “What are you picturing when you’re trying to conjure it?”

“Not–”

“Y/L/N.”

I lapsed into silence, keeping my lips stubbornly closed. Under no circumstances was I going to give him ammunition.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” George said softly. “I’m not harboring some secret plan to humiliate you. I’m trying to help, so will you please let those walls of yours down and let me?”

I just glared back at him, folding my arms tightly.

George sighed, moving to stand between the dummy and I. “Mine is a food fight with my family.”

The admission made me blink. Why would his response to my closed doors be to open his own? In spite of myself, I was interested. “Not some prank?”

George ducked his head, and I suddenly missed his smile. “No, not some prank. We were sitting down to dinner, and my dad leaned over to give my mum a kiss and he accidentally knocked over the cauldron, spilling pea soup everywhere.” George wrinkled his nose, as if he could smell it still. “My brothers and I were covered in it, and the whole dining room was dead silent…and then Fred threw his soggy roll at Bill, and next thing you know,” George smiled broadly, “we were all throwing food, even Mum, and Mum never willingly creates a mess.”

Even though I hadn’t been there, his memory was captivating enough that I could picture the large family laughing and slipping as they reveled in each others’ company.

George lifted his wand, and a burst of fear shot through me.

But before I could hurl a spell in his direction, he whispered his own: “Expecto Patronum.”

A magpie flew forth, soaring about the room with minimal flapping of its patterned wings. If patronuses could make noise, I had a feeling this one would sing the most beautiful song. Not because it was trying to compete with or impress anyone, but for itself, to represent the sheer joy that kept it aloft.

Then, it veered towards me, flying so close that I could’ve sworn I felt the brush of feathers on my leg as it began to circle. It flew higher and higher with every rotation until a silver cloud of mist surrounded me. Then, it shot away again, flying about the room.

“The Patronus is an outpouring,” George said quietly. “It’s the happiness that can’t be contained, therefore it must leap forward.”

I’d never been much good at outpouring. Everything I held dear was held behind my walls, for sharing things was the fastest way to spoil them.

But I wanted to learn this charm. How could I protect Clem if there was a gap in my magical prowess?

“What are you picturing?” George asked again.

I folded my arms. “I’m not telling you.”

“C’mon, Y/L/N, your wand movement’s good, you’re saying the incantation right. There’s only one thing that could be keeping you from casting it.”

I grit my teeth. If there was anything more insufferable than George Weasley, it was George Weasley when he was right. “I was…thinking of…getting my Hogwarts acceptance letter.”

George didn’t burst into laughter or devolve into mocking like I expected. “Why’s that a powerful happy memory for you?”

I looked away, staring at the door and stifling the wish to run through it. “My parents were going to send me to Durmstrang.”

“Oh.” George rubbed his neck. “Well. That would’ve been a shame.” There was a silence before I finally nodded, not wanting to say anything else on the subject. “Maybe try a different image?” he suggested.

“Like what?” I said hopelessly. “Hippogriffs tap dancing?”

George’s eyes gleamed, and the magpie landed on top of his head. “Now that’s a good one.”

“George,” I said warningly.

George rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. The longer the silence extended, the more I wished I could simply use George’s memory of his family food fight. Finally, George blew out his cheeks, imitating a frog’s vocal sac extending with a croak. “Don’t curse me for asking this–”

“No promises.”

“–but why do you protect Clem so strongly?”

I stared at George, confused. Not by his actions, but by the small part of me that actually wanted to answer his question and share about the biggest love of my life. But I couldn’t shake the deep-seated fear that this information would somehow be the key to bringing me down.

“I swear to you,” George said softly as the magpie ruffled its wings, “Clem’s safer from me than my own siblings, because I won’t turn his teddy bear into a giant spider.”

I debated inquiring about the story that clearly lingered behind his oddly specific word choice, but decided not to. Letting out a long breath, I looked away.

“I was six when Clem was born,” I told the floor. It was much easier to speak to the stone floor than to the intently listening redhead. “I’d always wanted a sibling, but my parents struggled with having kids. Even when my mom was pregnant, the healers at St. Mungo warned her that she might lose the baby at any point, but my father…” I sighed. “He wanted a son. You know, carry on the family name and all that.”

Mercifully, George stayed silent, as if he knew one word from him would make me clam up and one joke right now would earn him a trip to the Hospital Wing with a pair of permanent elephant ears.

“They let me hold him, and he was so much heavier than I thought he was going to be.” I smiled softly. “I’d never seen a baby before. I thought babies were just…small people, but they’re not, they’re chubby and wrinkly and they’re red all over.” I glanced at the mirror and George’s unmoving reflection staring intently at mine, willing me to finish.

“I don’t think six-year-olds know much about anything. I definitely didn’t, but when I held my brother…” My courage quailed. I shook my head, raising my wand to attempt the charm again.

Suddenly, the magpie flew past me and then George was in front of me, his hand holding mine still as he looked down at me with something I couldn’t name or deny. “Finish it,” he said softly, but earnestly. “Finish the story.”

I couldn’t form the right words at first, but George didn’t say anything to break the silence as I struggled. “When I held my brother,” the image of my baby brother started almost glowing in my mind, “I knew what love was.”

George’s slight, answering smile was quite possibly the most genuine thing I’d ever laid eyes on. He released my hand but didn’t step away. “Try it now.”

I didn’t look away, not wanting to puncture the peace of the room with the incantation. I looked deeply into George’s brown eyes and whispered it. “Expecto Patronum.”

The room lit up with the silver mist that poured forth from my wand, more than before. At first the mist pooled beneath my wand, and then, rising up from the pool, rose a large but graceful four-legged creature that ran around the room.

A lioness.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumbled, but there was little heat behind the words. I couldn’t be ungrateful for the creature, not when it moved so freely about the room, as if it were as glad as I was that it existed. “Don’t laugh,” I warned George as the patronus walked a circle around him. “And if you make a joke about me being in Gryffindor, I’ll turn you into a toad.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” George followed the lioness with his eyes as she trotted closer to me, leaving trails of mist behind her. “Makes sense though.”

I studied the markings by the lioness’s noble face. “How?”

“Strength. Ferocity.” His eyes flicked up to mine. “Beauty.”

I blushed, and the lioness started running again, as if energized by the heat in my cheeks. The magpie swooped to join the lioness, who playfully swatted at it before leaping into the air to join it.

“So…what other spells are you and your friends mastering in this room?”

George’s glance cut quickly towards me, and the magpie dissipated. “What?”

I allowed the lioness to dissolve as well. “There are multiple training dummies, and whatever spell you have on that door, clearly you don’t want people inside.” I tilted my head at him. “And you’re brilliant, George, but Defense Against the Dark Arts has never been your strongest subject, and considering Umbridge’s educational skills…I can't believe you're doing it on your own."

George looked scared, and as much as I enjoyed finally seeing a bit of fear on his face, I couldn’t let it remain there for long. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret as long as you keep mine.”

George furrowed his brow. “Your secret?”

I stared at him, tongue-tied with disbelief. Did he really have no idea that he held a vulnerable secret? Had he not recognized that the knowledge of how deeply I loved Clem was a valuable piece of information? A vulnerability that could be easily exploited?

Too late, it seemed to dawn on him, and the sheer delight in his demeanor made me quickly walk for the door. “Wait–” he said.

“Time to leave, isn’t it?” I said shortly, but George caught up with me, blocking my way.

“You’re trying to blackmail me?”

I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. “Can we forget about it?” George burst out laughing, doubling over. I shoved him, hard enough to make him stumble. “Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m…sorry,” George wheezed, clutching his stomach. “You’re just so cute!”

“Excuse me?” I shrieked.

“What do you think you are,” he said, gasping for air, “MI6?”

“It’s a survival mechanism,” I mumbled, and his laughter started anew. Heat rushed into my cheeks.

George only laughed all the harder.

My goodwill evaporating, I shoved him. Hard.

The aggression in the gesture didn’t move George that far, but his laughter stopped as I stormed out the door. “I’m sorry,” he said, jogging after me, still looking amused. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry.”

I turned to look at him and saw the door melting away again.

“Besides,” George leaned against a pillar, “friends keep each other's secrets.” He looked so comfortable, so unbothered. I didn’t know many Gryffindors who would willingly share the same room with a Slytherin, and here was one of the most Gryffindor of Gryffindors, staring down at me without a hint of a long-suffering sigh.

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you want to be my friend?”

George rolled his eyes, pushing off from the pillar. “Enough with the paranoia, Y/L/N.”

“No, I’m not paranoid, I just…I’m confused.”

George looked at me suspiciously for a moment before the suspicion dropped. “Well…why wouldn’t I?” he asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re smart, and I happen to think your survival mechanisms are extremely endearing.”

“I’m also a Slytherin.”

George groaned. “Not this again.”

I stepped forward, craning my neck to look up at George. “You’re goofy, but you’re not naive. And I can’t believe that you haven’t been given any grief about your interest in me.”

George pursed his lips, clearly unable to disagree and wishing he could.

“So why are you risking it?”

His brown eyes searched my face as he seemed to gather and ponder his response. “Maybe I was curious,” he said at last. “About the terrifying, mysterious Slytherin that never lifted a finger to harm anyone.”

“I’m not compassionate, George,” I replied. “I never lift a finger to help anyone either, and that’s just as bad.”

“No, I know you’re not, that’s not what I’m saying,” he replied.

“Well, then what are you saying?”

“It’s…it just…it seems like…” He trailed off, and while the suspense wouldn’t kill me, I was considering killing him.

“It seems like what?”

“It’s like you try not to exist.” George’s face took on an expression of deep perplexity. “You don’t make yourself smaller, not like some people do, you just…float through this castle like the ghosts, leaving no trace and only the occasional word.”

He stepped closer, and it took everything in me to remain still and allow him close enough to easily step on my toes if he wanted to. “You’re more than just a Slytherin, Y/N. Just like I’m more than just a Gryffindor.”

“Are you sure about that?” I replied, more breathlessly than I’d anticipated in my head.

“If I wasn’t more,” he smirked, “we wouldn’t be such good friends.”

I blinked at him. He really was curious. And his curiosity was, in turn, making me curious as to what kind of man stood in front of me. “George?”

“Hmm?” he said.

I gnawed on my lip. “Thank you.”

George’s face went slack.

“For helping me,” I added, hoping confusion was the only reason he was looking at me like that. “I…appreciate it.”

There was a beat while George stared at me like my breakfast pumpkin juice had been spiked with Nose-Grow potion and my nose was starting to resemble Professor Snape’s.

Then, a bright, dazzling smile spread across his face. “Cheers, Y/N.”

I lingered for another moment before giving George a sharp nod and quickly descending the stairs, silently asking the universe why my heart felt like it was swelling.

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

#harry potter #hp #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #george #george weasley #george weasley x y/n #george weasley x you #george weasley fanfic #george weasley fanfiction #room of requirement #hogwarts #slytherin!reader

54 notes · View notes

fallout-fucker · 23 days

Text

Random Sole x Hancock Headcanon - Emails.

Sole figures out how to get some sort of online connection up and running again purely so they can send emails to Hancock's terminal from their Pip-Boy whenever they're apart. Love sick idiots.

Cue Hancock blushing and kicking his feet whilst reading the emails. He invents the ;) emote. Sole, in turn, makes the ^-^ and :3 emotes.

They both invent selfies. Hancock's the first to send one when he realises he can send pictures. It's a fucking process but he barters for old parts here and there and gets help from Kent. Eventually he has a working camera for his terminal. The first selfie was him stood on his couch, high af and surrounded by an assortment of baked goods (Edibles) he made. The email said 'Look what I can do ;D'.

He regularly sends pictures of what he's baking or random selfies when he's high.

Sole then made a similar upgrade to their Pip-Boy the minute they could. They send him random pictures of cats and other creatures they see in their travels. Cool views or old, historic buildings and art they think he'd enjoy. A collection of Dogmeat being cute. They sent one of Danse falling over. They send him pictures of books they'll think he like. Usually literature, history, or STEM stuff. Sole also takes pictures with their shared friends and lets them email him too from their arm for a quick update.

They also show off their new builds and inventions. Gun mods, armour, ect.

They also share a 'Spotting Deacon In The Wild' collection. They have a running joke that every new disguise they spot is a 'Deacon Variant' or new Deacon 'Synth'. They add names for each 'character' and the email will say '[Insert Character Name] Deacon Unlocked!' Like, Butcher Deacon, or Diamond City Guard Deacon, etc.

On that note, they invent memes. Usually from pictures of other companions or each other.

Like when Nick was 'sleeping' one time (Wide eyed stare Synth style) and Sole sent a picture of him, captioned 'Me after the horrors'.

Or when Preston was stood looking out at the Sanctuary River after a long night. Coffee in his hand. His hat and one shoe missing. Expressionless as he stared at the sunrise.

Hancock replied 'Me fucking too, brother'.

Sole will update him on their whereabouts regularly so he stays sane.

Hancock will tell them about how Goodneighbour is doing. From Mayoral plans to general gossip. How Daisy is doing, how the local kids are, etc.

Sometimes Hancock sends the most cryptic chain spam looking things when he is stoned.

Sole can email him whenever they're nearby and plan on visiting.

Hancock sometimes requests items if he knows they’re on their way, but only if they happen to come across it or already have whatever it is.

Will email them questions that he doesn't actually mean for them to answer. Just questions to the void, really. He just uses them as an outlet for his thoughts a lot.

Or for help on a crossword puzzle.

Sole will email him when they can't sleep just in case he's also awake. Nights feel really lonely when everyone you knew died 200 years ago.

Sometimes they ask him for knowledge. Like 'Do you know if this plant is poisonous?' or things that most Commonwealthers know for survival, but Sole is still figuring out.

They ask him for leadership advise. Especially during big decisions.

