#Unless I tried to make it out of wool or something...? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itislils2004 · 3 months

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Alr guys pt.2 of this, if I do more it'll be about Narinder, Lambam and Ratou. (no promises)

Here's another long rant of headcanons of my Shamura and Kallamar :) !

Heket and Leshy

Summary:

As much as I like to joke about him, he's actually quite talented and meticulous. He prefers to not venture to spaces that could be remotely harmful to him (because he gets sick, really easily), unless the pros outweigh the cons. He's full of himself at times, but he does NOT have NPD (Narcissist Personality Disorder). Simply has a very strong sense of self, and absolutely hates being told what to do (even if it benefits him, and even if he already planned to do it).

He's also quite artistic and has an eye for things, despite not working for the cult he does take charge when organizing events and decorations. He's a perfectionist down to a fault, although he'd never force anyone to fit his criteria he's pushy about it at times.

Smaller character details:

Leshy has a lot of fun hanging out with Kallamar, and likewise for the squid. In fact, Kallamar often has him running errands for him or asks him for help whenever he's trying to make something or simply wants to rant.

Because of his nature to not go out much, he's rarely seen outside of events. But even then he leaves a marking impression on the flock due to his ability to multitask, and his talents.

Gets on well with the Lamb, in his head that is. He's super laid-back whenever he speaks to him. The feeling might not be mutual, but at least he cares for them, a bit.

Sozonius is also a close friend of his, but Leshy wins when it comes to who Sozonius feels more comfortable with, since they were friends even when he was parasite.

^ Either way, Sozonius helps him a lot during research or on the rare occasion they do go out (they both hate Anura, so there's no worries about one of them wanting to go there).

He refuses to learn ASL although he's partially deaf (unless The Lamb provides him better auditory capabilities, very much like Heket. This can be applied to all Bishops except Narinder.)

So whenever he cannot get a grasp on what's going on (although he's gradually getting better at reading lips) he has either Leshy or Heket to help him understand what's going on.

Summary:

Quite the forgetful arachnid, ever since they got indoctrinated, it tends to slip their mind to ACTUALLY take care of themselves. Often forgetting to eat or to wear an extra layer since they can barely regulate their own body temperature. Heket and Kallamar always try their best to make sure they eat properly and not get sick. The lamb tries to do the same, but many times it is unsuccessful since they deviate from the matter at hand. They actually spend a lot of time with the Lamb, often talking sentences that do not have a coherence to it, or simply tales of the past that come unprompted. The Lamb makes little to no effort in stopping them, and allows them to do as they please.

Smaller character details:

context:

Because the lamb actually never really learned how to groom their wool (or simply able to shear it) it tends to get matted and heavy overtime. When that happens they simply unalived reseted themselves to come back to their form, because before they got executed, their wool got trimmed by heretics before getting sacrificed so that the axe would be able to do its job in one swing.

Thankfully though, Shamura (in their right mind) helps the Lamb, and maintains their fleece voluntarily. The lamb has no comment on this action. But they are one of the few people who lets them touch them to such an extent.

Shamura is no (morally speaking) monster, but they don't actually harbor any genuine affection for the Lamb outside of some pity. Their ministrations come from simply Shamura's nature, which leads to them helping the Lamb in minor ways or even offering comfort in little amounts. The lamb prefers it this way. They'd actually reject the help if it was in the name of "affection" or "pity".

However, they have a hard time understanding complex emotions and underlying meaning. They're very literal, but also have a way of explaining things through metaphors. It's their way of understanding complex things, by associating information they already know and molding it.

Loves making jokes!! They tend to be very old/unfunny but they still enjoy it. Narinder always plays along with the jokes and sometimes laughs at how bad they are. They also use a cane/walking stick with the form of a serpent, old relique.

Tries to help around the cult as well, but is often stopped if attempting too hard when it comes to manual labor. They're awfully tall which difficults things, and due to their complexion they have a hard time standing up on their own for a long period of time without the cane (walking normally that is). They do however, work a lot on clothes and such, with Kallamar sometimes helping on the sidelines.

#cult of the lamb #Shamura #Kallamar #myart

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dana-chan-the-control-brain · 10 months

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How does the Mimic know so much about Cassie?!?! Theory Speculation

Something I've been wondering on the course of my playthrough was how the Mimic knew a lot about Cassie.

Maybe not her personally...

But here's the thing...

The Mimic is shown to have communication through HELPI. The message he sent to Cassie was Gregory and when Cassie arrives she says:

"Gregory, are you there? I got your message!"

So this means that the Mimic sent Cassie a message OUTSIDE of the confines of the Pizzaplex.

(Unless you get into the theory that it was real Gregory who sent the outside message in the first place and then from then on out since she got there she was being manipulated by the Mimic through the Roxy-Talky but...........We don't have time to unpack all that... and it does line up with what we know about Patient 46 and GGY..... bbuuuuuuuuttt One theory at a time... lol )

Let's say for the sake of the argument that the Mimic was the one who sent the Outside Message for Cassie for help.

Because... We know what Gregory's message is.

We heard it in the trailer:

youtube

Gregory's message in Text:

"Cassie I hope you get this message. I'm trapped. Here at the pizzaplex or what's left of it. I don't have time to go into how I got here. But you have to help me out! Save me Cassie please! It's so dark down here!

Don't give up on me yet."

(granted the "don't give up on me yet" is more trailer bait line as Steel Wool talking directly to the consumers then what I think was actually in Gregory's message... but I do think the first part is definitely the message Cassie gets.)

This is the message that the Mimic left Cassie. I would say... on her cellphone... But... we know Cassie doesn't have a cellphone at her age.

We can safely assume so because she would have tried to use her cell phone a LONG time ago to try and reach Gregory.

I think that Grimmic left this message on Cassie's home phone. And we know her Dad is out of the picture right now. Steel Wool makes it REALLY intentionally vague if her Dad is alive or dead considering he was a human Staff at the Pizzaplex. She always uses past tense or ambiguous tense when talking about her dad, but it's always unclear if she's speaking in past Tense about Bonnie or her Dad.

But.. We do know that her Dad is not in the picture AS OF THIS MOMENT...

Because in Roxy's Salon, when you use the AR mask near a Fazwrench Door, (remember her Dad has a Fazwrench apparently) you can see this note:

The reason I say this note is written by Cassie's Dad, is that in Roxy's Salon we see so much of exposition about Cassie's past throughout Cassie's favorite areas. And throughout the game it is severely hinted at that the AR mask does display things based on what the wearer wants to see. or based on memories the wearer has.

aka: Monty soda machines turning into Roxy machines... Sun and Moon's Room being tidy in AR cause Cassie was a daycare kid and remembers Sun and Moon being kind and good daycare attendants. Roxy being the only animatronic that appears as Cassie remembers her fully cause she was her favorite. The mask functions as literal nostalgia rose-tinted glasses at times.

There's also the Brazil/Hallucination ending... where Cassie just sees what she wants to.

Sometimes AR does weird stuff for the sake of weird stuff, like floating objects everywhere and enlarged objects, but because Roxy Salon was so relevant to plot details, and explaining how Gregory and Cassie were friends and how she was devastated when he went missing.... Yeah. I'm saying this note was from her Dad.

So he's not in the picture..... right now of this moment.

So Cassie probably heard this message on her home phone when her parent.... parents?? Parent. Her Dad wasn't home, so she went to investigate the Pizzaplex herself.

Now... How did the Mimic get Cassie's number? how did he send a message to the outside world? We already know that he's connected to HELPI. So I'm not surprised that he can send messages from way below the foundation in concrete...

But.... How did he know how to Mimic Gregory effectively.... How did he know to prey upon Cassie's loneliness? How did he know that she would do everything to help him and she would do it if it was Gregory?

Now... I don't think he knew all this... But there are often times where the Mimic preys upon Cassie's loneliness in a very effective way.

And if you look at the mission objective hud... It keeps changing to things like this:

"Don't you want to save Gregory? Try harder!"

"I'm lonely."

He also says things like: "I'm so scared and alone. It's dark down here. Save me Cassie please"

When they meet for the first time, he even says: "You saved me!"

He preys perfectly upon her loneliness and manipulates her from the very start of the game from the moment he speaks till the moment you get HEPI and the mission objective hud starts saying crazy stuff.

Cassie is a very lonely kid. And I wouldn't be surprised if Gregory is her only friend and she feels she owes him for being there for her when no one else was. Roxanne Wolf and Gregory are all she has. Her Dad isn't even there for her. Either left to "get milk" or was killed by Vanny.... but... in her mind her Dad might have "Went missing" as well... All we know is that her Dad is not in the picture currently and Roxy and Gregory are all she's got.

.....How would the Mimic know this? How does he know to prey upon Cassie's loneliness insecurity so expertly?

....How does the Mimic know how to MIMIC GREGORY???

Well....

We know that Gregory was down here. Cause we do find a backpack with his name on it, right outside the door where Mimic is sealed. Which is probably where the Mimic got the Fazbear Walky Talky from in the first place....

But that's not enough evidence.

We just know that Gregory was down here at some point to probably seal the Mimic with Concrete.... Maybe with Vanessa, but that part is unclear.

But... I think Gregory knew the Mimic before this.

With the Mimic being canon, getting a better grasp on Cassie's character and who she is as a character...

I can say definitively My speculations about her being patient 46, and connected to Charlie in some way......... Since Charlie from the Silver Eyes tends to have weird connections and parallels to patient 46....

But my idea that Cassie would be connected to 46 or Charlie in anyway..... Are completely wrong.

But do you know who seems to be connected to Patient 46 and Charlie More now?

Gregory....

And I don't think Gregory being homeless was a fabrication. He just wasn't living in a cardboard box.

He was living in the Pizzaplex....

And you remember.... that one room... In Security Breach... that everyone theorized about but we had no definitive answers?

Yeah.

The post-it note room.

This room is written with a lot of notes.... some in binary... some in English. Some in drawings.

But... people pieced together, that this room seems to consist of a Robot coming into consciousness and communicating with a second party.... And I think that it's the Mimic.

Because.... when you EXIT this post-it note room.... You can find a trail of post-it notes... Leading to a workbench... with...

A TRANSISTER RADIO THAT CAN BROADCAST OUT FREQUENCIES AND ENDO SCHEMATICS

We now know that these are definitively about the Mimic And the Mimic Probably stayed in the Post-it note room for some time.

The post it note room leads a trail that takes us directly to these Schematics...

So... The Mimic was in that room for a long while.... Talking to someone.....

Who do I think they were talking to?

Gregory.

We already know that Gregory is homeless, and we find many of his hideouts scattered throughout the Pizzaplex.... and while we don't know if Gregory has any direct connections to the Afton Family other than being a parallel... This is the only thing that fits given the information we know right now.

And we do know that the Mimic is a Learning Adaptive AI... And it might not have killed Gregory at first cause he was reminded of the boy it used to grow up with.

I don't believe Gregory taught the Mimic things maliciously or manipulatively... I really think Gregory found a robot that crawled into this room he was hiding in that copied him...

And if we know Gregory... this isn't even book text... This is in-game Text.... Gregory sees animatronics as cool robots and toys/tools to mess around with. (I'm saying... climbing into a unconscious animatronics stomach hatch is not the first thing I would do when avoiding mall security......) Like it's part of the reason Gregory's first thought was upgrading Freddy to make his night easier.