They both tell each other things they've seen/heard through the grapevine that they think the other should know. 'I heard that guy you were looking for was seen in Bunker Hill' 'Some Gens 2s were spotted patrolling Medford Hospital' 'Hi :) Sorry for the late response, I was running for my life :( Tell your traders to stay away from the East Bridge- Gunners'

#Taking advantage of the fact they both canonly have devices on hand #They bring back wifi just to fucking send each other notes what idiots (I love them)#Do you think Sole ever goes to call him and realises phones don't exist anymore.#John Hancock you would've LOVED facetime #Hancock invents facetime in the Fallout Canon just to talk to his husband/wife #If Sole can have a radio tower for the Castle #Who's to decide what they can't do #They're both so smart but so dumb. They share one braincell and Dogmeat has it.#Fallout #Fallout 4 #Hancock #Sole Survivor #John Hancock #SoSu #Hancock x sole #Crack headcanon

47 notes · View notes

turtletaubwrites · 3 months

Text

My Crew Needs Me ~ Part 25

Pairings: Zoro x Fem!Reader, Sanji x Fem!Reader, Robin x Fem!Reader, Sanji X Robin

This is part 25 of the poly series 'We've All Got Needs,' linked below:

Word Count: 3593

We've All Got Needs Masterlist

Ao3 Link (Ch. 15 of We've All Got Needs cont.)

!!SPOILER WARNING!! Spoilers for the anime for the Water 7/Enies Lobby arc (through episode 288).

Summary: The Straw Hats infiltrate the Tower of Justice, and they race against time to find Robin before she's taken through the Gates. CP9 holds the keys to her freedom, and the crew will win or die trying to get her back.

Rating/Warnings: AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Polyamory, Kissing, Canon Typical Violence, Blood, Injuries, Pet Names, Swearing, Angst, Mild Body Horror (I guess? it's in the show)

A/N: Sorry for the longer wait on these chapters, friends! Apparently action takes me longer to write than smut, lol.

Luffy’s rallying call was followed by the creaking and scraping of the drawbridge, excitement and hope stunning you.

“Our reinforcements pulled it together after all. And just in time too,” Sanji praised, his words fading out at the sound of the Franky Family yelling that it was up to all of you now.

Luffy crouched down, yelling one more time to your crewmate across the waterfall.

“Hey Robin! We’ll save you no matter what!”

Shouts from marines below were followed by the booming of weapons against wood and stone that dashed your hopes.

Luffy and Sanji yelled down at the enemies, and you saw the bridge stop halfway, all of that work for naught.

You almost didn’t catch the sight of Franky lighting something on fire, burning pieces of paper floating away in the wind.

“We were passing down the blueprints to that ancient weapon to make sure it wouldn’t get used by scumbags like you. But I know Tom would have done the same thing.”

You saw Spandam, and all of CP9, staring open mouthed at the blue haired shipwright, and you knew you were missing something big.

“If you guys make a weapon now, we won’t be able to fight back,” Franky continued, ignoring Spandam’s quivering threats.

“But that’s only possible if you take Nico Robin through the Gates of Justice. I was wrong about you, Robin. You’re not a monster. And you’ve got friends willing to fight for you. Everything’s resting on the Straw Hats now.”

He looked over at you all with a nod, and you swore you saw him wink.

“And I’m betting on them.”

Voices of the Franky Family carried up to the tower, cheering, yelling that they were coming for him. He leaned over the edge to call back to his people, still ignoring the wails of Spandam as he mourned over the loss of those burnt papers.

Ignoring that pathetic man was a mistake, and you gasped as Franky was flung over the side of the building, Spandam’s arms shaking after shoving him over.

You watched in horror, hoping he would survive, until a voice called out of your pocket.

With a jolt, you pulled out the snail, Nami frowning at the grating voice berating you.

“Kokoro,” Nami questioned as you lifted the snail so you could hear her better.

“I left it on, I heard everything. Why are you all just standing around?”

“The bridge broke.”

“There’s no way over!”

You and Nami explained at the same time, yelling over the shouting voices of the rest of the crew.

“Jump into the waterfall! Give it all you’ve got, trust me!”

A train whistle blasted from below, moving closer.

“It’s the sea train,” Luffy laughed, the mischievous sound sending off alarm bells in your mind.

“What’s with that devious chuckle,” Usopp questioned, but he was too late.

Luffy’s arms stretched out behind the whole group, shoving you off the building.`

Plummeting toward death with nothing but Luffy’s arm at your back, and the screaming and crying forms of your crew, you braced for the end.

The end appeared as the beat up train charging over the half lowered bridge, flinging through the air toward the tower.

Tears were streaming from your eyes as you landed on top of the train, body aching with more bruises as you scrambled to hold onto something.

Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck!

Nothing ever felt real with this crew. Especially as the train slammed through the wall, stone bricks turning to dust and debris as this miracle train skidded to a halt.

Your head swam, dizziness and nausea making you feel like you were still flying after your body left the train, scraping through the rubble.

“Hey, hey, Granny? You okay? Answer me!”

Franky’s voice confused you, and you groaned as you heard Kokoro answering him.

“Alright, we made it! Come on, you guys, get up already!”

You groaned louder at Luffy’s enthusiasm, hearing your hesitation echoed amongst the crew.

“Come on, you’ve been through worse than that!”

“We’re not all made of rubber, you know,” Sanji grumbled, more groans filling the room.

You didn’t know where to hold, pain dotting across your body. You could feel the tickle of blood from a scrape on your shoulder, and your right knee felt like it was hit with a hammer.

Robin.

She was waiting. You stood up, shaking it off, watching your crew do the same.

Chopper and Usopp yelled, hyping themselves up, while Zoro growled, preparing to draw his swords.

You couldn’t help but smile at everyone, determination set on all your dusty, bruised faces.

“See, you’re all just fine,” Luffy complained.

“You know, you guys are a bunch of weirdos. I felt like I should point that out,” said the blue haired man in a speedo with guns in his arms.

“There’s a staircase,” Luffy pointed, already running. “We’d better move it if we’re gonna find Robin.”

“Not so fast,” came a strained voice, high, but rough.

The group spun, finding the source of the voice in the corner of the room, pressed against the ceiling. He was dressed in a black suit, his body so round that your mind couldn’t shake the image of a balloon that had lost its string as he stared down at you.

As he began to speak again, you noticed the dangling of what looked like a golden zipper pull at the corner of his mouth, and wondered what sort of teeth you were seeing behind his lips.

“So you’ve invaded the Tower. There’s no point in going on. Lucci’s already taken Nico Robin to the Gates of Justice, along with Chief.”

“Oh really,” Nami asked with a smirk. “Thanks for telling us where we should start looking.”

You tried to cover your laugh with a cough, but didn’t think you were successful.

Why do so many bad guys love to just tell us everything?

“Why’d I tell them that,” the zippered man muttered to himself.

“He’s not too bright,” Chopper grumbled your thoughts, and you started to get angry again.

Angry at the stupid, evil government, and their stupid, evil agents.

He pulled himself together, puffing his already puffed up chest before spewing threats down at you.

“If you want Nico Robin, you’ll have to fight through all five of our agents.”

“Duh,” Luffy said, and you had to turn around, chewing on your lip to fight your laughter this time.

I’m going insane.

Zoro touched your shoulder, pulling his fingers away with blood from that fresh scrape.

You tried to listen as the group kept talking to that idiot, but Zoro’s worried look distracted you, his eyes and gentle fingers roaming over your banged up body.

“I’m okay,” you whispered as he kissed your forehead.

We don’t have time for this.

“This might be the key to Nico Robin’s sea prism stone handcuffs,” the ceiling creep teased as he held an ornate key up into the light.

“Sea prism stone,” Franky questioned.

“It’s a stone that nullifies devil fruit powers,” Nami explained. “It’s like she’s trapped in sea water.”

Ice filled your gut at the thought of your powerful Robin, so helpless with these monsters.

“So be my guest. Go try to save her if you think you can. But without the right key, she’ll be trapped in those cuffs for the rest of her life. Mine might be the right key, but you’ll have to fight all the other agents for their keys just to be sure–”

Luffy’s fist was there, smashing into the stone, dust falling from the ceiling.

“Damn,” he complained, as the man had escaped at the last second. “I guess all the CP9 guys can use that move.”

“So we’ve gotta beat every CP9 agent, and get all their keys before we can grab Robin,” Zoro asked, frustration in every word.

“What a stupid way to keep us busy,” Sanji grumbled. “While we’re wasting time on this key hunting game, the chief is going to escape with Robin.”

The zipper man was kicking through the air, floating somehow as he continued to taunt you.

“Our first priority is Robin. Let’s ignore that weirdo, and get her first.”

You nodded at Nami’s words, the group already moving toward the stairs.

He tsked at you all, dangling the key out before him.

“If you do that, you’ll leave me no choice. I’ll toss this key into the ocean. We’re kind enough to give you a sporting chance. See ya!”

He buzzed off through the air, as if the balloon just released its air, quickly flying away.

Zoro grabbed onto Luffy before he could follow, trying to wrangle Luffy into deciding on a plan before splitting up.

We’re splitting up.

“He said there’s 5 agents with keys, we need to spread out. Let’s take them down, then meet up.”

Sanji’s voice was strong, reassuring, especially when his warm hand found yours.

Zoro gripped Luffy’s shoulders, tilting his head down to look in his captain's eyes.

“That pigeon guy, Lucci, is with Robin. You take care of him, and we’ll meet you up there.

“If they drag her across those gates, we’ll never get her back! It’s a race against time!”

Usopp’s Sniper King voice had practically echoed, and it rallied the group.

“We’ll take ‘em down, or we’ll die trying.”

Zoro’s eyes fell on yours as he made that vow. You nodded with him, and felt that nothing in this moment mattered except for those words.

The Straw Hats would save Robin. Or you’d all die here. No going back.

Fire burned through you as you charged toward the stairs with your friends, your family.

Sanji still held your hand, but you pulled it away.

“Angel, let’s–”

“I’ll go with Chopper,” you said, waving your friend down.

“No, we can–”

“No, Sanji. I need you to fight. I need you to save Robin. I won’t be a distraction for you.”

You turned, jogging toward Chopper to get away from Sanji’s pleading eyes. He caught you, pulling you to him in a desperate kiss. It lasted just a moment, but the heat of it was in your throat, and you shook your head to fight the tears.

“We’ll get her back, Angel. I promise.”

You gave him the best smile you could, shaky breath leaving faster as you watched the group dispersing.

You turned so you wouldn’t have to watch your boys running away from you. Chopper was waiting, and he patted your back with his big human form hand before running up the stairs.

“This way?”

More fucking stairs.

If CP9 didn’t kill you, it felt like a heart attack just might.

But adrenaline was doing its thing as you and Chopper made your way room by empty room. The floor you’d chosen seemed to be a bust.

Heading back for the stairs, you stumbled into each other as the building rumbled, something crashing up above.

“What do you think that is,” Chopper asked, eyes wide.

“Hopefully it's our friends kicking someone’s ass,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you were.

“Right!”

More stairs, more empty rooms, and so on.

Until more crashes and yells filled the hall. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight you saw when you looked through the noisy door.

It was a large room, with high ceilings, making the cacophony of noises bounce off the walls.

Zoro and Usopp were together. They were running side by side, yelling and looking back toward…

A humanoid wolf, and a fucking giraffe? With a baseball cap?

Did I accidentally dose myself with Daydream?

Your worry was cut short when they caught sight of the both of you in the doorway. Zoro and Usopp started screaming for you, waving their arms in the air.

Chopper raised his hand in the air, laughing, and you touched his arm to pull it down.

“We’re handcuffed together,” Zoro yelled, waving the hand that was stuck to Usopp.

“Get key number two, or we’re gonna die!”

Usopp’s wails died down as they continued to run from what had to be devil fruit users.

Giraffe’s aren’t supposed to look like that…

“But we can help–”

“No,” Zoro shouted, cutting Chopper off. “We can’t fight ‘til you get the key, and if they take you down, we’re screwed. Somebody else has to have key number two, just find it!”

You’d never heard that level of frustration in Zoro’s voice before.

“Got it,” you agreed, dragging Chopper from the room.

More stairs, more rooms, until you heard voices. Nami’s voice.

Nami’s scream!

Skidding around a corner, you raised your tonfa, but couldn’t tell where to shoot. There was a swirling mass of what looked like pink hair. Nami was held up in the air, twisted and writhing in it.

You charged forward, but Chopper was faster.

“Cloven Roseo!”

He leapt through the air, his hoof smacking into the face of a huge man, his pink hair swirling aside as blood shot out of his mouth.

Nami crumpled to the ground, coughing as you helped her to her feet.

Chopper rushed to her, looking her over.

“Are you okay Nami?”

“I’m okay. Thank you for saving me.”

“How was he attacking you,” you asked, leaning to look where the man had fallen across the room. “Was that his hair?”

“Could be a devil fruit,” Nami rushed, picking up her Clima-Tact. “Don’t know, don’t care. Once he grabs you, you’re done for. Come on, this is our chance to get away. The less we see of that guy, the better.”

You grabbed her elbow as she moved toward the hall.

“We can’t, we need to get his key,” you reminded her, Zoro’s demand ringing through your head.

“Oh, you mean this little thing?”

Nami’s smirk as she held up the key made you love her even more.

“Stealing the key was the easy part,” she bragged, leading the way out of the room. “I just couldn’t deal with that guy’s hair.”

“What number is it,” Chopper asked, his hooves tapping a frantic beat as he ran in his reindeer form.

“Uh, three,” she said, squinting at it while she ran.

“Damn,” you cursed, picturing Zoro and Usopp running from those beasts. “It’s the wrong one.”

“What do you me–”

Nami’s voice cut off, just as the three of you skidded to a stop. You’d reached the massive tower room of seemingly endless staircases climbing toward the sky.

From floors above, something fell hard, crashing onto the stone at your feet.

Covering your eyes from the dust, you leaned forward at whatever it was that had fallen.

“This place is falling apart,” Nami complained, coughing.

Chopper was closest, and let out a horrified gasp, his eyes wide as he shook his head slowly.

“What is it…” you trailed off, mind unable to process what you were seeing.

“Is it a doll?”

You wished that Nami’s question had been true, but then Chopper said the words you didn’t want to believe.

“No. It’s Sanji!”

Disgust and horror almost spilled out your throat in noxious bile. You stumbled, falling to your knees beside this figure that couldn’t be your Sanji. It couldn’t be.

It looked like a poorly drawn picture of him, his hair, his suit, his blood pouring down his face. But it was deformed, almost balloon like, completely smooth and shining in the light.

You were frozen, staring down at him with your mouth opening and closing uselessly. Your hands were just above his chest, but you couldn’t touch him. It can't be him!

Nami and Chopper joined you, yelling for him. Chopper pushed against his chest, and you sobbed as this unreal figure moved, turning its head to cough blood beside you.

“N-No, Sanji? Fuck, baby, is that you?”

Nami and Chopper joined you in your cries for him, and you sat back on your heels as he rolled on his side, pitifully failing to lift himself up with his stretched and wobbling limbs.

“I’m sorry… I lost,” he choked out, every word sounding painful as blood kept dribbling from his lips.

“I couldn’t get the k-key.”

“Hold on, okay,” Chopper comforted him, looking over Sanji’s body as if there was something he could do to help.

You were too stunned, still scared to touch him, when Nami’s sharp voice cut through.

“Hey, Sanji,” she started, standing with her weapon gripped in her hands. You followed her gaze up floors of stairs. Your blood ran cold at the sight of Kalifa, the blonde CP9 agent smiling down at you all.

“You really couldn’t win,” Nami continued, her questioning tone forcing denial to build in your stomach, but her words felt too true.

“You really gave it your all? You fought that blonde woman, didn’t you? I see. You must have gone easy on her.”

“Sanji, please,” you denied, shaking your head.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t get the key,” he choked out.

“Forget the key,” Nami yelled, anger flinging toward the man at her feet. “This fight is a matter of life and death. You can’t stick to your stupid code of honor, okay? Is chivalry really worth dying for? People are counting on you!”

Your mouth opened and closed again, but nothing came out. Part of you wanted to defend him, and part of you wanted to slap him for not giving his all for Robin, for everyone, for himself.

But mainly you just wanted to fall onto him and cry, to find some way to fix him.

“I don’t want this,” he coughed again, voice so weak, it hurt. “I don’t want to die. But I was raised to never hit a lady, no matter what. So even at a time like this, even if it kills me, I won’t kick a woman.”

“I see... That’s stupid,” Nami judged, voice deadly calm. Then she hit him on the head with her Clima-Tact, and you choked out a surprised laugh as Chopper yelled at her for hitting him while he’s wounded.

“Is running away against your code of honor too? Because that’s not worth dying over either. Nobody wants to see you throw your life away in vain. Leave that woman to me. You try to get better.” She looked back down at him with a soft smile. “And by the way, even if it’s dumb, I do like that chivalry of yours.”

You looked down at him, and shook your head, disagreeing.

“I don’t think I like it anymore.”

He tilted toward you, voice soft.

“What was that, Angel? Did you say you love me?”

Before you could kiss him, or wring his neck, Nami cleared her throat. You turned to her as she stared up at the woman that had done this to Sanji.

“For the record, I won't play nice,” Nami threatened, confidence radiating from her as she smiled.

“Neither will I. We’ll get along fine.”

“Nami, hold on,” you called, rushing to her side.

“We’re running out of time, Y/N,” she reminded you, holding her palm out to stop your movement. “You guys go get more keys. I’ll be okay, noodle arms.”

You huffed a laugh as she frowned at Sanji.

“Well, I guess he’s noodle arms now.”

You gripped her in a quick hug, hating letting her go. Your mouth was dry as you watched her run up the stairs.

“Hold it! I won’t let you get away!”

You swiveled around, blocking Sanji from the new voice.

“Don’t worry, Nami. We’ve got this one,” Chopper shouted, facing off with the large man from before, that mass of pink hair swirling around him as he brandished a staff.

Readying your tonfa, your heart raced through you. You wanted to run up and help Chopper, but you were terrified of leaving Sanji’s limp body exposed for attacks.

I never thought I’d be the one worried about protecting my partners in battle.

Gritting your teeth, you watched Chopper land a powerful hit with two hooves, preventing the agent from getting past him to chase after Nami.

Pride filled you as Chopper stood strong, staring the man down.

“That’s right, now you’ll be fighting me. Bring it!”

Chopper using his rumble balls was always a sight to behold, and you hoped that it would be enough. You felt your hands shaking as you held your weapons, wondering if you could use the darts without risking Chopper.

The agent landed some heavy hits on your friend, and you itched to move in, but felt trapped in place.

“Angel, go. I’ll be fi–”

“No,” you cut him off, not taking your eyes off the fight as they slammed each other into the wall.

“Please, mon coeur, I look dead already. No one will care about me. I just need to rest. The crew needs you.”

Chewing your lip, you hated that those words you’d wanted to be true for so long came at the cost of all this danger and pain.

You looked away from the fight just long enough to touch his face, your skin crawling at the sickly smooth feel of his.

“I love you. I’ll be back.”

“Love you, Angel,” he coughed, what looked like a smile pulling weakly at his lips. “I know you will.”

Running toward the fight, Chopper caught your eyes for a moment and shouted.

“Two minutes!”

Two minutes? Two minutes…

The rumble ball!

“Got it,” you yelled, calling out your poison thorns.

Two minutes left for Chopper’s rumble ball. You had no idea if you could defeat this CP9 agent in two minutes.

But I’ll do whatever it takes. My crew needs me.

Likes and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you so much!

a/n: Oh our sweet, pathetic Sanji 🤦🏼‍♀️

Part 26

#nico robin x fem!reader #zoro x reader #sanji x reader #angst #f/f fanfic #Reader Insert #Fem!Reader #mine #nico robin x reader #poly fanfic #nico robin fanfic #sanji fanfic #one piece fanfic #zoro fanfic #x reader #turtletaub fics #one piece x reader

54 notes · View notes

pianokantzart · 1 year

Note

I’m not sure if you’ve done an analysis on Luigi’s first time in the dark lands but I’d love to hear your take! I love all your essays on the film and was just curious what your thoughts were in this scene. I wish that scene was a bit longer in the film to build more character and show Luigi’s strengths a bit more in my opinion.

Thank you anon! I have mentioned before that Mario has good fighting instincts while Luigi has good survival instincts. The scene of Luigi in The Darklands perfectly encapsulates these survival instincts– as well as his clumsiness– and how they coexist.

After getting his bearings in The Dark Lands, the fist thing Luigi does is gather his tools and sling the bag over his shoulder. His impulse is to cling to familiarity: he's in charge of carrying the tools, so he picks back up where he left off, as though he's trying to tell himself "This is fine! Just a quick hiccup... can't go back to Brooklyn without these. Tools are expensive. No need to panic."

The second thing he does is call for his brother. Even though he saw Mario go in a separate direction in the warp pipe, he's hoping despite everything that he's somewhere nearby. That he isn't alone.

"Mario?... Mario, where are you?"

Then, Luigi's shirt gets snagged on a branch, and this is when his clumsiness + his survival instincts become apparent: He gets his shirt caught in a branch, and tugs a little too hard, throwing him off balance – clumsy. When he's off balance, he nearly falls into a stream of lava, but his feet intuitively find just the right stepping stones to get him safely across without injury – good survival instincts. Still reeling from his close call, Luigi backs into a hollow tree full of bats – clumsy. As the swarm flies toward him, Luigi immediately turns away, hands flailing in self defense until he gathers himself into a solid protective position: crouched down, one hand waving the bats away while the other holds his hat as a shield against his face – good survival instincts.

At this point, Luigi's on high alert. Continuing forward, his gaze darts in all directions, following every little rustle and footstep. He spots something in the shadows just as his flashlight flickers out. He hits it to knock the battery back in place, and there's a dry bones... inches away, eyes alight, rushing forward to attack.

Luigi turns on his heels in an instant when the enemy rushes at him. He immediately tosses the tools aside, lightening the load so he can run away faster... good survival instincts... ... Then the clumsiness kicks in. He looks back at just the wrong moment, and throws himself stomach-first into a low hanging branch.

He is flung back into his pursuer, knocking him to pieces. Luigi is a little unsteady on his feet as he gets back up, but seeing the motionless bones on the ground before him he believes himself the victor, and gets a little cocky.

"HA HA! Yes! You just got... a'Luigi'd!" Protect him.

The victory lasts roughly 8 seconds. The skeleton returns to life and the bones slowly join back together. The dry bones moves toward Luigi again- far more slowly this time. Luigi, wisely, does not immediately go into a full sprint. He is placed in a bad spot– enemy in front of him, pool of lava at his back. Turning around is dangerous, and trying to rush forward risks reigniting the chase. Right now, the best option is slowly backing away in a large circle...

On cue, just as he's acting with good survival instincts, the ole clumsiness does him in again. While backing off he trips on a rock, leaving him prone as hoards of other dry bones break to the ashen surface of the wasteland with their sites set on Luigi.

Luigi is surrounded by the time he clamors back to his feet, the mob slowly moving in, close enough now that they can grab at him. There is no long an option to continue slowly backing away. Luigi zig-zags around the encroaching hoard and makes a break for it, reigniting the chase.

Running for his life with undead at his heels, Luigi takes aim for the nearest possible sanctuary: a castle in the distance. He is now in full survival mode as he flings himself over the jagged stones jutting precariously over the surface of the lava. He's a prodigy in the art of a rapid retreat, rapidly flicking back and forth between fight and flight whenever needed as he scampers and scurries and climbs with equal parts desperation and impressive athleticism.

Mario may be the most physically adept of the two, but Luigi's got some innate skills that come to the forefront when death is on the line, and though he lives in a constant state of anxiety he does not freeze up easily. Whatever the danger, he is levelheaded enough to find the best available method of escaping the threat, even at the height of his terror.

At last he reaches the castle doors. They are heavy, but he finds the strength to push them apart just far enough to throw himself through. He's almost too late in shutting the doors behind him; clawing hands reach through the gap, gripping at his face and clothes, just before Luigi summons the last bit of strength needed to slam the door shut and bring down the latch.

For a moment, he remains on edge. Luigi searches his surroundings, almost tripping again as he looks about– vaulted ceilings and dilapidated hallways, covered in debris. It looks like nobody's been here in ages, and the door– pounded against by hundreds of angry fists– holds strong before his pursuers give up, and all goes quiet save for the rolling thunder outside.

By all accounts, he seems to be in the clear. Letting out a long sigh of relief, Luigi sits down for a well-deserved rest, unaware of the audience of masked strangers that has silently gathered behind him.

I, for one, don't think that Luigi would've been captured so easily if they hadn't snuck up on him from behind and overwhelmed him with numbers. Not after a performance like that.

Luigi is scared– unashamedly scared– but his ability to keep a level head when all hell breaks loose is nothing to sneeze at. He is a total klutz, but at the end of the day he is a survivor, not because he knows how to fight, but because he knows how to flee.

It just so happened the cards were not in his favor this time around, but there is a lot of potential in the guy once he gets his footing.

#Mario Movie #Mario Spoilers #I agree the scene should've been longer #But it did show Luigi's strengths in it's own way... showed what exactly he was capable of in his brother's absence #Not traditionally 'heroic' but quite impressive!#He's clumsy but he has a LOT of potential #AAaaah I need the sequel right now #we didn't get enough of this little green dude #Luigi #Super Mario Brothers #SMB Movie #Mario Movie analysis

148 notes · View notes

katyawriteswhump · 2 months

Text

the power of love part 7 (steddie, stobin, steve whump fic)

Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

(also on AO3 here)

Chapter Seven

Eddie POV

Steve insists on being pathfinder lead for the next hour.

Eddie’s gotta admit—following Steve, as he thrashes his way through the undergrowth, is the best entertainment that banishment has provided yet. Steve’s tight-fitting pants don't do any harm. Goddammit, the perspiration patches on Steve’s shirt make Eddie sweat even harder than Steve is.

“You need the fedora hat,” calls Robin, “and you’ve totally nailed the junior Indiana Jones look.”

Steve smirks over his shoulder. “I was channelling that guy out of Romancing the Stone.”

“Michael Douglas? No way as hot.” Eddie flashes his best flirtatious grin with ever greater confidence. This afternoon, Steve has begun returning them. “Stick to Indy, man.”

By the time they reach the logging camp, however, they’re all beyond exhausted.

Eddie’s feet are raw with blisters, and Robin’s been complaining of the same for the past hour. She limps through the door of the first cabin they come to, which fortunately turns out to be a bunkhouse. She throws down her pack then throws herself onto the bottom of one of two sets of bunks. Steve collapses onto the other lower bunk and appears to fall instantly asleep.

Eddie considers crawling up onto one of the top bunks and seeing if sleep takes pity on him.

He doubts it would. The choppers were a stark reminder of the nightmare reality snapping at his heels, and he’s wired as hell. He begins to unpack their supplies. Robin, having taken a moment, sits back up.

“We should check this place out,” she whispers. “There must be a clean water supply somewhere, maybe a generator. Definitely canned food and that kinda stuff, for when the loggers come back in the autumn.”

“I guess it’ll make a change from cardboard-flavoured cereal.”

“God, I know, right! I’d literally murder for some Count Chocular right now.”

They split up to search the various cabins. Eddie hits the jackpot first, in the guise of a crate of bottled beer.

“Seriously?” says Robin, when she meets him outside the bunkhouse. Eddie sits on the beer crate he’s dragged out, taking a well-earned rest. “You’re gonna get buzzed?”

“You got it in one, sister.”

He doesn’t feel the need to justify this—I saw Chrissy butchered in front of my eyes. I’ve spent a week on the run from the cops. I BASICALLY DIED IN A WHIRLWIND OF EVIL KILLER DEMOBATS. And now I’m on the run again, with Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, and I’ve fallen stupid hard for him. Oh, and there’s a small but real possibility he’s been flayed. Or something else freaky along those lines.