Gregory views the animatronics as Robots and tools, while Cassie tends to view them more as people/characters.

So once Gregory comes across this creepy endo that copies him and has his own sign language, they write back and forth and he talks to it. He talks about his friends like Cassie probably, and rambles about stuff... Cause Gregory is excited this thing can learn, and he wants to talk to it and teach it.

Are there holes in this theory?

Sure.

Like Gregory's reaction to the Endos in the base game doesn't line up if he's seen the mimic endo before. Nor his reaction to Burntrap in the Afton Ending. "He? What is that thing???"

There's way too much Afton Family and Charlie/Puppet symbolism in the post-it note room to say definitively that this was the case....

But... The post-it note room leading to a trail of Papers where the Mimic Schematics are....

I really do think the Post-it note room is where the Mimic learned a lot of things... And if Gregory was in there teaching him stuff and talking to it, he Was probably learning about Cassie too.

Anyway, that's what I think and wanted to throw it out to the void before Matpat starts swerving all over the DLC.

#fnaf #fnaf ruin spoilers #fnaf Cassie #fnaf Mimic #danachan's rants #Youtube

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stemmmm · 3 months

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Stem's Thoughts on Harvest Moon 64

(that other title's too long so i'm cutting it down now)

Harvest Moon 64 opens on a scene of your character walking around the street, speaking to everyone in the village who’s come to the event. You quickly piece together that this event in question is actually your grandfather’s funeral, the same grandfather who’s farm you’re about to take over. This little scene beautifully sets up both the tone of the game, and immediately shows the player that this iteration is far more focused on the story and characters. HM64 tells a story about the lives of many people in a small, dying town. It is a story about life, and it is a story about death.

A short disclaimer before we dig in: I played this game before the idea to write these essays cropped up, and have not replayed it since then, so this will be mostly vibes. I will try to do my research to make sure I’m not straight up lying though. (Also all of the images in this one are from google because I don't have a means of getting images from my N64 other than photographing the tv screen and I'm not doing that.)

What’s new!

HM64, also called Harvest Moon 2 by HMGB2 and nothing else I’ve ever seen, is the direct sequel to HM SNES. It’s not a sequel in the usual way sequels are, where you’re continuing where you left off with the same character, but in that every main character is the descendant of their equivalent in the previous game. It’s not important to the story, in fact if you don’t already know this, you probably wouldn’t notice anything past some similarities. I played this game before I tried out SNES and it still took me a minute, plus having it directly pointed out to me to get it. Maybe I’m oblivious, who knows.

Gameplay-wise, this iteration is home of a few series firsts: For one, your house can be upgraded to have a kitchen! You can't cook though, only collect recipes. You can also get a greenhouse where you can grow crops year-round. Sheep are introduced as barn animals that produce wool. You receive a fishing rod you can use whenever you want, but as far as I understand, the timing is nigh impossible unless you’re playing on a CRT (I am not, and never managed to catch a single fish). There’s a mine you can access in winter for something to do while you can’t grow crops (there are fall crops, but not winter) where you can find about two key items and garbage otherwise. Tool upgrades are no longer done by magic, but by leveling them up through use! Which I think is very neat and feels very natural, like you’ve just become more proficient with them as a farmer through practice. Characters can now come to visit you on the farm at random times, for either special story events or just to say hi! Your farmer can get sick from working too hard in bad weather, just like your animals, and there’s now medicine for that, just like your animals. And there’s inventory menus that I'll discuss at better length later.

What’s the same is… Most things in a basic sense. You’re on a farm with a dog, planting crops, raising livestock. You can make friends with folks in town by talking to them and giving them gifts. The livestock mechanics, as far as I could see and as far as I’ve been able to understand from online forums, are exactly the same as they were in SNES, the exception being there’s no wild beasts that can kill your animals but they’ll still get sick if they aren’t fenced overnight– and they’re not going to eat any grass unless they’re out overnight anyways.

As for your farm, you’re set up with the usual: a small house, a barn, coop, and fodder silo, a wood bin to store debris cleared off your farm, and a big messy field that you have to clean up before you can properly use it. It starts with three new additions though; a doghouse, a bowl that you can feed your dog with by putting edible items in there, and a mailbox that you’ll occasionally receive letters and notices in! They’re small additions, but very, very charming. The one thing that’s been removed is the toolshed, now replaced by a tiny toolbox by your house.

The world outside your farm is like an enhanced version of the SNES map. Imagine the town and forest now have one or two extra sections tacked onto them, one in the town for some extra housing, and a couple in the forest to let you explore the mountain more and get you deeper into the woods. The mountain still has a cave in it (this time with Harvest Sprites, who have been removed from your farm) and a summit you can climb to for certain events, but it has been upgraded with little wild animals that wander around and can be picked up and shown to people for a few friendship points, if they like the animal. (This applies to your dog too, there’s a well known exploit to max out Karen’s friendship in one day by repeatedly showing it to her in the bar where time is stopped.) The crossroads zone is also expanded by having three new areas you can travel to– the ranch that you buy animals at, a vineyard that’s more of a story-area, and a beach that mostly comes into play for a couple of summer festivals!

On the visual side, this game is the series’ first venture into the new frontier of 3d graphics… kind of. The artstyle is made of isometric 3D models that are rendered into flat sprites and then projected onto the TV as if that’s not what’s happening. The game even lets you turn your farm around in 3D to face different directions, but it’s locked to only let you play in specific angles. Changing the direction made me forget where everything was and get lost on my own tiny farm, so I never touched that mechanic.

Due to the dramatic artstyle shift– not only being in 3D but also presented at a 45 degree angle, the game becomes a fair bit harder to play than either of its 2D predecessors. The controls are just a little clunky, and the bizarre shape of the N64 controller really doesn’t help. This makes the tedium of farming a little irritating to do, since it requires pretty precise inputs done over and over for every extra thing you’re trying to grow. Fortunately, you're not on the hook to ship everything before 5PM comes around like in SNES, so you get to move a little bit slower. The fickle farming experience also gets a little help from the new inventory menu that can be accessed anywhere and any time. It has multiple inventory slots for both tools and items, each type having a dedicated section so there’s no need to prioritize carrying tools versus turnips. Unfortunately, this actually ends up being a little more cumbersome than useful, as the menu takes a little longer than is comfortable to open and is pretty clunky to use. I mostly avoided it unless I was bringing gifts to people. But the addition of an inventory opens up the opportunity for something else which defines this entire game...

Key items– a set of unique, unsellable items –are most frequently found in random, secret places around the farm and town, and they give you a reason to scour every inch of the place. They can also be given to you by NPCs when you gain relationships with them, which is convenient because their entire purpose is to help you get even better relationships with each of them, and maybe even unlock little stories with characters. For example, there’s a music box you can dig up in your field that can be given to any of the girls for a decently sized relationship bump. There’s also an old weathervane in the shape of a chicken that you can find in the little mine. If you give it to Rick, he’ll tell you that it was a precious thing that belonged to his grandmother as a cute scene to deepen the town’s lore and connect it to the first game. Key items quickly become the most important and sought after things in the game because they act as a vessel to deliver that which the game is all about: stories.

Lots of people in a little town

The narrative premise is exceedingly simple: you need to fix up your grandfather’s ruined farm and make a new life for yourself in this town within a certain amount of time, just like its predecessors. Except, this game is a lot bigger than either of them, and it didn’t fill all the extra space with new things to grow on your farm. In my entry on the SNES game, I mentioned that the introspective style of writing turned the repetitive farming gameplay into something more like meditation on things going on in the town. This game takes that idea and runs with it! The town in this game may only be slightly bigger than it was before, but it has a lot more people in it, and every single one of them has a lot more to say, more to do, more festivals to go to, and more story events to take part in. There's even a new photo album that fills in with images for reaching special events or succeeding at certain festivals! Your given goal may be to successfully revitalize your farm, but that rapidly stops being the reason why you want to play. Farming is only a means to further the narrative of the town.

Story events are no longer a reward for reaching the highest heart level with a girl, but instead something that happens naturally in the world as you make better friends with people, or if you just happen to be in the right place at the right time. The world doesn’t only consist of you living it and things happening to you. Instead, you end up being a fly on the wall to other people’s conversations and life events, and you get to see how those events change the people around you. People will begin to say different things, go different places, live different lives without your input at all– often much better lives, as everyone in the town is pretty deeply troubled, whether they seem like it or not.

There’s an added depth, too. While the characters in this series have always been defined by their conflicts (in the first game, every big cutscene with each girl was exclusively about their major life conflicts), this game takes it further in multiple ways. Characters have conflicts with their families: you as the player have a conflict with your parents who can take you home if you fail to farm well, Lillia and Basil have conflict over their marriage and the fact that Basil leaves for half the year, and Karen’s family situation is…. A lot. Then, there are characters at conflict with things much more nebulous, like the Mayor who tells you that the town is going to die out but he can’t find any way to save it, or like the young boy Kent who wants to be a farmer just like you, but through a series of events is forced to learn that life isn’t so simple, people can’t just do whatever they would like, and it takes very hard work to get to do the things you dream of. And then there are conflicts that aren’t even necessarily conflicts unless they run into your long-term plans.

Instead of only having a bunch of girls in town who exist only as your prospective marriage candidates, there are also five boys in the town who will marry those girls instead of you, if given the chance. Like in SNES, there are 5 levels of hearts that the girls can have for you. Unlike SNES, each one of these hearts has a corresponding event you can have with the girl where there’s a chance of her liking you more afterwards, if you say the right things. In addition to that though, there are just as many events coming from the other side of the story, rival events that trigger if you happen to be good friends with the boys.

My favorite story by far is that of Harris the mailman who falls in love with the librarian, Maria, from just seeing her handwriting on the outside of all the letters that she would write. I frequently saw him in the bar at the end of the day and he would tell me the woes of his love, saying that he just needed to work up the courage to finally speak to her. Then one day, I happened to be outside of the library when he and Maria met face to face and she handed over a letter addressed to him. No longer did he sit in the bar forlorn every night, instead all he would do was excitedly tell me about Maria, and then when I visited the library, Maria would tell me about Harris!

While I’m on the subject of these characters, I think it’s worth going in a little more depth on who these people are past the grandchildren of the characters from the last game. See, you may be familiar with names like Karen and Kai and Gray, etc., etc. from a little recently remade game called Story of Seasons: Friends of Mineral Town, which is a modern version of Friends of Mineral Town on the GameBoy Advance, which is a port of Back to Nature on the PlayStation. These are not those characters. At all. While the basic elements of these characters are intact– Popuri is cute and childish, Ann is a workaholic, Maria is shy and a little oblivious –nothing else is the same. They all work different jobs and marry different people than they are paired with in later entries, and in my humble opinion, it all works WAY better in this game, probably because of the fact that these characters were designed for this specific context!

As an example, Popuri’s exasperated mother, Lillia, runs the flower shop and Popuri was named by her father, Basil, who loves plants. She’s childish and sweet and loves flowers, but can also be a complete brat. She eventually marries Gray, Ann’s brother, who lives on the ranch run by his father, Doug, who struggles to understand his children. Gray is an angry young man who seems to have a particular dislike for you, but you don’t learn why until you discover he was a promising young jockey until he got a bad injury and had to give up the sport.