Robin hasn’t quit scowling at him. His smile is the first overtly false one he’s bothered with for a while:

“Forgive me, Robin. I’ve reached the point where, to quote my sweet old Granny—there ain’t nothin’ fuckin’ like it for me nerves. ’Course, she favoured hard liquor.” He offers one of two bottles he’s gotten out to Robin. “Want one?”

“I’ll stick to the cardboard cereal.” Her scowl lessens, though she remains deadly serious. “Look, promise me you won’t give too much to Steve.”

“Why?”

“What kinda pea-brain question is that? Despite the super-commando act, he’s still struggling, it’s totally obvious. Getting trashed is not gonna help.”

“Yeah, but… he’s improving, right?” Her slight wince betrays that, once again, they’re thinking the same thing. Perhaps Steve’s getting stronger, because he’s getting closer again to Lover’s Lake, Hawkins, Vecna, the Hive-Mind, and yet… “You know our little worst-case scenario, Rob? I’m still not buying it.”

The wind rustles the nearby trees. In sync, Robin’s hunched shoulders soften a little. “Me neither. Hand on heart, if Steve had a link to that evil shit, any at all, I’d sense it by now. Although… Was it just me who thought it was weird when the choppers came over, and then it suddenly clouded up?”

“Yeeeeaah, that really was just you. I was too busy eating dirt and shitting myself.” Now he thinks about it, mind, it was darn convenient.

She shrugs. “I guess I’m super-paranoid that way. I literally spent my Middle School years spotting aliens everywhere.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Then I realised they weren’t aliens. It was the Fae all along.”

“You sure it wasn’t dragons?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Her laugh sounds as manic as his latest crazy smile. On the other hand:

“Maybe Steve really is getting better naturally,” he ventures, “and the set-backs are because he’s been overdoing it. I mean, yeah, we keep an eye out for anything cuckoo, watch for connections, make sure he takes rests, but… Time heals, huh?”

“Not always.” She purses her lips, veering straight back into scary mode. “Steve doesn’t like people to know, but since his second major concussion, he’s not supposed to drink. Of course, he does sometimes, but—”

“Message received. I’ll just have the one—for medicinal purposes, ’kay?”

“Please yourself. Then wake Steve long enough to put our own bedding on those disgusting bunks. I don’t wanna be bitten to death by bed bugs.”

Robin stomps off toward the camp generator. Eddie is executing the important business of prying the top off his beer, when Steve appears, leaning in the cabin doorway. “Why did you both let me… Hey, is that beer?”

The top pops off with a treacherous fizz. “Uh, no?”

“You’re a useless liar.” Steve closes in. His messy, sleep-mussed hair renders him totally edible.

“You got me.” Eddie darts his tongue nervously across his lips. “This indeed is the amber nectar of the Gods. You want some?”

There’s a skewed logic behind Eddie’s offer. If he told Steve he couldn’t drink, like he was his mom or something, Steve would probably get mad. He opts to play a good cop, bad cop routine with Robin, who…

Eddie glances toward the generator.

She’s not there. If bad cop isn’t gonna show, then he needs a Plan B.

“I guess I’ll have one.” Steve stretches to take the bottle.

“Just gonna test it. Been here a while.”

Eddie takes a glug, splutters it out across dusty ground. “Oh man, it’s worse than cat-piss.” He’s only slightly exaggerating. “There’s a reason those lumberjacks left this garbage behind.”

Steve yawns into the back of his hand. “Gonna be honest. I’m not supposed to drink anyhow. Long story.” Ooookay. That went easier than predicted. “Got any water left?”

“Yeah. By my pack.” Eddie hurries into the bunkhouse, and Steve follows. It’s the last bottle, so he hopes Robin’s busy locating fresh supplies. Though that proves the least of his worries.

Half a minute later, he’s sitting on the edge of a bunk, thigh-to-thigh with Steve. They pass the bottle of water and a bottle of beer between them.

And being this close to Steve, now Steve seems so much better? Exchanging chitchat about how long they can hideout here, and if any of them have the skills to hunt a deer or something?

It sends tingles up and down Eddie’s spine.

The way Steve looks at him underlines exactly why Steve was angry last night, when Eddie “assumed” he was straight. Eddie suddenly can’t look Steve in the eye. Trouble is, he then can’t stop staring at Steve’s mouth—those shapely, slightly chapped lips, moist and glistening with water and bad beer.

Then Steve blindsides him with: “Do you honestly think you died, Eddie? Before I did the CPR?”

“I dunno, Harrington.” Eddie squirms on his butt, all kinds of defences flying up. “It was like a dream. Apart from that, it wasn't a dream. It was a place, and Dustin was there, and Robin was there, and you were there, too.”

“Wow. Seriously?”

Eddie cackles out a mocking laugh. “I’m misquoting ‘The Wizard of Oz,’ dude.”

“Oh.” Eddie glances sidelong. Steve appears… oddly crestfallen. “It’s just… You know, I said when I get hurt, I feel like I come back different each time. I mean, I don't know if it's true or not, but... I never knew you before... and I know you now and... and…” Steve fluffs his hair. “Jesus, I’m blabbering.”

“Nah,” says Eddie. “You sound like you’re getting somewhere.”

Compared to the meltdown my brain is having.

“Okay, well, here it is. I like you, Eddie. I really like you.”

Eddie half wants to flee for the hills. He fixes on a beetle scuttling across the dirty floorboards. “Dude, you sure you’re not in love with Wheeler?”

“I… I… No!” Steve doesn’t sound angry, only bewildered. “Yeah, I believed that once, and maybe I was. I guess she fitted in so many dreams I’ve had of my future, and I owe her a lot. But now I’m with you, and…” Their eyes finally meet. Steve’s earnest warmth sends a brutal shockwave through Eddie. “I know this seems fickle, but…” His gentle laugh is too much. “Who knows? Perhaps it’s because Nance has never been dead. Or, near dead. You know, we’ve gotten that in common, right?”

“Riiiiight,” Eddie says, stupidly, then, “Screw it, I like you too, Stevie. I really like you.”

They fling their arms around each other, and tumble into the kiss.

For Eddie, the sensations are like no make-out session before, such is the hunger that zings between them. Eddie’s so blown away, that the brush of Steve’s lips seems to kindle an actual crackling, electric friction.. Damn, the boy can kiss!

Eddie’s gotten a semi already, fingers threading up through Steve’s hair, toying at the nape of his neck. Steve does amazing twisty things with his tongue. Gnng! You wanna kill me again, Baby? Even the scrape of Steve’s shallow stubble totally unhinges him.

They work the kiss with their whole bodies, striving to get beyond close, as if they could slide beneath each other’s skin. Eddie can’t help wondering—can they get each other off, before Robin gets back?

Then something changes.

He senses Steve gasp, then moan into Eddie's mouth with something other than dumb teen passion. His arms, clinging around Eddie, falter and slip away.

“Stevie?”

Too late. Steve crumples against Eddie, totally senseless.

“Steve?” squeaks Eddie, struggling to stop Steve slipping to the floorboards. “Robin! ROBIN!”

Part 8

tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

#steddie #steve harrington whump #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steddie fanfic #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington #stobin #platonic stobin #stranger things fic #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson lives #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington hc

34 notes · View notes

ratsoh-writes · 4 months

Text

Say hello to hadaltale y’all!!

To explain the name: the hadal zone is areas of the ocean in deep trenches that lie between 6,000 to 11,000 meters.

The hadal monsters as you can expect, are all completely aquatic! After the barrier spell by the mages who tried to trap monsters during the Great War went wrong, the whole planet was flooded. The hadal monsters have only stone tablets as records of this, and they’re very vague. They believe at one point that their people may have been surface dwellers, but those days have long passed

Over time the monsters who survived on ships slowly evolved to better handle an ocean life, becoming stronger swimmers, being able to breathe water, and eventually abandoning ships all together to live in the ocean forever. Hadal monsters became master stone masons, carving into the rock of the ocean floor to make their homes, and taking advantage of deep trenches and cavern systems. To handle the harsh water pressure, these monsters became larger and stronger overtime at the expense of their magical output. Hadal monsters have incredible physical strength and durability, but lower magical output than the majority of surface monsters.

After the crash, the hadal monsters were first discovered by the sea AUs, then the sea monsters bridged the gap between the hadal and surface AUs. Hadal monsters cannot breathe air. But the royals were determined to unite all monsters and the hadal royals agreed easily with this goal. It took five years after the crash, but finally a spell was found that would allow a hadal monster to safely breathe and travel on land for up to three hours at a time. Work is still being done to increase this.

In turn, the second biggest city of ebott, jokingly named Atlantis by Asgore who has no imagination, lies slightly west of seashore. Atlantis is mostly underwater of course. But parts of it are on the surface and the surf on float in buildings. The city is built into the rocky cliffs of ebott, and the hadal monsters have drilled further into the ground for their own living spaces. There’s even a tunnel to waterfall that they created

And now, to introduce the siblings!

Pearl (hadaltale sans)

Technically she was never named “sans”. Pearl was always named Pearl. She’s small for a hadal monster, only six feet long, and her lower half resembles that of an octopus. She’s a skeletal hadal monster aged 50 with a blue magic. She has the third eye characteristic of the royal family. She’s considered absolutely gorgeous by hadal standards because of her smooth tentacles and soft looking face and body.

Pearl is a gentle and affectionate soul. Pearl was raised as royalty and has a strong sense of duty from her upbringing. She has lovely manners. She’s a bit skittish at times though, and has a lot of anxiety over trying new things. She tends to cling to those she deems safe. She has very little experience with the surface

As one of the princes lined up to potentially take their place, pearls duties lie in management. She organizes events for Atlantis, manages finances, and spends a lot of time in the records hall. She has a reputation among the hadal princes for hosting the best meetings due to her budgeting skills

Hadal monsters didn’t summon weapons normally until it became part of ebotts curriculum. Pearl missed this part of her education and never learned to make one, nor does she care to

Pearls special ability is cloaking! She can change the color of her bones and tail to match the colors of whatever behind her. Unfortunately her eyes do not change with the rest of her

Things she loves: seashell accessories! Head wrappings, any sort of hat really, she has a collection. Fine jewelry, swing music, black and white movies, fancy chocolates, chicken nuggets, watching races and jousts, stargazing, floral and coral arrangements, interior design, the color coral pink, lily pad flowers

Silex (hadaltale papyrus)

Technically not a papyrus, as his name was always silex. Silex is a hadal monster aged 44 and 7’3 feet long. His lower half resembles a spiny eel with lovely sea green ecto to match his eyes. He has the third eye characteristic of the royal family.

Silex is a confident monster. He’s quite outgoing and friendly, making him a natural leader in any friend group. He has an eye for the shy weak ones in the group and tends to focus on them. He has a strong sense of duty being raised in the royal family. He can be overconfident at times though, believing he can achieve unrealistic goals, and his family often has to being him back down to earth.

As one of the princes lined up to potentially take his parents place, silex’s duties lie mostly in management. He has a good eye for people and is often in charge of hiring and managing the employees of Atlantis’ court as well as managing their work. He is also often taken to business deals.

Despite being aged out by the time magic weapons were made a requirement for graduates, silex still learned to make one. His weapon is a long rapier. It’s a sleek and simple weapon. He wants to add more to it someday though

Silex’s special ability is electricity! When grabbed, he can produce electric currents around his body injuring and scaring off would be foes! Thankfully the electricity doesn’t seem to travel far, shocking every one else around him. He has very good control of his magic

Things he loves: the color silver, interesting metal weapons, racing and jousts, surfing, exploring the surface, sushi, HARD LIQUOR, watching spars on TV, jasmines, not wearing clothes, electro swing

Side characters

Titanic: hadal Asgore, titanic is the father of Pearl and silex and the main royal of the hadal. Titanic was the driving force between uniting his monsters and the surface and encourages his people all the time to reach out and explore. He’s a very curious and passionate monster with a love for all things new

Olympia: hadal toriel, the mother of Pearl and silex and the monster who fathered them. Olympia is the second royal of the hadal monsters and is an affectionate but proud character. She agrees with titanics desire to combine their people with the surface dwellers but is more cautious than him. She will integrate as long as she’s convinced her people benefit from each deal.

Voyager: hadal gaster, the second father of Pearl and silex, voyager is the mate of titanic and Olympia, and first in line to replace one as a royal if anything had ever happens. Voyager was the parent to carry Pearl and silex of course, and has a very close relationship with the two as well as his other kids. Voyager is a reserved but highly intelligent monster, and was the one who discovered a way to safely bring power to the areas of Atlantis beneath the surface. He always jokingly laments that none of his kids enjoy science the way he does

And the siblings in order from oldest to youngest

Angler (goat): aged 140, angler is the oldest prince and the first child of the royal trio. She was carried by voyager and fathered by Olympia. Angler is a strong aggressive but loyal monster with a tail resembling that of an angler fish.

Pacific (skeleton): aged 122, pacific is the second child of the trio, carried by Olympia and fathered by voyager. Pacific is an elegant monster with a taste for drama. He’s clever and known for catching people in lies. His tail resembles that of an orca

Bermuda (goat) aged 80, Bermuda is the third child of the trio, carried by titanic and fathered by Olympia. Bermuda is… eccentric. He’s a wild card who can’t be predicted, but he loves his family so no one worries too hard. He works closely with the navy. His lower half resembles a blue finned shark

Pearl, fathered by Olympia, carried by voyager

Silax, fathered by Olympia, carried by voyager

Atlantis (goat), aged 2 and named after the city in ebott, Atlantis is the newest member of the royal family. She was fathered by titanic and carried by Olympia. She’s a bouncy and giggly toddler with a big fascination for hot wheels. Her tail resembles a spiny pufferfish

#undertale imagines #undertale headcanons #ratsohart #hadaltale #worldbuilding

44 notes · View notes

weirdowithaquill · 6 months

Text

Traintober 2023: Day 22 - Top Hat

The Railway is Prospering:

The railway was prospering. That was perhaps the first thing that the figure noticed. The books had been kind to the railway, in that they had drummed up hundreds, thousands of tourists who flocked to the island to ride behind the famous engines who worked there. The harbour extension at the end of Thomas’ branchline had made loading the stone from the quarry ever smoother, as they didn’t need to drag it all the way to Tidmouth.

And best of all, the engines were all still running.

Sir Topham Hatt wandered up to the ticket office at Wellsworth, spotting Edward collecting passengers for his afternoon train up to the Big Station. Even without a ticket, it was a little too easy to sneak aboard, finding an empty compartment and flopping down on the seats – only, they seemed to pass right through him.

Ah… right.

Instead, the figure of Sir Topham Hatt floated with his head out of the window, taking in the world around him in awe. There was Henry, speeding along with a fast freight train. His rebuild had truly done him wonders – thank goodness Sir William agreed to it, or Henry would… maybe not even be here. And over there was Gordon! He thundered by with the Express, whistling happily at Edward as the big blue engine drew alongside the old engine. They exchanged a fond greeting, and then Gordon was gone again, rocketing along.

James passed by next, grumbling dreadfully with a long train of tankers behind him. So… he’d not done so well with James – but he was still not only really useful, but reliable as well! And in spite of his grumbling, he was still pulling the trucks. As much as Sir Topham Hatt wanted to shout at the red engine to stop whining and get a move on, he recognised just how well the engine was doing.

Then, they passed through the Junction to Thomas’ branchline, and Sir Topham Hatt managed to spy all three of his former tank engines – Thomas, Duck and Percy – all shunting trucks together. It seemed like Duck needed a large order of stone, and the two other tank engines had brought it down for him. Furthermore, Toby stood nearby with Henrietta. All four looked healthy, happy and well-rested, a far cry from those dark days when the big engines refused to work. Then, Thomas, Percy and Edward had been forced to work day and night – nonstop – just to keep the railway open.

But now, they had time to slow down and chat, as well as spend time bantering. Sir Topham wondered just why Percy was talking about ghosts. He’d move closer to listen – but he didn’t want to lose Edward and his train.

Oh, Edward.

The blue engine looked so much happier now. He was running well; nary a clank in his motion. He smiled more too, happier than ever and so much brighter even though the day was cloudy. Sir Topham smiled wryly.

As much as he wanted to say his legacy was the greatness his engines felt now, he couldn’t honestly say it and be right. He’d done some admirable things for his engines, and he’d always been willing to stand up for Edward, or Thomas, or Percy – but at the same time… at the same time, it was clear he’d been far stricter than his son.

Maybe that was a good thing – the railway wouldn’t have survived the Great Depression without a firm hand to guide it. The entire railway had teetered on the edge of bankruptcy for so long, and he’d become so afraid of losing it all. He’d held on tight, almost strangling everyone as he nitpicked his way through every issue. He’d been harsh – harsher than he should have been.

Henry looked so much happier without him around.

But he’d done it for the railway! Being firm, strict and a little controlling was what the railway needed to see in each new year. He’d never scrapped one of his engines (the board, however…), even when they were unable to be really useful. Again, Henry was a testament to how much he hated to see potential wasted.

He’d fought against the LMS for years over the right to keep the railway open… but the LMS fell, and still the NWR remained. It… felt good to know he’d been so successful… even if most of the engines didn’t remember him so favourably.

With one last breath, he slipped away from Edward’s train, taking a moment to wander into his son’s office. He spotted a very familiar top hat resting on the coatrack. “That’s… my hat…” murmured Sir Topham, feeling just a little better.

Everything was going to be just fine.

With that, the almost ethereal figure standing in the Fat Controller’s office faded away.

Back to Master Post

#fanfiction writer #railway series #weirdowithaquill #thomas the tank engine #railways #traintober 2023 #traintober #ttte sir topham hatt #sir topham hatt i #ttte #ghost #ttte edward

50 notes · View notes

fairy-verse · 6 months

Text

I don't know if my inbox just straight up ate this ask, or if I accidentally deleted it, but luckily I'm smart and save all the questions in a word document when I answer them, so hah! I still got it.

If you want more in-depth descriptions of the different races, then please send individual asks for them.

evethepoptwist asked:

What do season fairies work for like what do they harvesting for, what do they make for their own little inventions and crafts, or how do they take care of animals by their own ways, depending on each seasons other than singing, dancing, laughter, etc. And can you tell us more about trolls, flower people, and mushroom people, and what do they do for the living? Since we barely know these guys other than talking so much about season fairies and the big folks

It is important to remember that the fairies mostly just create and work for the fun of it. Once they’ve made anything they require to survive for the seasons they do not belong to, then they’re free to just craft and create things that they love. They will harvest whatever food they can find within their respective season, and oftentimes trade with each other should they desire anything that belongs to the other seasons.

The animals care for themselves, but some fairies will take extra care in aiding them through life to ensure their survival, though it all depends on how much they love said animal. Most of the time, they will simply flutter around them and bring them as much luck as possible. Fairies possess an extra amount of luck compared to other beings, after all!

The trolls are night-dwelling creatures that hide in caves, holes, and makeshift homes that they create out of fallen trees, moss, sticks, and mud. Sunlight will turn them to stone, which is a painful process that cannot be undone. They prefer deer, moose, and rabbits as food, but have acquired a taste for humans, too. Fairies are mostly seen as tasty sweets to them. They have been known to create clothes and weapons, and they can speak to each other, though this is through grunts and growls. Most of the time, they fight amongst themselves and prefer solitude to companionship.

The flower people were born from the magic of the Luna tree on the Isle of Luna, and from said tree, they are granted immortality. They rarely leave the island, as what often happens to those that do so, is that they fall in love and will inevitably be cursed with heartache for eternity. They are the same size as fairies, and legend has it that they’re all blessed with the ability to communicate and manipulate the nature around them. No one fully knows what they do on the island, as no one has been able to cross the mist surrounding it.

The mushroom people are essentially just mushrooms with stumpy legs and arms that wander the forest floors. They will squeak, though no one yet knows if this is a form of communication or not. Sometimes, they may sit for hours and days without doing anything. They are popular pets among the fairies, especially the spring and autumn fairies.

There are also:

The Stonemen will appear as boulders, rubble, and mountains when asleep. The sleeping sisters are believed to be Stonemen who fell into a deep slumber many hundred years ago, and some think they will cause havoc once they awake again. This theory hasn’t yet been confirmed. Stonemen in general are peaceful and stationary, though when awake, they have been observed to find pleasure in watching fairies play together.

The small people/monsters look just like the big folk, only the size of fairies. They live in holed out trees and tiny houses on the forest floor. There are not that many of them on Fairy Island, as they’re not native there. They’ll live simple lives, preparing for winter, sewing clothes, creating fun projects they can play with, and sometimes even trading with fairies.

Gnomes are odd winter creatures that have their eyes hidden by pointy hats in the colour of either, red, blue, or green. They live in holes in the ground, though said homes look very cozy, often with a fireplace, a place for a kitchen, a big bed for the whole family, and such. They only come out once the snow lays thickly on the ground, and then they’ll collect sticks, frozen berries, and other trinkets they can find on the ground. Very little is known about them, though they’ll sometimes trade with the winter fairies.

Monster fairies can often be found close to Big Folk villages, and sometimes even in them. They like to settle within their attics for warmth, though there are still those who prefer to live in the forest away from them. Most can be found in Willoway Forest, though there are those who live in the Singing and Kval hills. They often steal food and clothes from the Big Folk. These fairies are the ones that look like variants of Papyrus, Toriel, Asgore, Temmie, esc…

Human fairies/Fae are in small numbers and can only be found within Ink’s domain, as he is the father of their race. They have blacked-out eyes and silvery blue wings, and they should never, under any circumstance, be trusted to make a deal with. Luckily, it’s difficult and extremely rare to ever meet with any of them.

#aufairyverse #utmv #ask for the fairy #general fairy info #either my askbox ate this or i accidentally deleted it #either way here you go!

32 notes · View notes

quitealotofsodapop · 4 months

Note

The unfortunate thing is that literally everyone has a claim for godfather, whilst Guanyin and Iron Fan happily share the title of Godmother. Mei is sadly too young, but she is definitely an honorary aunt/big sister!

The limit is like two, but PIF def muscles in as a "fellow mother", even worse if DBK won the godfather title - Godparent power couple. PIF is Godmother hands down in the Century egg au for her loyalty to Wukong when he was baking the stone egg.

Guanyin is far too relieved by Wukong's and the baby's health to mind either way. She knows if the parent had not survived, she'd be the one trusted with the infant's care.

Mrs Ao-Long might throw her hat into the ring as another fellow mom. Very passive-aggressive glares are shared between her and PIF.

Mei is loving the *drama*. She doesn't even want to be godparent cus thats a grown-up "able to raise a whole person"-adult title she's not ready for.

#slow boiled stone egg au #jttw stone egged au #century stone egd au #lmk pif #lmk princess iron fan #lmk guanyin #lmk mei #long xiaojiao #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid

25 notes · View notes

ivestas · 1 year

Text

accursed flesh (1/2)

PART TWO

Summary: You are the only female Witcher in existence, and you are suffering because of it.

Tags: Geralt x Witcher!Reader, headcanon format, blood, death, descriptions of pain, reader implied not to be european/not petite, reader implied to be younger than the others, unedited, etc.

Word count: 2.6k

Note: this idea has been poking me, but can u blame me? the entire concept is so fascinating!! also been craving to write something in a headcanon format since its so fun and easy LMAO; also to quickly add, this takes place BEFORE the events of witcher 3, but not too far before! AND, as usual, sorry for the wonky writing/lowkey ooc-ness of the characters, this is something super self indulgent and i just wanted to get it on paper

It was a dreary winter in Kaer Morhen. The cold hit you right in the bones, deeper than a basilisk's claws.

Your body was weakening. The mutagens—they were eating you alive. Writhing under your skin, burning the blood in your body and always leaving you in a state of constant pain. And that winter frost certainly wasn’t helping.

But you tried your best to stay light—the atmosphere within the stone walls was already quite... unsavory.

Lambert was still pissy about the facial scar he’s gotten, especially since Vesemir is insistent on using it as a learning lesson.

Vesemir was also pissy because Lambert wouldn’t stop imitating him and taking his vintage hat as a prop.

Eskiel had wooed a woman—a surprise to everyone—but had then found out that not only was the woman a succubus, but one that had a vendetta against Witchers and had aimed to kill him.

And Geralt...

He didn’t divulge in the details—or anything, actually. All he mentioned was that the roads were rockier and coin was thinner and harder to come across.

You tried your best to be a positive force, but it was proving to be difficult. Especially now.

You’d failed in your quest to find an antidote to your slow degradation, and due to that failure, your body was starting to gray. Patches of skin were starting to rot.

It sounded—no, is—horrifying. But you’ve given up. And you hadn’t the heart to tell the others that—fuck, you didn’t even know if they were aware of what was happening.

Only Vesemir knew, probably. You noticed his sad stare. It sickened you.

However, at night, it was easy to pretend nothing was amiss. That everything was as it should be, because mead was thick in the men’s blood.

Eskiel was beside you, while Lambert and Geralt were sitting across the large log table. Bottles upon bottles of all types of alcohol were strewn.

You didn’t have the luxury to drink—you found it irritated your already irritated mutagens. So you settled with juice, something that drunken Lambert took note of.

“Hey... don’t tell me you’re becoming Vesemir...” he slurred before breaking to a grin. Grabbing the vintage hat he’d clearly grown fond of stealing from Vesemir, he put it on with a flick of his wrist. “‘Alcohol is a Witcher’s enemy. It steals your senses, robs you of logic—two things a Witcher needs to survive!’”

Eskiel snorted, the closest to a real laugh you’ve seen him choke out.

“Yeah, actually haven’t ever seen you drink,” Geralt spoke from Lambert’s side. His eyes were prying. “Not fond of alcohol?”

A wry smile twisted your lips. “You could say that.”

“No, wait, Geralt, your right!” Lambert’s words turned loud. “You’re totally right! I’ve never ever seen her drink either! And I’ve never met a Witcher that doesn’t fuckin’ like mead!”

“Don’t get hung up on it, Lambert. Too much thinking’ll make your head hurt.” You scoffed, taking a swing of your raspberry juice.

Lambert spluttered. Thank God he’s drunk, because if he wasn’t, you’re sure he would’ve insulted you in a way you didn’t think was possible.

“But anyway, any good things happened to you guys? Aside from cruel succubi—my condolences, Eskiel—and shitty contracts?”

“My year’s been quiet aside from that,” Eskiel muttered.

Lambert chimed in, nearly slumped over the table. “Same ‘ere, but I also met some Witchers from another school... they were assholes...”

“It’s a shame every person you meet turns out to be an asshole.” You couldn’t stop the sarcasm that laced your words, but he didn’t seem to notice, instead taking yet another bottle and clumsily pouring it into his mug.

“What about you, Geralt?—and don’t try to sell me on the ‘quiet roads’ bullshit, you’re always up to something—what king have you been fraternizing with this time?” What sorceress have you been trying to lay with lately?

Geralt paused, his face contemplative. You could imagine snapshots of memories flashing in his head, each one packed with layers of action and tension, and after a few moments of that quiet, he finally spoke.

“Can’t think of anything. Sorry.”

Before you could press him further, he turned the tables onto you.

“What about you though? You didn’t say much.”

“You didn’t say anything at all, actually.” Eskiel noted, sparing you only a quick glance before being immersed in his drink the same way Lambert was.

“I...”

You were a shit liar—the school of Wolves were all shit liars frankly, and the worst part was that they could catch those same lies too in a heartbeat.

“Well... It’s complicated.”

“The night is young,” Geralt murmured. “We don’t have much else to do except drink.”

“Yeah... well...” Fuck.

A part of you wanted them to know, but you knew the moment they were aware of your decline, they’d do anything to try to reverse it, just as you would with them.

Again, Wolves. The school was a pack, and it would be hypocritical of you not to want them to worry if you would react the exact same.

Especially Geralt. You’d burn countries if it meant helping him.

“Been trying to fix a few things.” Were the words you settled with.