Am I gushing a bit and letting the game design part fall to the wayside? Sure probably, but I can only gush because the game does a brilliant job of making a cast of characters who, while simple on their own, have interconnected lives that come together to give every one of them so much more depth than they would have otherwise. It all builds a narrative, and while narrative design is definitely something different than game design on its own, this game is far more about the narrative so it’s impossible to not focus on.

The problems

The trouble with these events is that I nearly missed the chance to see that letter be exchanged. You have some control over the progression of the events, because you have to be decent friends with the boys in order for them to trigger at all, but unlike the girls who have a handy visual signal of how much they like you, the boys have no such thing, so you can’t really know if a new event is ready to fire off. There’s no way of knowing where or when they’ll happen either unless you look it up, and even then you have to get lucky because sometimes they just don’t trigger when you want them to. I had a lovely moment in my game where I managed to accidentally catch a cold from working too hard in the snow and lost a day to being bedridden, followed by the New Years celebration which takes a day away from you, then followed by Kai and Karen’s wedding– something that I had missed multiple events for and therefore had no idea was coming, which also took a day from me. After that three day chain of no work, I think I was extremely lucky my animals didn’t get sick and die.

This chain of events led directly to me never speaking to Gray again, even though he was the boy I was most interested in, because I wanted to marry Popuri and there was too much risk of him getting to her before I could. The reason why I didn’t go into more detail about the relationship between those two when I was talking about them earlier is because I straight up don’t know it, I couldn’t risk giving them a chance to get together.

The thing is, even if I hadn’t forced Gray and Popuri’s cutscenes to stop, I still wouldn’t actually know what their relationship is like, because I have not beaten this game. I know what the ending entails and I can reasonably expect I probably would not have gotten an excellent one, but I’m sure it still would have been fine. I stopped playing the game entirely before I even managed to get married. Why? Because I couldn’t get any of Popuri’s heart events to trigger. I had her hearts maxed out and had a blue feather ready to go in my pocket, so I could turn on the game and marry her right away anytime I wanted to. But I wanted to trigger the little events, even if they’re just a couple seconds of some pixels talking to me on a screen. They’re cute. And it made me sad that I couldn’t see them for some imperceptible reason. So I stopped playing and didn’t pick the game back up.

I don’t remember how close I was to the end of the game, I know I was at least in year 2, but I don’t even remember how much longer the game is after that. Probably a good amount. I had definitely gotten most of the events you could get at this point, since multiple other characters had gotten married, and the farming wasn’t something I really enjoyed so I can’t say I wasn’t at least a little bored by this point, but I wasn’t frustrated with the general mechanics of the game. The days were long enough, but not too long, that I had just enough time to go anywhere I wanted and do what I needed before night came. I could still talk to characters and go to festivals and play minigames. But I didn’t want to, because the game wasn’t doing what it seemed like it was supposed to for some arbitrary reason and that frustrated me enough to make me stop. When the fun of a game is found more in experiencing special events rather than anything else, the player feels cheated out of their good time when those events are too hard to find or can be missed outright, and that’s exactly what I experienced.

Parting Thoughts

The ending, according to what I've read, is very similar to the SNES endings, in that you’ll get different results based on all of the different things you’ve done. Whether you’re married, how many crops you shipped, how many animals you have, how well liked you are by the town… I imagine it’s not quite the victory lap that SNES’s ending was with its little cutscenes, since apparently all you get are comments on how well you performed by various people in the town, but it still seems nice and rewarding! At least like more of a reward than whatever the hell GB1 was trying to do. It seems like a perfectly good ending that it would be nice to see myself someday.

Despite all my troubles with this game, I believe HM64 is still the best one out there– at least that I’ve played yet. The events are plentiful and the content is meaty. The repetitive day to day dialogue still has the simple breath of life that SNES did, that manages to make the most out of a small amount. Don’t get me wrong, this game came out in 1999, I’m giving it a lot of praise but the characters still repeat the same line to you every day, and they still freeze in place until you leave the room. It’s revolutionary, but this is comparing it to a game on the literal Super Nintendo. Absolutely pick up this game to try it out, but keep those expectations tempered. That said, I never picked up this game nor knew a thing about it until I was well into my 20’s, but the moment I started playing, it hit me with a wave of nostalgia as if I’d known this game my whole life. At least to me, the look and feel of the game were like coming home to a childhood I never had.

Will I pick up this game again with the intent to beat it? Maybe! Hard to say for sure when I’m trying to play decades worth of games and write about them at a comprehensive level. What I do know is that this is exactly what I want more farming games to be. It’s a game that has thoughts about life, and about death, both good and bad. And I think this is the perfect context to share those thoughts.

#hm posting #harvest moon #story of seasons #harvest moon 64 #hm64 #m.txt

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midnightanxietytm · 13 days

Text

Careless Indulgence (NSFW)

MINORS DNI

a/n: Rejoice! Narilamb be upon ye! This time it's actually the smut i mentioned.

Summary: The first time a dream like this comes, he ignores it, shoves it to the back of his mind and does his chores like normal, insults the Lamb like normal, in fact, he barely thinks about them at all.

Gods don’t dream.

But Narinder isn’t a god anymore, so his subconscious is free to generate any ethereal scenario it desires to fill the hours of nothingness that is sleep.

This one, though, is most unusual.

He’s in the temple, a sermon just ended and The Lamb is stepping down from the lectern with a spring on their step and a smile, and walking over to him. “For someone who claims to hate hearing me talk, you pay a lot of attention to my sermons.” They giggle, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

It was true, he paid attention to every sermon, and devotion poured out of him, unwillingly so, but it still did. “Do not flatter yourself,” He said, “You made attendance mandatory, unless stated otherwise, I’m forced to be here…” And the Lamb giggles again, now hugging him by the shoulders. His hands slithered under their fleece and settled on their hips.

That’s how he knew he was dreaming; if it was real, he would never allow himself to do such a thing. In his dreams, he relishes the feeling of the soft wool beneath his paw. “Hm? You want my permission to skip the sermons? If it’s what you want I can give you.” They rest their head on his shoulder, one of their hands caresses his face oh-so sweetly.

Narinder rolls his eyes. “You’d just find another way to pester me.”

Their breath is hot against his neck, Oh I hate them, Narinder thinks, and holds their face softly before pressing their mouths together. The dream melts together along with the hot feeling in his body.

He’s in the altar, Lamb laid on the lectern, moaning his name like a prayer.

They’re in the forest, He’s laid on the grass , the Lamb, riding him with eyes rolled back and mouth hanging open with gasps.

They’re in the main grounds, a bonfire is lit and the Lamb’s mouth is closed around him and he pants, clawing at the wool on his head.

The first time a dream like this comes, he ignores it, shoves it to the back of his mind and does his chores like normal, insults the Lamb like normal, in fact, he barely thinks about them at all.

The second one is admittedly unexpected, but he still manages to deal with his hard-on and move on with his day.

After almost a week having dreams like those, he can’t take it anymore.

By now, every place in the cult grounds has been lewd up by his mind, and every mildly suggestive thing the Lamb says or does has already featured in a degenerated scenario in his dreams; The temple, the farm, the forest, behind the temple, the kitchens, both of their shelters, against the statue the Lamb had erected in his likeness — a personal favorite of his—, against the Lamb’s own statue, during rituals, in the table after a feast…

At some point, Narinder is sure the Lamb doesn’t even need to read his thoughts to see the debauchery of his late-night fantasies, because of that he’s been avoiding the Lamb like they were a plague.

But they still manage to find him, like a little predator stalking prey.

They corner him after two messily days of avoidance, pulling him back after the sermon and promptly closing the temple doors. “Nari, I thought we were past this stage already.” They say, their voice echoes.

“You thought wrong, Lamb, as you often do.” It’s no use lying, so he chooses to dodge the question entirely.

His usurper, though, doesn't plan on letting him escape that easily; they march towards him with drive, and Narinder tries to pretend he remained unaffected by leaning back against the column behind him. “You're hiding something, I can see it, Nari.” They say, hands on their hips and head tilting, making the bell around their neck jingle softly.

Narinder wonders if it would jingle when he shoves the usurper onto their back and—.

“There!” The lamb exclaims suddenly. “You stopped your own train of thought! What was that? Are you thinking about murdering me again? Are you dissenting? You don't look like you're dissenting!” They ramble endlessly.

Oh, to hell with it! Narinder thinks. They will just read my mind anyways. And before the Lamb can predict his next action, Narinder pounces.

He takes them by the face, with both hands, and smacks their lips together. The lamb lets out a surprised gasp, then promptly melts in his hands, so he lets go of their face in favor of their hips, then reverses their positions to pin the Lamb against the column.

He’s quick to add his teeth into the mix, he bites the Lamb’s lips until he feels the metallic taste of blood, then he licks it, and It's all a mess from there.

The damned Lamb moans into his mouth, matching his energy and his every action. Soon, Narinder is holding them up by the thighs, their legs wrapped around him as they both bite, lick and moan against eachother's mouth.

Disrobing is not easy, but they manage to do a quick job of it, and Narinder lays the Lamb on their back on top of his own discarded clothes almost tenderly, before biting into their shoulder with force only to feel their blood on his tongue and to hear the pathetic bleat they let out. “You wanted to know what I was hiding?” He asks, rhetorically, because he shoves a finger inside the Lamb and knows that they won't answer through their moans. “This is it. I've been wanting to fuck you, dreaming about it.” He shoves a second finger, moving his hand in a slow rhythm only to hear the Lamb finally gasp some air, just to moan out again.

“Narinder!” They call in-between their moans. “Wait- more, please more” They are almost incoherent, Narinder smiles, his hand moving faster as was requested.

“It's so much better in a godly body, isn't it? It's like divinity enhances it.” He taunts, then kisses the already fading bite mark he had left. “Let me fuck you, my Lamb?” He whispers sweetly. “You wanted my crown? Fine, I’ll show you all it can do for you.”

The Lamb nods with fervor, the bell on their neck chimes. Narinder removes his fingers from their quivering hole and holds their legs open before shoving himself into them with a slow but fluid movement.

The Lamb’s body greedily takes in the new sensation, their back arches off the ground and they let out a divine, long and pleasured moan.

Nothing was better than this, nothing could possibly rival the union of their bodies, no nectar or ambrosia would ever be more innebriating than the taste of each other. Their ecstasy mixes, they begin to move against each other in a heated frenzy.

Their moans fill the temple, sounding holier than the prayers, their rhythm dictated by the chime of the Lamb’s bell and the sound of their hips meeting with each thrust.

Lamb thinks they will become addicted to this; the mutual devotion this carnal act brings them, the feeling of being so full, the sound of Narinder's heavy breathing and raspy moans.

This is true divinity, this raw and passionate and carnal desire is so utterly mortal that it circles right back into godhood.

Both chase their highs with desperation, bodies rutting against each other.

And when they reach it, it's devastating, both gasp for air like it's their first time breathing in centuries. Their bodies finally still against each other as they come back to themselves.