“What things? And were you able to do so?”

“Personal things, and... unfortunately not.” You stared at the contents of the mug in your hand, your reflection distorted. Uncertain. “It’s too late.”

Geralt hummed at that. “Need help?”

The words were so simple, and somehow, it left you silent, as though he asked something grand, something completely philosophical and abstract. It left you stunned, strangely—despite being confident that Geralt has your back, there’s an absurdity to it.

You’d help me?

He didn’t say anything, simply looking at you with what seemed to be a reassuring look. A silent, underlying, muted warmth. Or maybe you were just imagining it—fuck, you didn’t know what to think.

And then, it hit you:

You were going to die anyway.

Doesn’t that allow you to be a little selfish?

“Yeah, I think I need an extra set of hands.” You couldn’t look at him in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all, really.”

“Jeez, get a room—urp!” Lambert nearly keeled over. “Fuck! Is it jus’ me or is the room getting a little wonky..?”

Eskiel sighed, getting up from where he was and walking to Lambert. “Guess I need to be his caretaker again.” He grabbed Lambert, forcing him on his feet. Before he could sway and fall, he threw his arm over his shoulder. “Good night you two.”

“Good night,” you smiled.

Geralt nodded to him. “Night.”

And just like that, they were gone.

Geralt looked to you expectantly.

“I know something’s wrong. My medallion’s been humming ever since you came. Is this something to do with your issue?”

“Yeah, uh… Look, I’m not gonna mince words,” looking at him, your voice was resolute. “I’m dying. I think by the end of the winter, my spirit’ll be long gone.”

The smallest flashes of emotion that appeared on his face died seconds later.

“I thought the complications with the mutagens..?”

“They never went away—they got worse, actually.” You frowned. “I spent the year searching, and there was no antidote. It’s like—you know how your body gets influenced in certain ways by mutagens? Kind of warps your body and tissue, becomes a part of you?”

Geralt nodded.

“Your body, it sustains it—men’s body naturally do, because of muscle mass and shit like that. Biological differences. According to some druids, the only reason I got past the main steps to becoming a Witcher as a kid was just ‘cause I worked in the farm a lot more and gained more muscles due to that and genetics…” A humorless laugh tore from your throat. “Aren’t I special?”

Geralt’s eyes averted to the drink he nursed in his hands.

“But yes, because my body isn’t strong enough to sustain and create harmony with the mutagens I’ve been infused with, the mutagens became embedded in my biological matter and have become a plague that wishes to only eat at my body till there’s nothing left.”

You pulled up your thick sleeve to reveal a thick circle of rot. Your natural complexion abruptly cuts to an unnatural dark miasma of a purplish-black with the smallest veins of a deep green and a blood-red. It resembled the skin of a rotting horse carcass.

You laughed again. “To be honest, now that I say it out loud? I don’t think I need help, It’s just too late—“

“Don’t say that. I’ll help you.”

“Geralt—“

“I refuse to let you die.” His eyes burned. His face, although controlled, betrayed some emotion with how the muscles of his jaw seemed to knot, how his brows furrowed, his lips pushed downward to a bitter frown. “Why did you keep this a secret?”

Suddenly, the ‘not to worry you guys’ explanation didn’t hold water.

You knew there was a reason—there just had to be, right?—but you couldn’t find one, one that you could confidently say out loud that didn’t betray the part of your mind you’d long since exiled from your consciousness.

You smiled. “Dunno. Too many reasons, too little will.”

Geralt’s frown deepened. The look made you anxious—but not in a way that you were fearful of him—no, never, not Geralt. Never Geralt.

But rather, the anxiousness and guilt that you know you disturbed the little peace of mind he had. The comfort that coming to Kaer Morhen was meant to provide.

“We need to fix this. I’ll tell Vesemir, I’m sure he’d know something—“

“Don’t!”

“What?”

“Don’t, Geralt. Please.”

“Why?”

“Because you just can’t. This is why I didn’t want to tell you, you guys get worked up and—“

“You’re dying and you expect us—me—not to get ‘worked up’?” He said the words as though they were nonsense—as if he couldn’t detect a lick of sense behind it. “You’re rotting, and you expect me to just sit down and do nothing?”

“I—I don’t know, listen, Geralt, I don’t mind—“

“I’m not listening. This topic is over. I will help you, whether you want that help or not.”

You chewed on the skin of your lips.

His voice softened. “At dawn, we’ll meet and talk to Vesemir. I’ll make sure the other two don’t know, if you want.”

“...yeah. Thank you.”

---

It was right at dawn when you and Geralt met with Vesemir in the training hall.

Geralt was the one to provide the information of what was happening since you couldn’t seem to find the verbal coherence to do so yourself.

When he finished, Vesemir sighed deeply.

“I simply wish you’d come to me sooner, child.”

Your ears burned but you maintained your poker face. Child.

“Can you show me the... ‘rot’?”

You obliged, revealing the festering rot your left arm.

Although it was just a small movement—almost imperceptible—you noticed the way his eyes widened the slightest bit.

You were completely fucked if it took Vesemir of all people by surprise.

“I’ve never seen anything like this...”

“At least I’ll leave a mark on history in my own way: ‘first female Witcher, dies of perpetual rot!’ Hope my name’s the label for this illness.”

Vesemir ignored you. So did Geralt, but you weren’t blind to the quick glance he gave you. “I can only think of one way that could perhaps cease—or better yet, reverse this, and it’s if we can pry the mutagens out of your body.”

"That’s impossible. Doesn’t the Trial of Grasses make it impossible to do that?”

“Yes, unfortunately... but there’s hope. Perhaps the mutagens you have now could be swapped with a weaker set, letting your body overpower and take control.”

“And how’d we do that?”

Vesemir paused.

Geralt was the one to speak, and he spoke slowly. Quietly. “Another Trial of Grasses..?”

“No, no, no—fuck no.” You stepped back, glaring at Geralt. “I’d rather die than go through that again!”

Geralt crossed his arms, brows furrowed slightly. “I doubt it would work… her body’s grown and the mutagens had long since become ingrained in her, right?”

Vesemir frowned, nodding. “Yes, but it’s the only way.”

“I’m not doing this. You’re not gonna make me do this. There’s no way in any circumstance you’ll make me commit to this. No. Don’t even try.”

“Then you have any ideas?” Geralt glared at you. “Because I’m not just gonna let you die.”

“Fuck if I know! Look, I don’t mind, at all! It’d be nice to die on my bed than in battle—“

“Don’t be selfish!” He snapped. “You’re not gonna die. Not now, not in a hundred years.”

Conviction bled in his words. You fell silent.

He turned to Vesemir once more. “Are you sure there aren’t any alternatives? Something less intensive?”

Vesemir rubbed his chin with a hand. “I can think of something, but it’s requires a lot more time—forming a pact with someone with equal or greater power—someone who has the same or similar mutagens to hers.”

“So I gotta find a basilisk and form a pact with it? To be honest, I don’t want my soul companion to be the same things I’m meant to slay—“

“I’ll do it.”

Your brain froze for a second.

You glanced at Geralt.

“What?”

“I’ll form a pact with you, if you’d like—better than a basilisk, right?”

“You’d do that?” With someone like me?

A small smile pulled at his lips for a second.

Your heart twisted in deep warmth, and for a second in time, the impenetrable cold and gloom of your mind bathed in that momentary spark.

Vesemir clasped his hands together. “That’s perfect! If this goes as according to plan, the rot should at least cease the festering—hopefully, it even heals over! But right now, let’s focus on the pact—both of you, draw some blood.

Geralt took the dagger hung at his waist and drew a quick line of blood on the palm of his hand.

He offered you the blade. You took it gratefully.

Drawing a line for yourself on your hand, you nodded to Vesemir. “Done.”

“Now both of you, hold hands.”

You did as instructed, taking Geralt’s hand and clutching it tightly. It was warm. You couldn’t look at him in the eyes.

Though you could’ve sworn you heard a breathless laugh from him.

“Now, two of you, repeat after me: ‘with time shall it come, chimes of dark bells, synchronous melody that forms two into One. We shall become One.’”

In tandem, you and Geralt echoed the words.

A beat later, something strange took over you; an out of body experience, something that seemed to rip you of your senses for a moment and left you breathless—as if your body was robbed, and your spirit was all that was left to exist.

In that same beat, pieces of your mind seemed to snap into something foreign, something completely unfamiliar—feelings, memories, thoughts, ideas... they changed, eclipsed into a thing both familiar but distant. Icy but full of warmth.

And, instantaneously, the pains of your body—they ebbed, weakened, and diminished.

The pain was dead. The ache scrubbed clean from your limbs. You were whole.

When you regained your bearings, you couldn’t stifle the giddy laugh that jumped out your throat, the newfound energy coursing through you like that of a mountain’s great river. “Fuck that feels good, I actually feel my age!”

Vesemir pointed to something. “Your arm, child. It’s...”

You look down to your left arm.

It’s miraculously healed—skin smooth and in full color.

You grin became impossibly bigger. “Oh my God!” You turned to Geralt who had seemed to have regained his senses. “Thank you Geralt, thank you so, so, so much!”

He smiled. It struck warmth in you, and at that moment, you were sure he felt it too.

Note: I have some ideas for the part 2 (where the actual romance actually happens LMAO) but if you guys have any, drop by in the ask or dm me 🥳 orrr, if you want to request a geralt fic, DO SO!! wpuld love to get some geralt requests hehehhehehehheeh

#geralt x reader #witcher x reader #witcher 3 x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #female reader #witcher reader #sorry for the lack of romance :((

313 notes · View notes

yandere-toons · 2 years

Text

Homme du Grenier | Scenario With Billy Lenz

WARNING: yandere, home invasion, stalking, implied death, alcohol use, smoking, toxic mindset.

A.N. - This takes place before the events of the film.

“HEY, THEY NEED YOU down at 6 Belmont Street. A sorority said they're having some kind of trouble with the phone lines.” The hurried voice of a distracted boss rang in your ear, and the call went dead seconds later.

Listening to the droning dial tone was unnecessary, for the dark and windy street of which he spoke laid before you. While returning the telephone to its cradle was a simple task, taking the first step into the snowy outdoors required a hard day's worth of courage.

Most of the flora had become laden with ice and withered into a sickly brown for the winter. What survived was a measly combination of elderberries clinging to sagging branches and Black Gums struggling not to shed their final leaves.

The few conifers that bordered the snowy hills were narrow and appeared as though they would blow over in a strong wind.

Every visitor to the salted streets was bundled in a thick, fur-lined coat and hat.

The large tree in the centre of the park had branches like fingers, with curly sprouts of wood winding into the sky and then spreading apart from each other.

A Tudor-style house stood at the end of Belmont Street, surrounded by dead trees and tall bushes strewn with colourful lights. On one of the side windows on the bottom level was a blue wreath in the shape of a star, and the yellow curtains behind it were thin enough to allow you a glimpse of a fireplace.

Dangling in the middle of the front door was a round wreath aglow with red lights. It was tied to a red ribbon and sat on a hook just below the small, five-piece window on the top of the door.

A wooden fence surrounded the entire property, its pointed top reaching the stomachs of the average passers-by. The gate was hanging open and obscured beneath the scraggly branches of trees stripped of leaves by the cold of winter.

Weeds and brambles had overgrown the edges of the fence and had begun to climb it.

The sidewalk was buried so deep in snow that it was hardly distinguishable from the yard of the sorority house, with the fence acting as the sole divider. The snow ate up your winter boots like quicksand, and you raised them to shake off the white pellets after every other step.

The walkway to the house was a straight shot from the road and was paved with cobblestone. It took roughly ten seconds to walk at a leisurely pace and was bordered by two half walls of stone, both bearing a globular lamp.

Multiple pairs of footprints had disturbed the snow before yours did. Most of them were either approaching the doorway or leaving it, but there was one pair that meandered towards the east-facing wall of the house.

The wall was swamped with vines that winded like snakes, so much so that the plaster and wood underneath it would have been invisible if not for the bright lights of red and green. The impressive length of these scrawny vines led your eye to the dark window of an attic.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about it was that a part of you expected to see someone looking back; however, the shadows were too dense to give this thought any satisfaction.

A sorority girl met you at the entrance within a minute of your rat-a-tat at the front door. She introduced herself as Jess and grappled with the doorknob before jimmying it open, a grunt of frustration slipping past her lips.

“Thank goodness you're here. Barb was getting anxious about her mother calling.” The words tumbled out of her with a certain urgency that had you walking into the house as soon as she stepped back.

You gazed at the living room, noting the pattern of red and black roses in the curtains that overlooked the front of the house.

Potted plants decorated the space around each window, and their lush leaves grew tall enough to block some of the glass.

A second woman peeked over the back of a couch with a trail of smoke floating around her mouth. Barb was her name, and she had propped her boots on a coffee table littered with beer bottles of varying fullness. Upon lowering her cigarette, she snagged one of the bottles and rose from the cushion.

There was a rogue amusement in her smile as she looked you up and down. “You do a good job, and I'll let you have some of this.” Barb pointed a finger at you and nodded, extending the bottle in your direction before pulling it back.

Turning away, she inclined her head and took a swig of the beer. Her footsteps sauntered to the kitchen, and the staircase she passed on the way drew your eye to what little of the upper floor you could see.

The stairs disregarded the wood and tile of the first floor in favour of a carpet, which continued to the second floor. It had a rough texture to it and was reddish-orange like pumpkins and candy corn.

All the visible curtains on the second floor had been drawn, and their floral print contrasted with the dark brown panels jutting out of the walls and the milky white wallpaper.

“We were thinking of having the phone around here,” interjected Jess. She motioned to a pair of armchairs and the end table between them. “Would that work?” Waiting for your answer, she tilted her head and adjusted her black sweater.

You scanned the room and began knocking on the nearby walls, listening for a hollow spot behind the drywall. A subsequent knock resounded through the house every time your knuckles hit the wall.

Just as you were starting to have doubts, a deep echo sounded from the wall that was adjacent to the staircase. “That'll work. Where's your box?”

Jess tugged the sides of her coat to fold them across her torso. “The phone box is out back,” she said, ambling to you.

A curt nod was your response, so she led you to the back door and pushed it open. The old hinges squealed in a noise similar to the yowl of a cat as they were forced to bend. A gust of cold air rushed inside the house, blowing past your face with a howl like a human voice.

The land was frigid that night. There could have been anything crouched and waiting at the edge of the woods, watching you when you could not watch it back.

The blue and orange lights that were strewn about the house cast your shadow upon the snow. It reached the tree line, and a more paranoid side of you thought it would be snatched and bring you with it.

Entertaining such musings had made the wind far chillier than before, which prompted you to turn back. You unfastened the latch on the phone box and were faced with two wires tucked into a larger wire.

The smaller wires pivoted in different directions and each bore a unique colour, ranging from blue to green. The larger wire was black and encircled them like a hose.

Resting your hand on the metal cover of the phone box, you counted the wires again before turning your eye to Jess.

Jess let the door close behind her and remained in the doorway, observing you with an expression of curiosity.

“Where's your attic?”

She glanced sideways and opened her mouth a bit. At first, no reply came from her except a slow nod. Then, after a moment of contemplation, Jess grabbed the doorknob and pulled the back door open. “This way.”

You followed her to the base of the stairs, where a chocolate brown desk and a corded telephone sat together against the wall. Decorative flowers and posters were lining the walls around the desk, and it was all illuminated by a red and yellow light.

The attic was tucked into a tight corner in the middle of the staircase. It was accessible by way of a short ladder, one that was sturdy and thick.

After giving the sight a quick nod, you turned back to Jess. “I'll start downstairs.”

Jess nodded in agreement and returned to the living room while one of the several doors in the upstairs corridor opened. Barb staggered out of it, her face sour and her brown hair ruffled. She held an unlit cigarette in her right hand and was flicking it between her fingers.

The door to Barb's room was adorned with a wreath, its electric lights having been replaced by empty wine bottles.

A muffled creak groaned above your head. “I'm no exterminator, but are you sure you don't have mice?” you asked, lowering your eye from where it had been attempting to see through the ceiling.

Barb responded to the idea with a brief mix between a scoff and a cough. “We might,” she muttered, shrugging and looking towards the stairs. “You're free to check. None of us goes up there anymore.”

You crept onto the lowest rung of the ladder and gazed up at the attic door. It opened inward, you discovered, when a slight push from your hand caused it to reveal nothing but blackness for a brief moment.

Before Barb could descend the stairs, you turned to her and called out, “Why's that?”

Barb stopped with her palm resting on the handrail. She glanced back at you and then took the first step down as if debating whether to ignore the question, but her eyes flickered over the attic door. “Honestly? It smells like someone died up there.”

There was a twinge of uncertainty in her voice, one that led you to peek at the darkness looming overhead again.

The sick and musty odour was as strong as a punch in the gut. You reached through the air and, with your knuckles, rapped three times on the ceiling.

A brief silence ensued, during which time you glanced at various spots on the door and started to lower your hand.

Then, there came the sound of skittering, like tiny feet scrambling for traction on a wood floor. It was followed by a series of thumps from a creature much larger than a mouse. The noises approached the door, and after a pause, three knocks were heard.

You retreated from the ladder and pulled your arm close to your chest. It took many seconds for you to yank your eye away from the door, but once you managed it, your first steps were down the stairs.

Jess was standing beside the desk with the telephone raised to her ear. The faint sounds of inane screams and nonsensical mumbles were radiating from it until you tapped her shoulder.

“Could I borrow that phone for a minute?”

Jess spun towards you with a slight jump, widening her eyes and jerking the telephone closer to her body. Upon recognising you, she glanced at the floor and shuffled her feet. “Oh, I'm sorry.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she had yet to release the telephone.

A shakiness was present in her words, as was a tendency to peer at her surroundings while speaking. It took a few seconds of gathering her bearings for Jess to look you in the eye. The tension in her shoulders remained when her left hand, which clutched the telephone, neared the cradle.

She tilted her head and pursed her lips, peeking around with a lost and disquieted reluctance. “But yes, you can use this one.”

The telephone was pushed to your chest as if touching it had burned her hand, and Jess stepped away from the small table. “I'm done with it,” she murmured, eyeing the telephone with a deep frown.

It gave you a moment's hesitation, and you watched her march out of the room before lifting the telephone to your ear. After spinning the correct sequence into the rotary dial, a click preceded the tired hello of your boss.

You twirled the cord around your wrist and scanned the entryway for any listeners. “It's colder than a moose's hooves out here.” Finding nothing but a closed door looking back at you, you allowed your voice to rise a bit. “The job's coming along, but I'll be needing a break when this is over.”

A sigh carried on the other end of the call, the sound of a man torn between too many problems. “They'll want you at the college when you're done there.”

It was a nice way of saying that you were in for a long night, so you diverted your attention to the peals of creaks from above. “You still have the number for that exterminator?”

A quick and simple “yeah” sounded from the telephone. “You got rats chewing on the lines?” he asked, his voice garbled by static.

Untangling the cord from around your wrist, you leaned back to peer through the handrails to the top of the stairs. “Maybe. They're nesting in the attic, I think.”

* * *

THE STENCH OF ROT singed your nostrils like fire, and in it was the musky scent of mould and dust.

The attic was carried by a wood floor that creaked with each step, the joints in the boards flexing and then settling as the weight shifted from one spot to the next.

There were cobwebs draped over every piece of furniture.

Standing with a vertical pole through its belly was a white pony wearing a red saddle, the kind that children and adults with childish hearts rode for a nickel outside of convenience stores.

A rusty birdcage hung from a thin string attached to the curvature of the ceiling.

In the corner nearest to the front window sat an old rocking chair, one that had not seen use in years. A candle had been lit and placed atop the windowsill to overlook the walkway to the house.

Once you were done feeding the wire through a gap in the plywood, you stood and moved to exit the attic. It was when you were a couple of steps from reaching the door that you realised it was partially open.

The door slammed as soon as you noticed it, and a cool shade of darkness fell over the attic. Your eagerness to leave waned like a flower shrivelled. Any intention of seeing who it was became locked behind layers of sweat and clammy palms.

As bravery lost and regained its hold on you every few seconds, you closed the distance between yourself and the door as if a monstrous beast was ready to lunge through it at any moment.

You peeled back the door, crawled down the ladder and were relieved to find an empty corridor. The stillness of it was toying with your mind as though it were begging to be broken.

Nearing the stairs was a simple task until a hint of movement caught your eye and halted your next step.

The bedroom door at the opposite end of the corridor was swaying. There were no lights on in the room, which forced you to goggle into darkness once again.

Nothing came to you, and no sounds were heard. Something was there, living in the shadows and meeting your gaze with an invisible eye. Just as soon as the thought occurred, you shook your head free of it and listened to the hum of the air conditioner clicking to life.

This house was not yours to snoop, so you turned and walked down the stairs when all you wished to do was rush down them and out the front door. The chances of some creature hurtling from the darkness and jumping you were haunting for every second that your back faced the doorway.

You arrived on the first floor without suffering an attack, gaining just enough courage from this to not run when a clink echoed from beside you.

Barb was downing another bottle of beer and had discarded an empty bottle next to a full one. She hauled a radio onto the coffee table with one arm, and her hand missed the dial twice before landing on it and cranking the volume.

The clarion guitar riff and harsh-voiced singer of a rock-and-roll song swelled in the living room.

Thunder cracked like the thrash of a whip, booming and pounding in the dark skies until it collapsed into a rainstorm. The fat raindrops burst against the sidewalks, roads and homes in a volley of water. They were swept crosswise in gales of wind that howled like wolves in the night, and the rain pelted the windows as if made of stones.

The occasional bolt of lightning flashed in your eyes as you stared through the glass. To your palpitating heart, it seemed like the storm was seconds away from pouring into the living room. While any car was risking a few dents by venturing into it, any person was flirting with drowning or getting thrown by a roaring gust.

The smell of beer and rain was in the air. You peeked over your shoulder at the armchairs, where Barb lifted the bottle in her hand and tipped it at you. She then shook it as if baiting you, so you chose to take a seat on the couch and put your back to the storm.

Jess descended the stairs, her feet thumping along each step. Her hair was frazzled, and her face was strained with a familiar urgency. “Thank you for hiring that exterminator,” she shouted over the din of the music before stopping at the side of the couch. “He never sent us a bill.”

This distracted you from digging your fingernails into the cushions. “That's strange,” you murmured, relaxing your fingers a bit in thought. “He didn't get back to me yesterday.”

Jess glanced between you and the window, and her gaze focused on nothing in particular until a wave of concern washed over her countenance. She turned to Barb and leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Barb! Did he leave?”

Without looking, Barb nodded drunkenly. “He stunk up the place,” she grumbled, her voice reverberating due to the beer bottle pressed to her lips.

The ring of a telephone broke the silence of confusion. It came from the newly installed unit on the end table, which buzzed unattended until Jess approached it.

Barb cocked her head, widened her eyes and curled her lip into a bitter mockery of a smile. “Would you look at that? Our first incoming call.” It was as though she could divine that the caller was not her mother, and the fact loaded her words with a sardonic edge.

Despite this, she reached for the telephone and snatched it before Jess could do the same.

Shallow, rapid breaths rolled into her ear. The faint static warped the sound into an undulating hum.

Barb opened her mouth and produced the first syllable of a word, which was cut off when the breathing exploded into screams. It was a wild and senseless kind of screaming that had no end and, in any other situation, would have come from the lips of a dying man.

“Where's the baby?” he howled, repeating the question over and over again with all the fervour of someone whose life depended on the answer. The panting was animalistic, like a beast heaving its lungs after a hunt.

Barb yanked the telephone away from her ear and looked askance at it. Her head leaned back, her nose scrunched, and her eyes narrowed in disgust and bewilderment. “What the hell?” she muttered, debating whether to hang up or not.

Jess fixed the telephone with a wide-eyed stare. She appeared as though she were reliving a horrific memory, and you recalled the conversation that had been unfolding when you asked to use the telephone in the other room.

“No!” shrieked the caller as if racked with agonising pain. “Let me taste it! Let me taste it!” This chant continued as his pitch and speed increased with each utterance until his voice became croaky.

Barb jerked her head up and shifted in her seat, crossing her legs and folding one arm across her chest. “Listen here,” she started with a snap, only to pause once Jess motioned for the telephone.

No sooner than a second after she mumbled hello into the receiver did the voice erupt in furious shouts of “Not you! Not you!”

Both Barb and Jess turned to the last person in the room, you, with Jess glancing back and forth between the telephone and your eyes while Barb furrowed her brows.

It took the two of them exchanging looks of puzzlement before Barb shrugged and Jess handed the telephone to you.

You had half a mind to slam it on the cradle and walk out the door, but the caller talked before you could make a definitive decision.

As if he could identify you by the sound of your breathing alone, his breaths calmed in an eerie instant. “Agnes,” he whispered, “don't tell them.” He spoke like one child sharing a secret with another, unwilling to speak louder for fear of his parents hearing it.

Your breathing quickened a bit. The thuds of your heart pounded a smidge faster, and as the room seemed to stretch in front of your eyes, it was as though you could hear every noise in the house at once.

A grandfather clock ticked, the logs in a fireplace crackled, and the floorboards above your head creaked for the umpteenth time that day.

You inhaled a tad louder than you had intended, and the caller shushed you with a sound like the hiss of a snake. “It's okay, Agnes.” There was an excruciating slowness to his voice, a deliberate inflection in each syllable. “Billy's here.”

Dismay shot up your spine like a bullet. The chill that came with it was akin to a splash of icy water crashing over your head, running down your arms and dragging a shiver out of you.

Barb stepped forward, bottle twirling in her hand, and leaned her head towards you. “What's he saying?” she asked without care for her volume.

A splurge of obscenities burst out of the telephone at the interruption, and aside from calling Barb a pig in so many colourful ways, Billy focused on his descent into screeching like a banshee.

This sent Barb reeling away from you, where she gritted her teeth and threw the bottle onto the coffee table. “I've had enough of this!” She wrenched the telephone out of your hand and thrust it onto the cradle with a resounding bang.

Barb then collapsed on the couch and drew a hand to her forehead, which was slick with sweat. “Our first call, and it's some wacko,” she grumbled.

Jess stared at the telephone as though it were about to lunge at her. After a tense moment of eye contact with the cord, she crossed her arms and looked at you. “I do hope that doesn't become a habit.”

Quiet unease was rooted in her voice like a fungus, and when you offered no affirmation, she shifted and glanced at Barb.

Barb was lying supine with her legs draped over the armrest and her left hand dangling from the cushion. A half-empty bottle was pressed against her side, and a cigarette was pinched between two fingers in her right hand.

She was snoring lightly, her head rising and falling every few seconds.

The voice of Jess came from the base of the stairs, and you turned to find her with one leg on the first step. “I'm heading up to take a shower. You can let yourself out the front door.” She nodded at the door while saying this, which led your gaze to it.

As Jess arrived at the middle of the staircase, a putrid odour backhanded her across the face. The bulk of it rolled from somewhere above her head. She turned back and forth and scanned the ceiling for stains until a fresh line of stink drew her sniffs to the attic door.

Jess hovered by the handrail for many a second, observing the door with the vigilance of an animal sensing a trap. She crept toward it, and her head lifted to judge the length of the climb.

Just as you were reaching for the doorknob, the door swung open after a moment of battle with the hinges.

A pair of sorority girls strolled into the house in a merry fit of laughter, their arms draped in shopping bags and their eyes locked on each other. Clare was the name of the girl with untidy brown hair, and Phyl was the name of the girl with frizzy hair and octagonal eyeglasses.

You lurched back to avoid bumping into them as they walked forward for a couple of seconds without noticing you. During that time, you were maneuvering to their side and taking brisk steps with your arms slightly extended in an attempt to not put your foot down on top of theirs.

“Pardon me,” was all you said before you slipped past them and stumbled into the entryway.