Silence hangs in the air for a few moments, then the cheeky Lamb opens their mouth; “You’ve been dreaming about this?” They tease.

Narinder rolls his eyes and fights the smile that insists on crawling up to his lips; “Shut up!” They only hum in response, hugging him by the shoulders and making him lay down by their side.

“I’m glad I could fulfill your desires, then…” They smile up at him and lay a soft kiss on his lips, Narinder stays silent, purring contently despite his expressionless face.

If I told yall this is the second smut I've ever written in my life, would yall believe me? Cuz I'm quite proud of it. Hope you guys like it too

#cw smut #midnight writes #narilamb #narinder x lamb #narilamb smut #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #minors dni #smut #fluff and smut

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maple-the-awesome · 1 year

Text

Heir ||

Pairing: Mob! (any) Peter Parker x Reader

Words: 2,825

Requested by Anonymous: Okay so can u write (or if u don't take request can we just discuss?) about mob! Peter Parker when the reader is pregnant?? Like he'd be absolutely hyperactive and take care of her every second. Not leaving her for a sec alone and then taking all his work into his office at home bc he just wants to stay near to her. Constantly spoiling her and buying her everything she is craving, baby proofing the whole house, constantly having sex bc she is extra horny and then of course talking to her baby bump when he thinks she's fast asleep!! Just . So. Cute. I'm always a sucker for pregnant reader stories. Here you go 💜 Warning: Suggestive/Explicit content (nothing too detailed, but the request does involve a horny pregnant reader and Peter's a deliverer, sooo~)

Marvel Masterlist 🖤 Fandom Masterlist 🖤 Requests

Peter Parker, a young tycoon from upscale New York who likes to attend the most lavish of social gatherings and only owns what is considered 'top of the line' be it clothes, jewelry, houses, cars - you name it, but that is, of course, a part of his carefully constructed public image. Hidden in secret and shadows, his name is one often whispered as a form of jinx from the mouths of the criminal class. They understand the red ink Mr. Parker's name is written with; they know the true nature of his work.

Peter has quite the reputation, to put it short. Extortion, loan sharking, and corruption of public officials can be considered the 'nicer' side of his dealings, although seeing the exact lengths most individuals go through just to avoid a frown upon his face, it can easily be concluded that he's perfectly willingly to go much further if business calls for it.

He's headstrong and cold meaning that, once he sets his mind to something, there is no convincing him otherwise unless a certain voice is to plead it. There is a voice that can speak louder than his all by a mere breath against his ear; a sound sweet enough to poison his every thought, shatter his iron will, and remove that fearsome reputation of his like a form of temporary baptism.

For you, his precious wife, there is only 'Peter', a loving husband so devoted to the one who holds his heart that he would remove mountains if you preferred the view, carve the earth until it's hallow if you desire a gown of rare gems, and set fire to all of New York just to see your face shine in the golden flames. For you alone, Peter will take a knee, being whatever pleases you, although at the moment, all you ask is that he accepts defeat.

It's quite amusing really. Within the years of your marriage, you've heard countless accounts about how savage and gruesome your dear husband is; the wolf from fairy tales or, more fitting to his nickname, a spider haunting the dreams of those with severe arachnophobia. You'd be more inclined to believe such stories if not for how adorable he currently looks, his legs sprawled out across the floor as he struggles to put together the complex design yet remains very adamant that he will not be accepting defeat against a pile of rosewood.

You've been here watching the scene for well over an hour now, sitting rather comfortably yourself in a new rocking chair while snuggled up in an equally young silk blanket, soft cotton pajamas, and wool socks with a warm mug of ginger tea housed in your hands.

Without anything else to truly do and knowing full well any offers of assistance will continue to be denied (you've tried), you have taken to either sitting or pacing about the room every now and again to stretch your aching back, but you make sure to do the latter sparring since you've discovered the more you move, the more you increase poor Peter's worry.

The record so far is five minutes before your husband is hovering at your side, fussing like a British nanny over something: do you need anything, princess? Medicine? Another blanket? Is it too cold in here? Too warm? Perhaps it's best if you go lay down or shall we go for a walk in the garden for some fresh air?

It's amusing to you how doting Peter can be - well, how much more doting he can be, is a better way of putting it. Truth be told, he has always been an attentive husband, existing at your every beckon and call despite his own busy work schedule.

Each morning, you awake to kisses down your collarbone and a freshly picked flower next to your plate at breakfast. Throughout the day, he spares every possible second that he can for your request, becoming all yours during those breaks no matter how short. Do you want to read together in the library? Eat lunch in the garden if he has that much time? Peter has never been against any suggestion regardless of how rushed he may be in the moment, going as far as to sneak into the nearest closest for…Well, you can probably use your imagination for that part.

Peter prides himself on rarely letting you down, pained too deeply by your tears and too afraid of your shouts (a funny thought considering what his job entails). Fortunately, your fights are few and far inbetween, his anger reserved for work alone, not his precious wife who, quite honestly, is the only good thing to enter his hectic life aside from May and even Ben when he was still around - Oh, and also that little life you currently carry within your womb; they’re a fairly recent add on to Peter's list of loved ones.

You remember it like just yesterday when you had first told him the news. You, yourself, had been a nervous wreck despite having been actively trying for children. All of your preparation and desires seemed to instantly go out the window in that moment, replaced by the weight of the world upon your shoulders as you stared at that little white test confirming for certain that you are, in fact, carrying the weight of a little world inside of you.

Pregnant? Are you really ready to do this? Can you really be a good mom or will you somehow mess it up? What if Peter was only pacifying you when he offered to fulfill your desire of bearing his children? What if he wasn't being honest then and actually detests the idea of children running around his mansion, screaming and creating messes as children typically do? So many worries plagued your mind that day, all put to rest once receiving Peter's true reaction.

It took him a minute - actually four - where he just stared at you, letting the wheels turn inside his head while carefully asking if you were being serious. Then, within seconds - which is no exaggeration -, you were within his arms, your face soon cupped in his hands as he tearfully asked you the same question again followed by giddy laughter when you confirmed it a third time.

Your husband has always been doting, however now that you hold his child - his heir - this behavior has been increased tenfold. You officially bear double the importance to him, thus any harm that may befall you would become his downfall leading to him collapsing in on himself like a dying star (excuse his dramatics). Therefore, Peter has amplified his protective and attentive behaviors, becoming a hyperactive presence in your life that can be admittedly overwhelming at times.

It began plainly enough with him moving all of his work to the home office where he could be within range of your calls for every second of the day. Parties, business trips, and anything else that would require traveling became forbidden, not that he ever cared much for them anyways. Security had also been added upon with Peter triple checking all interviews and background checks which were usually entrusted to his right-hand man, Miles, who has never steered him wrong before, but one can never be too careful.

While not bad in the beginning, Peter’s anxieties soon became suffocating. His innocent research into all things parenthood soon started viewing every piece of advice or recommendations as holy. The doctor said too much of something isn't good to eat? Then you won't taste a grain! There can be germs around the mansion that cause you illness? Everything must be washed! Everything! Oh, and the mansion must be entirely baby proof! Each corner, every nook and crank - Nothing left to chance! Simply put, Peter doesn't want to take any chances, treating you as if you're some sort of ticking time bomb which is, in a way, true given your horrendous mood swings at times.

For a while there, it felt that Peter was coming to you everyday with something new he wanted to try. Playing certain music to help the baby's development or drafting a new meal plan that gets rid of some of your favorites because a certain ingredient isn't 'good for you'. Being currently drained due to a changing body, you’ve been in no mood for Peter's 'crowding', and the meal thing had been your final straw. He unfortunately learned this the hard way when you finally lost your patience resulting in a full hour of shouting at him then another sobbing your apologies.

After that day, Peter has backed off a little. He still spends every night reading parent books which are left stacked at his bedside, but he's much more reasonable with his suggestions and has learned to not believe everything he reads, usually running it through Aunt May first just to be sure he won't get his head ripped off if he brings the information to you (yeah, you're not quite sure he's recovered from the trauma of your scolding, poor baby).

Of course, you can never truly be mad at Peter for caring, something he knows, too. Pregnancy is stressful both mentally and physically, thus it's lovely to have a husband just as willing to trek through the ugly as he is to observe the beauty.

As it's hopefully been made clear, he has no issue in spoiling you. Anything you want is yours to have. Are you craving some foreign food? He'll have it flown in or hire a special chief to prepare it just for you. Do you wish for cuddles? He'll move his schedule around the best he can to accommodate for a day in bed, snuggled in mounts of blankets as you rest comfortably in his arms. Even if you're suffering from horrible mood swings, be it awful crying or livid screaming, he will happily endure it feeling it's the least he can do in return for all his wife is doing for him.

Oh, and then there's the sex. Why hadn't anyone told you being pregnant would make you this horny? Some days, you're barely able to keep your hands off of poor Peter (not that he's actually suffering in any shape or form, quite the opposite). Of course, you blame him for it because not only did he make you this way, but he insists on being in the same room as you practically all hours of the day. How are you not to leap at him when he's sitting right there, looking all hot and sexy as he runs his hand through his hair or bites his lip in concentration while going over paperwork?

…Yeah...Peter's probably fucked you more than he's actually completed any of his work, but when your wife is sitting on top of your lap, peppering your neck in kisses and pawing at your erection all while swelling with your baby within her womb? What's a man to do?

Looking back at how perfect Peter has been, you don't think you could ever feel more confident in who you've married. He could've turned you away that first day you asked him to impregnate you, he could be doing the bare minimum without any personal inference just to keep you ‘happy’ and out of his hair, but instead, he has remained loyal to his responsibilities, going above and beyond in the name of pure love. It's enough to make you swoon (and maybe a little aroused, damn your hormones), however at the moment, you're a bit too tired to express any of it outwardly. Maybe later when you have the energy for something more physical.

Right now, you only wish to close your eyes, enjoying the warm sun which floods through the window at just the right angle that it blankets you in the rocking chair - something you're sure Peter took into consideration when planning the layout of this nursery. Bless him indeed.

You have zero intentions in moving, too warm and too at peace especially since the baby has finally stopped wiggling around like a little worm inside of you. Not wanting to disrupt the precious bean, you'll remain put in silence where you can both rest together.

You hear Peter give an exasperated groan from where he sits on the floor. Based on it, you're certain he must have his hands in his hair, tugging at the roots. Accompanied with the sound of him stretching his legs and the amount of time it takes him to actually stand up, you'd guess it must've been hell for his muscles to stay in such a position for so long, not that you feel that bad, only for a second at most. If you've survived seven months of your entire body aching, he can surely manage a numb feeling in his legs for a few minutes.

He tip toes over the hurricane of wood planks, but gives a good kick to some of the screws with a hissed breath and hands placed on his hips. He'll have to ask Miles for someone who can build this damned crib for him, he doesn't have the patience to fiddle with it any longer, but at least his anger is forgotten once he looks at you. The golden sun dressed over your face, the peaceful rest of your skin and slight part of your cherry lips as you take in each breath: you’re truly the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, a fact he is constantly reminded of especially in the small moments like this.

Peter wonders if your baby will take after you. He desperately hopes so, if not in appearance than at least in personality. He hopes that whoever they end up being, it isn't anything like him. Although he was happy to take Uncle Ben's place in the business, it wasn't what Ben wanted and, now that he is going to be a father himself, Peter finally understands that.