A crash was heard from upstairs as soon as your shoes hit the outside world, and your head spun around to cast a final glance at the house. Fuelled by a surge of adrenaline, you pumped your legs and carried yourself to the edge of the property.

Clare looked between the stairs and your silhouette, which was disappearing into the heart of the storm.

Phyl looked at a passed-out Barb and then leaned forward to peer around the closing door. “Who was that?” she asked, momentarily dismissing the question when Jess came down from the staircase to greet them.

The storm battered you with fat pellets of rain and strong winds, but there was not a single moment where you considered returning to the sorority house. You held out your hand to be a thin shield for your face and stomped your way through the murky air.

Melting snow clung to everything below your waist. It was like swimming in ice water, but you persevered until the contours of a house approached your left.

Behind the window stood your next-door neighbour.

She was a little old lady who, at this particular moment, was clutching a coffee mug as if letting go of it meant unspeakable doom. The neat and dry fabric of her mustard yellow dress was in stark contrast to your rain-soaked attire, but your eye soon concentrated on her horror-stricken face.

Her eyes were stretched to their limits, her mouth was hanging open, and her forehead was creased so sharply that a vein was visible. She turned to watch you sprint past her home like someone observing their worst nightmare come to life.

What caused your gaze to linger on her was when she looked at something just behind you. In the split second that your eye caught the reflection on the glass, you saw a dark shape at your heels.

It flashed in the lightning and vanished before you could discern any details. You told yourself that it was the cruel hand of paranoia sinking its claws into your brain, but this did little to placate the way your heart jumped and banged against your ribcage.

Once you reached your house, you crammed the key into the keyhole and twisted it as if about to break it. The click of the lock disengaging brought a wave of relief that swept you into the entrance.

You doubled over, panting and throwing your hands onto your bent knees.

Many seconds passed before you spun towards the door and slammed it.

A torrent of raindrops gushed from your clothes, and the puddle accumulating at your feet was soaking into the floor. The earthy scent of wet dirt was entrenched in your nostrils like a toy stuck up a kid's nose.

When you turned to collapse on a chair, your eye was dragged across the floor to where an additional pair of footprints walked in a different direction. The shoes were outlined in rain just like yours, and they had taken shelter in the darkness of your bedroom.

You raised your head with a cautious slowness, straightening your back and clenching the fabric of your pants.

The blackness that returned your stare seemed deeper than the depths of the ocean, and you strained your ears to hear the presence that had followed you. Every shift in the house, every crack of the walls flexing became the precursor to something leaping out at you.

A thought was spared for the knives in the kitchen as well as the telephone beside the oven. An oppressive sense of nausea advised against pursuing either of those items, suggesting instead that you flee through the door from which you had entered.

Three knocks came from the bedroom.

Without the attic to muffle them, these knocks were much clearer and closer.

It was as if a fist had squeezed your heart and stolen your breath.

In that frightful instant, enduring the storm was a welcome distraction from confronting whoever had invaded your house. You wrenched the front door open and hurled yourself down the street.

Rain splashed on your face as you smashed your feet into various puddles and whipped through the wind. The howls of the storm dampened any sounds from within your home, and you did not wait to see if anyone followed.

The house of your next-door neighbour came into view, its brown shingles glistening in the downpour. You crashed into the front door in a refusal to stop and began pounding on the wood. “Let me in! Let me in!” you shrieked over the claps of thunder and strikes of lightning.

A little old lady emerged from the living room and stood behind the window, her hands wrapping around a steaming mug of coffee. She eyed you with a look of shock and disbelief, and the mug slipped from her grasp.

It landed on the avocado green carpet, bounced once, and poured coffee into the fibres.

The little old lady did not give the spill the briefest of glances. A finger rose from her side and pointed at you, trembling and struggling not to fall. Her mouth opened wide in a voiceless cry, which earned another plea from you.

It was barely audible among the roars of wind, plops of rain, and booms of thunder.

A shake of the head was her response. It was rapid, so much so that it seemed instinctive. She shoved her finger at you multiple times, and her lack of care for the coffee streaming around her shoes was enough to stay your panic for an instant.

After a moment spent panting in confusion, you gestured to yourself and nodded with a frantic urgency.

She shook her head again and jabbed her finger at you with more intensity.

You dragged your breaths out of your lungs as uneven puffs, and your eyes were jerking from the window to the door. The tightness in your chest and the throb of your heartbeat swirled in you like a typhoon and cast a hazy veil over your mind.

Overcome by a light-headed spell, your vision began to blur and distort the sight in front of you. Every thought was screaming at you to beat the door open, yet you fought this impulse with as much strength as you could scrounge.

It was then that the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. A warm gust of breath had rolled against them in a steady rhythm.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

316 notes · View notes

thislovintime · 1 year

Photo

Peter Tork, summer of 1967. Photo 1 by Henry Diltz, photo 2 by Ann Moses.

“Dolenz chewed a jaw-breaker and snapped pictures of Peter. Jones sat nearby and munched his lunch. Tork said he believes in doing anything ‘as long as you’re totally committed to what you’re doing.’ Is Peter committed to starring in a television series, making hit rock ‘n’ roll records and living in Hollywood? ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got my best men working on it.’ Peter gets up and goes to the diving board. He clowns a while, starting to dive, then stopping suddenly at the end of the board. Teen-age girls at the side of the pool cry out, ‘Oh, Peter.’ Finally, Peter dives. The girls applaud and sigh. He comes back to the side of the pool and digs his hand into a box with the words ‘Peace’ and ‘Love’ painted on the side. The box, called a ‘Super Survival Kit,’ is filled with things Monkees are fond of, like Plasticman and Tarzan comics, a bushy-headed figure with a sign that says ‘Stamp Out Haircuts’ and a feathered hat. Tork, resting up beside the pool, commented, ‘It’s not hard work.’ He added that he spends what little free time he has ‘balancing my checkbook.’ ‘ We’ve been accused of copying the Beatles,’ said Peter, ‘but we’re picking up on the same things.’ Referring to the Beatles’ new hit ‘Baby You’re A Rich Man,’ he said that it means anyone can make it big. Did he think two years ago when he was a folk-singer in New York City’s Greenwich Village that he would make the big-time in the pop music field or television? ‘Sure, although I didn’t believe it as firmly as I do now. Now I’m a believer,’ Peter said with a grin. One of the Monkees biggest hits was ‘I’m a Believer.’ Other hits have been ‘Last Train to Clarksville,’ ‘Stepping Stone’ and the currently popular ‘Words.’  A cha-cha came blaring over the loudspeaker at poolside. Peter glanced up. ‘That’s obscene,’ he remarked. A young girl in a blue bathing suit nervously stepped forward requesting an autograph. Peter signed: ‘Love, Peter Tork’ and drew a flower.  ‘I dig flowers,’ he said. ‘I always put a flower after my autograph, because it’s more gentle that way. But that doesn’t make me a flower child or a hippie. No one can call himself a flower child. ‘I also wear beads all the time now, any beads, colorful beads,’ said Peter, who attended Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., from 1959 to 1963. Then he settled back in the deck chair to read a ‘Peanuts’ book — out loud.” - article by James Beaumont, The Des Moines Register, August 7, 1967

#Peter Tork #Tork quotes #60s Tork #The Monkees #Monkees fans #Monkees #Micky Dolenz #davy jones #michael nesmith #<3 #Tork fan recollections #long read #been typing up a lot of interviews/articles so long reads will be frequent #love his mind #1967 #1967 Tork #The Des Moines Register #can you queue it

100 notes · View notes

ladamedusoif · 5 months

Text

Sleigh Ride (Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels x F!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 10

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist.

Follow @ladameecrit for my writing updates!

Pairing: Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x F!Reader

Warnings: Established relationship; no use of Y/N; no physical descriptions of Reader; non canon-compliant (this man survives and gets the happy ending he deserved); alcohol consumption; references to smut.

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 1283

Summary: Jack is dashing, and so are you - dashing through the snow, that is.

For @agentjackdaniels, with love.

In the bright light of a sunny winter morning, you blink awake, peek your head above the covers, and swiftly retreat when you feel the first blast of cold on your nose. You nestle in again and reach out to Jack’s side of the bed, seeking heat from your own personal furnace.

Instead of Jack’s solid, warm body, though, you find a little note:

Had to check on something out in the stables - be back around ten or so. Have some coffee and make sure you’re wrapped up nice and warm for me when I get back, sugar - got something I want to show you. J x

It wasn’t unusual for Jack to be up well before you when you stayed on his little ranch. He’d inherited it a couple of years ago from a favourite uncle, Joshua - “I don’t even have to change the signage, honey”, Jack had mused, looking at the wooden sign at the main entrance that announced, in beautiful old hand-painted lettering: SILVER RANCH - J. DANIELS.

It had become a retreat of sorts for the two of you. The main ranch house was small but solidly-built, decorated in a simple, old-fashioned style that you fell in love with from the first time you saw it. Silver Ranch was the perfect place to spend winter holidays: just you and your cowboy, taking in the surrounding trails on foot or on horseback, giggling over your attempts at fondue, or snuggled up together on the couch in front of the stone fireplace.

Sometimes, you or Jack would pull a few blankets onto the warm rug right beside the fire: a statement of intent, and the signal for an evening spent making love there under the layers until the fire began to die down and it was time for bed.

You help yourself to a cup of fresh coffee - Jack always ensured he made a large batch if he was up first - and make some toast before padding back towards the bedroom to get dressed and ready for whatever he had in store. Wrap up warm, he’d said, and you heed his advice, pulling out your thermal layers and adding your warmest socks, a soft, long-sleeved cotton t-shirt and jeans, and slipping a denim shirt and fleece gilet over the top. Your knee-length padded coat and snowboots were out in the hall, ready and waiting with your hat, scarf, and gloves.

Equine noises and the sound of Jack’s warm voice outside the house signal his return. He calls your name as he enters, finding you on the armchair with a blanket over your knees.

“Well, don’t you look mighty cosy?”

He’s always a sight for sore eyes, even in layer upon layer of his warmest winter clothing. You know that a pair of brushed-cotton long johns and a long-sleeved thermal vest lie beneath the dark jeans and padded jacket he’s wearing. He’s unzipped the jacket, revealing a warm woollen sweater layered over a plaid shirt, the collar of a grey cotton tshirt just visible. In one hand, Jack holds a felt, extra-warm hat you’d given him the previous Christmas, along with a scarf and his trusty pair of suede, fleece-lined winter gloves.

You grin at him. “I am cosy - but I’m prepared, too. See?”

You stand up and show off your winter layers, basking in the glow of Jack’s approving smile.

“And a good thing too, sugar. C’mon - wanna show you something a little bit special.”

It’s… a sleigh. A real-life, as-driven-by-Santa-Claus, straight-out-of-Doctor-Zhivago sleigh. Jemmy (short for Jameson, much to Jack’s chagrin), the favourite horse of Jack’s uncle, stands proudly ahead of the wooden vehicle, bobbing his head and sending joyful little chimes pealing from the sleigh bells - sleigh bells?! - affixed to his bridle.

You close the door of the house and walk down the front steps, jaw hanging open at the sight before you. The sleigh is dark wood, antique but well-maintained, with red leather upholstery on the seating. Fading gold accents pick out curved detail carved into the old wood. It’s small - certainly compared to the whoppers usually depicted on Christmas cards or in representations of jolly Saint Nick - but perfectly made for two. You notice bundles of blankets neatly folded on the main seat, awaiting the passengers.

Jack holds Jemmy’s reins and pats the horse’s muzzle affectionately before turning and grinning at you. His cheeks are flushed pink with cold and excitement and even with his aviator sunglasses on, you know his eyes are twinkling. “Well? What’cha think?”

“Where did you get a sleigh, Jack Daniels?”

He chuckles and walks around to your side, helping you into the sleigh like the gentleman he is. “I found it out in one of the barns last time we were up here. Came up on my own a couple of times to work on it and get her nice and pretty for my girl. You like it?”

He’s already packing blankets around you, tucking you in so firmly you have to wriggle a little to be able to move.

“It’s incredible, Jack. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a real one of these, let alone been in one.”

He crosses to the other side and hops in quickly, pulling a couple of blankets around his own knees before draping one big enough for the two of you on top. You feel Jack’s strong arm, made even bigger thanks to the layers and layers of clothing he’s wearing, wrap around your shoulders as he kisses you before firmly replacing his hat on his head.

“Well, we’ll start off nice and slow. And then if you want some authentic dashing through the snow - well, you just say the word, baby.”

With a gentle word and a flex of the reins in his practiced hands, Jemmy starts to move and the sleigh begins to glide through the snow.

The sleigh ride feels like being in an old movie, or a picture on a vintage Christmas card. There’s no sound other than Jemmy’s hooves, the crunching and whooshing as the sleigh’s runners cut through pure white snow, the jingling of the bells, and the chatter and laughter between you and Jack.

It is heaven.

You lean against your love’s shoulder, feeling a warmth course through you that has nothing to do with the thermal layers and Jack’s insistence on bundling you up for the journey. This is so him, you think - planning and preparing for this day for months, just to give you something special. Something shared just between the two of you. You sit up and lean in to kiss his cheek.

Jack chuckles, his beautiful, open face flushed pink and a sprinkling of powdery snow visible on his dark moustache. “So you like the sleigh, sugar?”

You nod and nestle back in against him. “I do. It’s a beautiful thing.”

He hums happily and nods towards your feet. “You'll find a little something extra down there, to keep us nice and warm until we get home.”

The chrome of the hip flask is blinding in the stark whiteness of the landscape and the bright sunlight. You help yourself before passing it to Jack, who takes a grateful swig and exhales. The warm vapor of his whiskey-scented breath is visible in the cold air as he rounds the furthest point of the trail and turns the sleigh for home.

dividers by @stcvcngrant

#a merry fic-mas #holiday fic calendar #agent whiskey #agent whiskey fanfiction #agent whiskey x f!reader #jack whiskey daniels #agent jack whiskey daniels fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal

24 notes · View notes