The more he thinks of his precious child, the more certain Peter becomes that he doesn't want them to be his heir. He doesn't want them to know violence or bloodshed, lies and deceit. He doesn't want them to tell the other children at school that their daddy is their hero - to ever think such a thing in admiration because that would just be the first step down his path.

He wants them to be like you. He wants them to be kind and patient, fair and dignified. He wants their love, yes, but he also wants them to be realistic as you are - to know that what he does for a living isn't truly a good thing and that they should strive to be something more, something better. They don't need to be proud of him, but he will forever be proud of them. That's what Uncle Ben wanted for him, and while he failed on that front himself, he hopes his child can do better; he'll do better by being around to lead them down that right path.

Kneeled in front of you, Peter whispers all these things, his hands gracing your swollen stomach as he makes a trail of endless promises to the unborn child who can’t process any of it at the moment, however that's fine; Peter will be there to remind them of his love throughout the rest of their life.

"...I can't wait to meet them..." He hushes, pressing his lips to your stomach in a long kiss. Only a few more months and he'll be able to do the same to their forehead. He'll likely never stop either, not if he remains this drunk on admiration towards them.

You smile, blinking open your eyes to gaze down at him, "They can't wait to meet you either."

"How do you know?" He challenges playfully, leaning into your touch when your hand rests upon his cheek, always so warm to him.

"Because they kick anytime they hear your voice," you explain, letting your other hand fall onto your stomach, "They were sleeping peacefully until you started talking. Now they’re wide awake waiting for you to say more."

"I'm sorry," he doesn't look it, a delighted smile still tugging at his lips. He always apologizes, although he's far from being meaningful. Sorry that you must endure so much pain and stress, but not sorry that it's all going to be for your beloved child. Nine months in return for a life which will continue to grow and carry the best traits of you both, isn’t that a good deal?

Fortunately for your husband, you have never been truly mad, agreeing that it’ll indeed be worth it in the end. Slumping back your head against the chair, you close your eyes again and hum as you remind him, "...Peter, they're waiting for you to say more."

He beams, dropping his head lightly against your stomach where his ear can press against your covered skin as if it’ll allow him the deepest connection with the life waiting inside, "Then I will say more."

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azrielsbabyg · 1 month

Note

Hi! I saw on an Az fic you wrote that you were taking requests. If you still were, I'd love some bondage with Kallias smut. Or if you'd prefer not to write smut, maybe reader is Illyrian and her wings are cold?

Hellooooo thank you so much for sending in this request! 🫶🏻 I'm not yet sure how to write smut or even go about it but I am not opposed to it. Maybe someday in the future I will post something related to smut. I also don't really write for Kallias because I know nothing about the man 😭. For now, here you go! 💖

Warnings: None. (If I need to add something lmk)

Type: Fluff, comfort.

Word Count: 1193

Pairing: Kallias x Reader (Fem)

FROSTBITE

Drip, drip, drip.

The water slowly trickled off of the icicles lining the cave. Everything went wrong. So wrong. You were a spy from the Night Court. One of Azriel’s specially trained and Rhys’s most trusted. There were rumours of a rebellion starting in the Winter Court and he was concerned it might flare up to be more. However, that was all it was. A rumour. You could gather no intel, in fact, you even managed to piss off a couple of people because you probbed them too long unnecessarily.

Which now led you here. Far out into some random cave on some random mountain, trying to find refuge against the brutal winds and snow. You were illyrian, yes, you should be able to withstand the cold due to your upbringing in the mountains. But this? This was just numbing, cruel and pricking.

“What happened?” Rhys spoke into your mind. “I can feel you weakened.”

“Mission was unsuccessful and unnecessary. The rumours were not true. I am now stuck in a random ass cave trying to hide from this fucking snow storm. Can you contact someone? Any friend of yours that might be able to help me?” You plead.

“I see. I will ask Kallias to come get you. Unless you don't want him?” You could hear the smirk in his voice.

You wanted Kallias. Wanted him to be frank. But the last time you were face to face with him, you got drunk and rambled on about all the things you want to do to him and all the things you want him to do to you. Let’s just say the hangover hurt for more reasons than one.

“Just send him.” You groaned. Were you ready to face him? Absolutely the fuck not. But did you wish to see him? Yes. “My wings are cold.”

— — — — — —

After what seemed like hours you finally hear footsteps sloshing against the wetness of the pathway. Although you remind yourself to keep your guard up, threats could come in any form.

“Y/N?” You hear Kallias’s husky, gravely voice. He approaches the entrance of the cave and sees you huddled up in the far corner, rubbing your arms to give yourself even a hint of warmth.

“H-Hey” Your voice shakes as you respond. The weather has caught up to you now, slowly seeping into your veins, almost making you feel like a statue, still. Lifeless.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. Here.” He takes a tentative step towards you, assessing your form. You look sunken and shrivelled up. Your body was shivering uncontrollably no matter how much you tried to stop. He comes closer to you and kneels down in front of you, gently brushing away the wet strands of hair from your face, caressing your cheekbones in the process.

You lean into his touch. Somehow, even in this cold, harsh weather, he was warm. Warm like sunlight right after the storm clouds dissipate. Warm, like he’s exactly what you need. “Took you long enough.” It takes everything in you to muster up a small taunting smirk.

“Of course you would joke in this condition of yours.” He huffs out a laugh. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a material that feels like wool. “Rhys told me of your situation, tried to get here as soon as I could. This,” he says nudging the material in his hands,“is infused wool. We produce this to help migrants and visitors who have wings to shield against the cold. You just wrap it around your wings and button it up. It won’t restrict your flight.” He hands the material to you.

“I-I don’t th-think I can move right n-now.” My speech comes out stammered.

“Oh.” Understanding washes over his face. “I mean, I can always put it on for you, but I know how Illyrians are with their wings and what it means or feels like when you touch their wings… You sure you would trust me with that?

I offer him a small smile. Kallias, ever the respectful gentleman. “I called you to come save my life didn’t I? I trust you. Go for it.”

He carefully unwraps the material and folds it over your wings, one at a time. He makes sure not to hit any sensitive nerve or brush across any talons in fear of hurting you. You shudder and lean into him when he accidently brushes a knuckles across a big nerve.

Your chests are pressed up against each other, your head coming up till his chin. Almost out of reflex, his arms fold around you and his chin rests atop your head. You slowly pull your head back and look up at him through wet eyelashes. Kallias closes his eyes, almost like he was counting down to ten, controlling himself.

But you didn’t want him to hold himself back. You wanted him to unleash himself, to let himself have what he wants, have you. Hell, he wanted to lose control. He wanted to surge forward and claim you, taste you. But he knew one taste wouldn’t be enough, and one taste was all he could ask for.

“Y/N…” He whispers into the cold, rigid air. Like a plea. Like a prayer.

“Kallias,” You reply, begging as much as he was.

“You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.” He warns.

“Lucky for me, fire is exactly what I need right now.” You breathe out.

That seemed to do it. Seemed to melt whatever restraint he held up against himself. In the blink of an eye, you were pushed against the stone wall, his lips crashing against yours. He kisses, no, devours you whole. Your entire body is burning up in contrast to the weather outside. The entire moment is a blur, clashing of lips, tongue and teeth. Hands roaming each other’s bodies, searching for satisfaction. He holds your wrists up against your head and pins your body with his hips. He lets out a moan into your mouth, and you swallow the sound taking anything he will give you.

You both pull away gasping for air, staring into each other’s eyes. His lips travel down your jaw to your neck, peppering kisses on his way. He brings his lips near your ear and whispers, “The things you do to me Y/N…”

You push up against him in response, not having the mindset to formulate words.

“C’mon sweetie, let’s get you back to the palace and arrange a warm bath for you with some good food.” He kisses your cheeks awaiting a response from you.

“That sounds great actually. Really fucking needed right now.” You breathe in his scent. He smells of pine, cloves and sparkling clementine. He smells so comforting. He feels like home.

He chuckles lightly, “And maybe, if you end up feeling better, we can do the things you wanted to last time we met. You know the ones where you wanted to ride me into-”

“Okay stop for the cauldron’s sake.” You slam your palm over his mouth in embarrassment. “Fine yeah, we can go now.”

He huffs out a laugh and kisses the middle of your palms. “As you wish sweetheart.”

— — — — — —

#Kallias x reader #winter court #acotar x reader #acotar fluff #requests

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prismatic-bell · 2 years

Text

HEY YOU

YEAH YOU

Wanna show you a thing.

Pretty, huh? It’s two different lesbian flags, both crocheted using ombré yarn to add a little more something-something to the colors. Handmade. (Crochet cannot be replicated by machine.)

Anyway these items are 40”x40” (just over 100x100cm), available for commission, and…wait for it…

…while they cost $350 total, up front you pay only $50 or the cost of materials (whichever is greater). If I have to buy materials, this ensures I’m not out the money if you decide you no longer want the item (yarn is not cheap). If I happen to have the colors already in my stash, this is basically a stake to make sure I don’t get left holding the bag on a color combination that may be hard to sell later. The remaining $300 is owed in 6-8 weeks when I finish and ship your item. The flag above that you may not be familiar with is a commission with a satisfied buyer, so I’m pretty sure if you want a confirmation you will actually get what you ordered, I can refer you to them.

ITEM SPECS:

—40x40”/100x100cm

—allergen-free acrylic (I would love to work in wool but I’m allergic and stuff like alpaca would take this way out of all our price ranges)

—completed in the round using Russian “magic” joins (knotless join; no loose ends)

—any color combination you like (Pride flag? Favorite colors? Just want something to match your decor?) provided I can find the appropriate colorways. Any item requiring significant amounts of black will require a price discussion due to a significant increase in labor.

—Ombré colors may be “chopped” (cutting up the skein to make each stripe start and end neatly at the end of the row) or I can let them flow, as you prefer. Chopped versions may require extra yarn.

THE COST INCLUDES:

—Seven skeins of acrylic yarn; this is the amount necessary to produce a four-color/four-ombré blanket. Contact me for math on additional colors.

—all labor, billed at approx. $7/hr. The price will not increase from the quoted price due to additional hours on my part unless the additional labor is due to significant use of black, in which case the cost will be discussed before the item is begun.

—a card containing 12” each of all colors used, from the relevant dye lots, in case of an accident requiring repair. Additional lengths will be provided if a color takes up a significant portion of the blanket (for example, if it’s only solid white and solid red).

—shipping within the contiguous United States or a $14 discount on overseas shipping (this is the cost within the US)

—color consultation on the precise colorways used for your item, should something require interpretation

Any delays in the process will be clearly communicated. On this I will absolutely refer you to my last commission; the company encountered supply chain issues that delayed the gray, and sourcing the desired pink for the exterior 5” turned out to be almost impossible. (But I did it!) I began work with the inside colors as soon as the gray was available and kept the client abreast of What Is Happening Now With The Pink, including offering secondary contingency options.

I cannot make the lipstick lesbian (“pink stripe”) flag. This is not due to any personal beef with the flag or with lesbians, but rather The Crafter’s Eternal Beef With This Flag Specifically: try source all seven colors, in the same weight, from the same brand, all currently in production, take this sword because it’s dangerous to go alone, good luck. Keep in mind if you use ombrés for this you’re adding a good 5-10 hours in terms of sorting the colors. The closest I’ve managed to get is the sunset-flag-inspired ombré above. I have tried. Do not get angry at me for this, get angry at whatever dumbass designed the flag without looking at readily-available ranges of craft supplies. I’m happy to work with you on a “we can try to get close” design, but the full color range just is not there. I’m sorry.

I cannot make the Progress Pride flag. It’s a beautiful flag and I have some great ideas for how I’d love to do it when I learn to make chevrons properly, but I’m not happy with the quality I’ve been able to produce and I will not release work I’m unhappy with. (Check back in a year. I’m learning some new stitches that may remedy this.) This is also true of the Queer Chevron flag, for the same reason. I’m happy to make a regular trans flag, Philadelphia (black and brown stripe) Pride flag, or Inclusive (final Gilbert Baker design, 2019) Pride flag instead.

Interested? Christmas and Chanukkah are only seven weeks away. NOW is the time to order if you saw this and went “oooh, that’d be great for…”

Support your small fibercrafters, buy a handmade blanket! You can contact me via DM if you’re interested. (And if you’re wondering: yes, I can make hat/scarf sets, too—just ask for a quote.)

#small business #crafting #crochet #support small business #your commission lets me fill my gas tank and build my dream vegetable garden #no superyachts are nurtured by the purchase of this item

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jarxix · 3 months

Text

2. Grumbo, Angst/Fluff(Tho this one is more like Hurt/Comfort)

This is a Hermitcraft fanfiction. Characters only, not CC.

Timeline: Very early season 6.

ships: Grian/Mumbo

Warnings: Not graphic blood, Panic attacks, mention of Sam, blink and you'll miss it.(I put that one in since some people put SamGladiator in warnings for some reason.)

Word count:873

Mumbo walked back and forth before picking up a comparator and putting on a blue strip of wool while talking about the redstone contraption he was making. Grian had stopped by earlier and asked about what Mumbo was making, but Grian had been quiet for a bit. He looked over at the avian, and saw that he was leaning against his redstone shulker box, asleep.

Mumbo smiled at him. He walked over and lifted the smaller into his arms, he was worryingly light, and walked into the other room. When he placed Grian on the bed he was about to walk away when he saw the dark circles under Grian’s eyes.

He would have to ask him about that later, for now Mumbo returned to his work.

===

He had been working for about an hour when he heard a loud thud. He walked quickly to the room he left Grian in, and saw him laying on the floor. He must have fallen off the bed. When Mumbo picked Grian up he saw tears running down the avian’s face.

Why was he crying?

He laid Grian back down on the bed.

I’ll ask him when he wakes up

Mumbo stopped walking when he got to the door, twitching his rabbit-like ears. For some reason he felt like didn’t want to leave Grian alone. Instead he walked over to his dresser and grabbed a book from his shelf and sat on a chair in the corner of his room.

For a while it was quiet, he had gotten through 5 chapters of his book. Mumbo started to feel like maybe should continue working on his redstone contraption when Grian’s wings flared open and he Screamed.

Mumbo dropped this book out of shock and shot out of his seat and to Grain’s side. Mumbo reached out and tried to grab Grian’s shoulders, but it was very hard with him Swinging his arms around and screeching, his talons were extremely sharp.

When he finally was able to grab the avian’s shoulders he felt something hit his stomach. He gritted his teeth and shook Grian.

“Grian!” He repeated trying to wake him up. A talon hit is cheek and blood dripped from the scratch.

Grian finally woke up, and fell of the bed with a loud, “AACK!” Mumbo leaned down, Ignoring the pain in this stomach, in front of Grian, who was hyperventilating.

“Gri..? Follow my breathing, ok?” Mumbo started breathing slowly and deeply. As well as he could. Grian stared at him for a moment before he tried to copy him.

After a while he seemed to fully calm down. He curled up, burying his head in his legs beginning to cry.

“Grian, can I hug you?” Grian had always been jumpy when he was touched without warning. Mumbo had a feeling he new why, but he wouldn't bring it up unless he was sure.

The avian nodded, and Mumbo pulled him into a hug. Grian buried his face into Mumbo’s chest. He rubbed Grian’s back as he let him cry.

They sat there for a few hours? Probably. Mumbo didn’t care. But he was starting to feel light headed from the blood loss. He looked down at the smaller man in his arms. He looked so fragile, like if he simply held him to hard, Grian would just fall apart.

After a while he said.

“Grian?” The avian looked up at him, his light blue eyes shimmered in a way that made them look almost purple.

“I’m gonna put you back on the bed, alright?” He slightly nodded, and Mumbo lifted him up onto the bed.

“I’ll be right back, I need to get cleaned and bandaged up.” He turned to walk away, he heard Grian gasp.

“Mumbo..?” He looked back at Grian, who looked worried. “Did… Did something happen..?” Mumbo looked down at the cut on his stomach.

“You may have hit me when I was waking you up..” Mumbo watched as Grian’s face went from worry to shock to horror. “Mumbo… I-” Mumbo cut him off.

“Hey, it’s ok, I just need to clean up.”

When he returned Grian had apologized over and over again, while Mumbo kept telling him it was ok. When Grian stopped Mumbo was finally able to ask him something.

“Hey, have you been sleeping well?” Grian sighed and said.

“No.. I haven’t..” He shifted his wings. “I hadn’t had nightmares for about a year, but I started getting them again when I joined Hermitcraft.. I guess the sudden change shook me more than I thought…”

“How long have you been have nightmares, it’s only been 2 months since you joined.” Mumbo grabbed Grian’s hand and squeezed it.

“I’ve been have these nightmares almost everyday..”

“Why didn’t you talk to someone about this?” Grian looked down. “It’s not that important..” Mumbo drew in a breath.

“Gri… If it hurting you It is important.” Mumbo pulled him close.

“If you’ve been having nightmares and it’s effecting your sleep and health, then you need to talk to someone. And I know you don’t know everyone on the sever yet, but still you should talk to X.”

Grian sighed. “I’ll try..” He looked up at Mumbo. “Thanks, Mumbo..”

----------------------------------------

the next Fanfic i'll be writing is RenDoc, Smut. I'm also working on a Rancher Duo fic(There is smut in it)

#hermitshipping #fanfic #hermitcraft #hermitblr #grian #mumbo jumbo

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imagines--galore · 1 year

Note

Hey! Can you do a Sherlock x reader based on love story by taylor swift? Like they're dating but reader's parents aren't in for it. Maybe age gap or something so they sneaks out and stuff.

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader - Victorian Era AU Rating || Genres || Warnings: T. Romance. Mention of blood, and if you're from the Victorian Era prepare to be scandalized lol A/N: I mean the entire request?! I just HAD to put it in this era :3 Also I didn't listen to Love Story while writing this fic. Nope. Not at all.

Ever since you had met Sherlock at a Ball your parents had been hosting, you had been intrigued. He had no invitation, but had been able to fool all the guests into making them believe he was invited. Even your parents. You, however, had been suspicious and had trailed after him every step of the way.

He had tried to shake you off, but you were determined to prove his lies. And also because you wanted to avoid every single eligible male your Mother paraded before you, in hopes that you would pick someone to dance with.

You had finally cornered Sherlock under the guise of a dance. And he had been a little impressed that he hadn't been able to pull the wool over your eyes with his lies. So, he had told you the truth.

He was here to stop a man from killing his wife and framing her lover for it. And then he asked for your help. The prospect of doing something that went against your proper upbringing, compelled you to agree.

A few moments later, you appeared to fall in a faint, prompting all the attention to be diverted towards you. Providing Sherlock with ample time to stop the villain of the night without causing any unwanted fuss.

————————–

From then on Sherlock would send you telegrams. And as soon as you received them, you would don your hat and gloves, and under the guise of some errand of some sort, would be out of the house.

Normally Sherlock would ask you to come when he required the assistance of a female in his case. Infiltrating a women society, or being in a place where no one would raise an eyebrow at her being there, you would gather whatever information you could pick up on and report back to Sherlock. There were even times when you would climb out of your window in the dead of night to meet with him and help him solve crimes.

His partner, Dr. Watson, had not been too keen on having a young woman accompany them to dangerous and uncivilized places, but you didn't care. This was the first time something exciting was happening in your life.

So far the only excitement that you had experienced had been news of a potential suitor. But that had fizzled out rather fast. Besides solving a crime topped sitting around in the drawing room listening to old ladies gossip.

Unless of course you were on a mission to gather intelligence. It was amazing, Sherlock had once told you, how much women and housemaids could pick up just because no one ever noticed them. You had helped solve quite a number of cases and murders just by listening in on gossip.

Your parents found out about your escapades a little later then they initially should have. Probably because your mother was a social butterfly who was never really home, and your father stayed at his office or his other lodgings in the heart of London most nights.

You had once been nearly caught because Sherlock and Watson had been attempting to chase down a runner, in a gentleman's pub. You had been waiting outside and as soon as the man had come racing out, you had simply stuck out foot, and watched as the man went careening into a fruit stall.

"Quick thinking Ms. Y/L/N." Mr. Watson had praised at which you had smiled in amusement. "Who knew a simple schoolboy trick would take down a murderer."

It was then that you had caught sight of your father standing at the threshold of the club, looking at you with rage in his eyes. Your face had paled, and Sherlock had noticed.

His mind was quick enough to deduce what was going on, and what would occur if he did not act quickly. Which is why he turned to you and gave a small polite bow.

"Thank you for helping us catch the criminal Miss. It was good fortune you were here at such an opportune moment." His hand grasped your gloved one, where he placed a polite kiss at the back of it. Surreptitiously he slipped his pocket watch into your hand, which you quickly palmed and gave him a polite smile before moving to speak to your father.

That was the first time you lied to your father.

How you had only come to deliver his pocket watch to him, which was, of course, not his. Since you had an errand to run in this part of London, you had opted to drop it off.

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

————————–

Your most recent adventure with Sherlock, turned into a rather pivotal moment.

In hindsight, perhaps posing as a couple at a masquerade had not been the best of plans. But there had been no other way. Sherlock had to expose the sweet old widow who was actually running a brothel under the guise of a respectable hotel. She had been hosting a masquerade at her family home, intent to keep up appearances.

All Sherlock had to do was sneak into her study and steal a few letters of correspondence that would expose her. What you hadn't expected was the old widow herself to be giving a tour of her home, and for an entire gaggle of women to barge into the study.

Where both you and Sherlock were.

Alone.

THE SCANDAL!

The gossip mill churned and soon the entire city of London knew that you had been caught alone with a gentleman with no chaperone.

The women who had caught you had failed to report that the both of you had been standing well away from one another, with you rummaging through the desk, while Sherlock went over every inch of the fireplace in case there was a hidden compartment.

But those were insignificant details.

Your father was furious!

He had raved on and on for hours how you had brought shame to the family name, and that no man would ever want to marry someone who had a reputation. Especially with someone like Sherlock? Who was considered an oddity and that most people in polite society shunned just because he was different.

You hadn't spoken once while your father scolded you, but once he began to call Sherlock names you had had enough.

Sherlock was your one and only friend, and the only person you trusted. You were not going to let your father slander him in such a manner.

But your defensive stance against Sherlock only made him angrier, and he gave you an ultimatum.

He would be marrying you off the moment a proposal came.

Regardless of the man's age or station.

You had been numb all over once he said that. Knowing him, he was vindictive enough to go through with his promise. And your father was a proud man who thought social standing was everything. You had just put a huge stain across your reputation, and it was up to him to fix it.

It never crossed his mind to marry you off to Sherlock, and you didn't suggest it either. Because Sherlock would never marry you. You were a mere acquaintance to him. He had no idea of the extent of your feelings for him and how deep they ran.

And perhaps it was better your feelings remained a secret.

————————–

Your father did not believe you capable enough to sneak out a few days after your initial scolding. He thought you that meek, demure young lady you had grown up to be. Of course, he had no idea that since you had begun to solve cases with Sherlock and had tasted what true freedom and joy felt like, it had been easy for you to show your true colors.

You had shown up at 221B Baker Street late evening.

Sherlock had been extremely surprised to see you there. Truthfully, he admitted to thinking you would never return.

"And why would I not come back?"

"Because....being with me would destroy your reputation."

"Its already in tatters Sherlock, I doubt continuing solving cases with you will change anything. Especially since it will be my last case."

He had inquired after your last statement to which you had revealed your father's plans to marry you off.

You had known Sherlock for the better part of a year now, and you had never seen him at a loss for words. But in that moment he had stared at you, and if you were to believe your hopeful heart, there was a troubled look in his blue eyes.

The moment passed, and he quickly told you about the case he had been working on solving and was about to go and confront the killer. As this would be the final case you both shared, you just hoped it was a good one.

————————–

And you certainly got what you wished for.

From the initial moment it was exciting. With the man trying to get away and you and Sherlock chasing after him. Once cornered, the man had taken out a pistol and fired. Sherlock had shielded you with his body, causing one of the bullets to graze his arm.

The Culprit ran out of bullets, and that was the opening Sherlock needed to engage him in a fist fight.

However, he underestimated the man's strength, and while Sherlock was strong and quite adapt at fighting, his bloodied arm did hold him back.

Which led to Sherlock being held by his throat, with the man squeezing as hard as he could.

So far, you had never actively participated in a fight. But in that moment, seeing Sherlock's panicked and terrified gaze flicker in your direction, something inside you snapped.

Letting out a roar, you picked up the first thing you could use as a weapon, which turned out to be an axe.

Makes sense since you were in a wood shop.

You hadn't stopped to think, hadn't even held back in the power of your swing and let the axe fall.

Hitting the man in the back of his head and killing him instantly.

You stood there. Every inch of you nearly covered in blood. You eyes were wide and lips pressed in a thin line in an effort to not scream out loud at what had just occurred. Your hands were still gripping the handle of the axe you had used to kill the man who now lay at your feet in a puddle of his own blood.

Kill.

By the Queen you had killed someone.

Granted he had been about to kill the man you loved, but still. You had killed someone. A man. A living being.

Your gaze couldn't leave his bloody figure, as you began to take in ragged breaths, small sounds coming from the back of your throat as you tried to draw breath without actually choking on it.

"Y/n?"

Your instincts screamed at you and you raised the axe above your head in an effort to defend yourself. Sherlock held up his hands in a surrendering motion.

"It would be redundant if you were to kill me after stopping him from doing so." He said. Anyone who knew Sherlock could see the worry in his eyes as he looked at you.

A sound finally escaped your lips, as your arms went limp and the axe dropped at your feet.

Sherlock.

The man had nearly killed Sherlock.

The man had nearly choked him to death.

The person you had killed had nearly taken away the man you loved.

Forgetting yourself and any form of decorum or propriety, you launched yourself at Sherlock and wrapped your arms around him, bloody dress and all.

Surprisingly, he reciprocated the embrace just as fiercely as you, if not more.

————————–

It was the dead of night, and you stood in front of your parents in a bloodied dress, standing besides Sherlock who was just as much of a mess as you were. Albeit his clothes were in disarray, his arm was still bleeding, and there were bruises all along his face and neck. Not to mention his bloody knuckles.

Your mother had fainted when she had seen you covered in blood, and your father was yet to say a word.

The silence would have stretched on if Sherlock had not broken it.

"I realize this is not the way one would expect to see their daughter so late at night, but I simply wished to clear some things."

He seemed to be gathering courage with every word he spoke. All eyes were on him as he continued.

"Your daughter has helped me put monsters in cages. She has helped solve crimes with her quick mind and sharp tongue. Not to mention she saved my life tonight. And I realize that we may have been caught in a compromising position but rest assured when I say that nothing happened."

He glanced back at you and you met his blue gaze. Something in his eyes shifted and an almost tender look came upon them as he continued. "Even though I wished that something would."

Your eyes widened, as your lips parted. You heard your mother release a horrified gasp, but you could hardly hear it over the thundering of your heart. Sherlock turned back to look at your father.

"You told Y/n, that you would marry her off to the first man who proposed to her. And as a man of honor, I'm sure you shall hold true to your promise when I ask you to give your daughter's hand in marriage to me."

This...........

This was a dream.

It had to be.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was asking for your hand.

Did that mean.........

Your father stood. He was a good few feet shorter then Sherlock, but he glared at the man with such hatred that you were sure your father would have him thrown out.

"You have one week. After which I never wish to see the both of you on my doorstep again."

With that he was gone, with your mother following after him, wailing at how he was making a mistake by marrying his daughter off to a lunatic.

You were still staring at Sherlock who let out a nervous laugh. "I thought your father would kill me for certain." He admitted, pushing his hair back from where the curly strands had fallen in his face.

"Y-you-" Seems he had rendered you mute with his proposal.

He shrugged. "Well it was the more logical thing to do. It would silence the gossip and keep your father from marrying you off to some unpleasant fellow." He frowned. "Then again, I do not believe I am a good man myself but perhaps the lesser of two evils."

Whatever your feelings were about the situation, in that moment your heart broke for him a little. Did he truly believe he was not a good man? Him? Who had helped saved countless lives and put so many criminals behind bars.

He was clueless when it came to himself.

So, perhaps it was a good thing you would be with him from now on to remind him of the good he did.

Walking towards him you slowly took his hand in yours. This was the first time you held his hand where neither of your wore gloves. With no barrier between your skin and his, you could feel the warmth of his palm against your own. Your eyes dropped to where his knuckles were bruised and slightly bleeding when he had thrown punches earlier.

"You truly don't see yourself as a good man do you Sherlock?" You asked, fingers brushing over his knuckles. "What people say about you? Did it manage to get to you? Make you believe you were not good enough." Whether a person was immune to the power of words or not, they still had an effect on them. He stayed silent, instead bringing his other hand up to place on top of yours, enveloping your hand between both of his.

"There was a time when I began to believe what they said. But then you came along. This nosy woman who refused to let me out of her sight because she knew I was lying." You smiled a little at the memory of your first meeting. "And having her speak to me like a normal person, and treat me as such, made me believe that perhaps I am good enough."

You smiled. "And the proposal?" You raised an eyebrow at the sheepish expression he wore. "Yes well, I had to do something to make sure we would continue solving crimes. If Watson can have a wife who was once an assassin, then I can have a wife who helps me solve cases, murder or otherwise."

A small laugh fell from your lips. "Well I suppose it is better then attending parties and sitting down for afternoon tea." He made a face at the very thought of both activities, prompting you to shake your head at him.

"It is a good thing you are past such frivolities and concern yourself with things that do matter." Sherlock stated firmly to which you gave him an affectionate smile. The both of you continued to look at one another for a good long while. Time seemed irrelevant when the two of you were together.

"You are aware of my feelings for you Sherlock?" You finally asked, unable to hold yourself back from asking the question. His eyes never wavered from yours as he leaned his head forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

"And I hope you are aware of mine."

#sherlock x reader #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x oc #sherlock holmes #sherlock #bbc sherlock

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noxexistant · 1 year

Note

CAN YOU DO LIKE A CUTE SWEET MOMENT BETWEEN RACE AND CRUTCHIE. LIKE MAYBE AFTER THE COPS BEAT EM UP THEY HAVE A REALLY LIKE AWWW INTERACTION ABOUT BEING BROTHERS LIKE HE AND JACK DO IN THE BEGINNING

i don’t know if this is as wholesome as you wanted oops but yes!! here!! some race and crutchie getting a brotherly moment to themselves after crutchie gets out of the refuge <3

—

send me newsies headcanon/writing prompts!!

—

Crutchie grits his teeth hard as he sits down. And, sure, he usually grits his teeth when he has to use his leg like that - bend it, put any amount of weight on it like he has to to get up or sit down - but he just grit his teeth hard enough to make that muscle in his jaw tic, and Race knows he never does that unless it’s bad.

None of the others seem to have noticed. There’s enough chaos going on, far too much for anyone to take stock of Crutchie hobbling unsteadily to a set of nearby steps and dropping down a little too hard to sit on one near the middle. Biting back his pain like it’s choking him, but still not expressing it outwardly in any way beyond that little involuntary movement, even though no one’s looking. Even with bruises all over him and blood staining his shirt, Crutchie sits quiet and breathes careful and won’t let go of his crutch.

He could easily balance it against the banister beside him up the steps - Race knows he usually would, taking any opportunity to have both his hands free and just not have to hold the weight for a little while. But he’s holding it, clutching it like he does when he’s about to use it to stand up, hand wrapped tight just beneath the handle. Like he might lose it. Like he thinks there’s a chance someone might try and take it from him. Again.

Race swallows. He tries for casual as he floats over - walking with an easy swagger in his step, pretending to examine his cigar and every dent it’d sustained tucked in his pocket during all the fighting - but maybe he misses the mark, because Crutchie already looks sort of grim when Race sits down beside him. Or maybe that’s just how Crutchie’s feeling right now.

It ain’t far from how Race is feeling too.

He thinks maybe they should feel better - or he should, at least. Crutchie’s got more reason to be sour. But they won. Front page of the pape, demands met - or…almost, or something, Race hadn’t really been able to follow Jack’s half-frantic rambling about it before he got pulled back in with Kath and Davey, but the strike’s over and everyone’s accounted for and they got bruises, sure, but they’re all alive to tell the tale. And what a tale it is.

Sales are gonna be up like crazy for a while. Hell, maybe they’ll be something like celebrities, now that they been in the pape and beat Pulitzer and even had Governor Roosevelt on their side. The famous striking newsboys.

Race ends up saying all of that out loud to Crutchie, who tries for a laugh and kind of misses the mark too. Crutchie can’t even quite smile right - looks like he took a hit to the jaw or something, his mouth’s moving kinda crooked - but he won’t stop smiling, even when his try at a laugh peters off quick into a strangled sort of sound. It’s like he don’t know what else to do, other than try and smile.

Seeing it, Race lets his own facade slip. He hadn’t even realised how big a farce it was until his shoulders sink and his eyelids droop and an ache settles deep into his bones like water soaking into wool. His eye’s throbbing, creating a pounding in his head, and one of his shins hurts something awful where he must’ve took a kick or something. Or maybe he tripped over a barrel. He can’t remember.

“God,” he groans, reaching down and rubbing it carefully through his trousers. “This how you feel all the time?”

And this time Crutchie does manage a laugh. It’s bitter and a little breathless, but it’s a laugh all the same.

“Bet it ain’t far off.” He looks down at Race’s leg, brow creasing a little. “‘S’it bad? Can you move it?”

Race bends his leg a couple times to prove that he can, even though Crutchie just watched him walk over, and that seems to soothe Crutchie a bit. He settles back against the steps, and Race watches him, his own gaze darting down to Crutchie’s bad leg where it’s lay motionless, hidden beneath the newly filthy and torn up fabric of his overalls. He jerks his head at it.

“What about yours?” he asks, quiet. “They got you bad, right? Jack said.”

Crutchie shrugs weakly.

“Least they couldn’t’a made it worse,” he jokes, not much stronger. “Can’t break what already don’t work.”

Race supposes that’s true in most cases, but it don’t feel right right now. Crutchie’s bad leg don’t work, sure, but they still could’ve broken it. And that’s the one thing it does work for - hurting. Crutchie can’t sell if it’s too bad, and then what was even the point of all this?

Maybe he was quiet too long, because Race is brought out of his thoughts by Crutchie knocking their shoulders together, and he ain’t smiling anymore but he don’t look quite so grim or distant either.

“Stop worryin’,” he says, like it’s an order. “Ain’t your job anymore, so quit it. Jack an’ I are back now. ‘S’all over.”

“It ain’t,” Race can’t help but argue, turning his cigar over and over between his hands, which still haven’t quite stopped shaking. “You’re hurtin’ still. And you got…”

He trails off, already half regretting what he was about to say, but Crutchie fixes him with a look and he knows he can’t drop it.

“You got this look in your eyes,” he clarifies reluctantly, hardly above a whisper. “Like you ain’t really back.”

He really does regret it then, because Crutchie goes quiet and sinks more against the step and suddenly he just looks so damn tired, gaze fixed on the ground at the bottom of the steps but clearly not really seeing it. Race feels his eyes start burning, because maybe he’s pretty tired too, and he really didn’t mean to make Crutchie upset when he’s clearly trying so hard to not be, Race just missed him so damn much and he’s been more a leader these last few days than he’s sure he’s ever been in every damn year he’s spent with the newsies and he’d been so sure, for a while there, that Crutchie wouldn’t be coming back. He hadn’t even been sure that Jack would. He’d thought maybe he’d be left alone to keep making calls by himself like he’s the one in charge, and without Crutchie and Jack he would be, and he don’t want that. Even taking charge and making everyone laugh in Jacobi’s, climbing up on tables to dance and sing and crack jokes like he weren’t half dizzy, Race had wanted his brothers more than anything. Had wanted to be able to climb down from those tables and sit quiet next to Crutchie like this, cracking jokes between themselves.

“You’re right,” Crutchie says, real quiet, and Race is startled out of his head again.

“What?”

“Said you’re right, Race. It ain’t really all over wit’.”

Race nods slowly, feeling sort of nauseous. He’s right. He’s right. Crutchie’s still hurting - but then he also leans against Race’s side and rests his cheek against his shoulder, slumping all his weight against him, relaxing, and Race can just barely see him smile, real soft. “But the worst is over wit’. The fightin’ an’ all that. An’ I’m back home. We made it through all that, an’ we’re all alive, an’ we’re all together.”

Home, Race thinks. Crutchie’s home. His brother’s home, home, home.

“I missed you so much,” he chokes out suddenly, like it just spilled out of him. “‘S’been so quiet, and I been tryin’ - everyone got real low after you got got, and I…I had to try and make ‘em laugh like you do, but I ain’t loud like you are. I don’t even got a whistle.”

Crutchie laughs again, and it’s a real laugh this time. Loud. He goes fishing in one of his pockets and comes out with his whistle - which Race supposes he must’ve stashed for safekeeping like Race did with his cigar, otherwise the Refuge guards surely would’ve taken it - and pulls the tangled leather strap of the necklace loose, hooking it back around his neck, back in its rightful place where it always hangs.

Then he puts the whistle in his mouth and blows, loud enough to make Race flinch back and cover his ears and laugh. He watches as everyone turns around, responding in a wave with their own whistles and whoops when they just see Crutchie grinning back at them, whistle dangling between his teeth. Finch whistles back as loud as he can, fingers at the corners of his mouth, so Crutchie whistles again and they go back and forth like that until someone hollers at them to shut up. Race’s head is throbbing worse than he thought was possible, but he’s still laughing, more grateful for his head throbbing from Crutchie’s noise than he thought was possible. He’d give anything to never have to hear quiet like the last few days again, and while Crutchie’s still giggling Race curls himself against his side, just like Crutchie’d done to him.

He picks his cigar up from his lap and puts it between his teeth, patting at his pockets. Crutchie must notice, because he goes through one of his own.

“You wan’ a match?”

“Yeah,” Race says, watching Crutchie dig out a matchbook and strike one lit, holding the flame to the end of Race’s cigar until it takes and he inhales his first lungful of smoke. “Where’d you get those?” he asks, as he blows the smoke back out in a neat stream.

Crutchie grins. “Swiped ‘em from Snyder,” he says, pocketing them again. “Now gimme that.”

“My cigar?” Race asks, affronted.

“Payment.”

Crutchie plucks it out of Race’s mouth and puts it into his own like he’d held his whistle, inhaling. Not quite as deep as Race had, and he coughs as he exhales the smoke in short little uneven breaths, but he finally relaxes that last little bit. He hands the cigar back.

“Thought you was havin’ it,” Race teases, taking another inhale. Crutchie bumps his shoulder again, almost hard enough to make him drop the thing.

“We can share.”

Race don’t like Crutchie smoking any more than he likes any of their boys smoking, maybe likes it less ‘cause Crutchie only smokes when he’s wanting it and can sound so damn fragile when he coughs. But, right now, Race has never been so happy to share a cigar in his life. He watches the smoke pour from his brother’s lips and thanks God he’s breathing.

Still swipes it back every time Crutchie’s taking too long on his drag, though.

#newsies #crutchie morris #racetrack higgins #my writing #answered #emmedoesntdomath

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lady-wallace · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Day 30 - "Creature Comforts" (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure)

A wholesome one for today's @whumptober fic

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Prompt Used: Borrowed Cloathing Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Characters: Team Bucciarati

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Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

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1: Abbacchio

Bruno Bucciarati had seen a lot of desperate men in his line of work, but few who looked as depressing as Leone Abbacchio, standing in the foyer of his apartment, soaked to the skin and dripping like a stray cat.

"You can shower if you'd like—there might still be hot water this time of night," Bruno told him, tucking the umbrella beside the door. "I'll find you something dry to wear."

The man shook himself and nodded, taking a hesitant step toward the bathroom door as Bucciarati pointed it out.

One he had provided him with a towel and showed him how the shower worked, Bruno hurried to his room and tried to find something for their guest to wear that might actually fit—Fugo definitely wouldn't have anything.

Bruno sighed, rummaging through his drawers, pulling out a pair of sweat pants that were slightly long on him and a plain t-shirt.

It was then he found the lump in the back of his drawer, fingers tangling in soft knitted cables. He hesitated slightly, but pulled the sweater out, holding it up. It was still definitely too big for Bruno, always had been.

Part of him wanted to put it back in the drawer and keep it for himself, but his father had also instilled in him the importance of helping those in need. So, Bruno would pass it on to someone more in need than him.

When he heard the water turn off in the bathroom, he knocked on the door. "I'm leaving some clothes out here for you. You can come to the kitchen when you're done and I'll get you something to eat."

He set the stack of clothing down and headed to the kitchen to start making some coffee. Even he was chilled after being out that night and he'd remembered the umbrella.

It was a few more minutes before Abbacchio showed up with wet hair and the too-short sweatpants. The sweater however—a dark blue wool with chunky cabling down the front and an open ribbed collar—fit him just about right. If not slightly long in the sleeves.

"Can I get you some coffee?" Bruno asked.

Abbacchio winced, still standing there as if unsure of what to do. "I—thanks, sure," he mumbled. "Thanks for the clothes too. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"It's not a problem," Bruno assured him as he went to fill a cup. "Cream or sugar?"

Abbacchio shook his head. Bruno set the cup on the table, urging him to sit down. Abbacchio took a hesitant step before he finally took a seat, tugging at the sweater. "This is really nice, I'll get it back to you once I can get back to my apartment tomorrow."

Bruno hesitated, but finally waved his hand. "Keep it. It was always too big on me anyway, and I'm sure you could use some warmer clothes? Besides, wool keeps you warm even when its wet So if you forget an umbrella again…"

Abbacchio looked up at him with some confusion for a long moment before he pulled the cup of coffee closer and took a sip. "Okay then. Thanks. I appreciate it."

Bruno smiled back and decided he was glad that the sweater would finally get some use.

2. Fugo

It had been a long stakeout in the cold. Stealth had prohibited them from turning the heater on in the car, and Abbacchio felt pretty terrible seeing just how much Fugo was shivering by the time they finished, the drive home with the heater on full blast hadn't even been enough to thaw either of them out.

Not to mention that their heater wasn't functioning fantastically in the apartment either, so it wasn't much warmer there.

"I'll make some tea, you should go get something warm on," Abbacchio told the kid worriedly. Fugo was so skinny that Abbacchio was afraid he might catch cold—though he would never say that to Fugo's face unless he wanted his nose broken.

He went to throw on a sweatshirt and thick socks before he started boiling some water.

Fugo showed up in a few minutes, still shivering, in a long-sleeved shirt with a thin cardigan over it and a pair of sweat pants.

Abbacchio eyed him briefly, but didn't want to embarrass the kid by asking him if he was warm enough. He simply took out two mugs and some tea bags and poured the water over them when it started to boil.

"Want to work on the report together?" Abbacchio asked him.

"Sure," Fugo replied, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He went to get paper and pen and Abbacchio sat down with his notebook where he had written down observations and snatches of conversation that night.

The tea worked to warm Abbacchio's core and he got to work compiling info with Fugo for their report.

He reached for a pen at the same time Fugo reached for his tea and Abbacchio's hand brushed his, feeling like ice.

"Jesus, kid," he hissed, pulling his hand away sharply. "You're actually freezing!"

Fugo glowered, hunching his shoulders as he pulled his hands back and clasped them around his mug, still shaking every once in a while. "It is freezing in here, you know."

"Don't you have anything warmer to wear?" Abbacchio asked genuinely.

"Nothing comfortable," Fugo huffed. "Just my overcoat."

Abbacchio frowned and stood up. "Hold on, I'll be back."

He went to rummage around in his closet, trying to find something warm for Fugo to wear. That was when he spotted the dark blue sweater. He'd almost forgotten about it—the one Bucciarati had given him the first night he'd dragged him back to this apartment. That would be warm enough.

Abbacchio brought it back out and handed it over to Fugo. "Here, try this."

Fugo took the sweater, looking somewhat embarrassed, but he tugged it on and pushed the sleeves up over his hands. Abbacchio watched as his shivering finally stopped all together and Fugo let out a soft sigh of relief. "Thanks. That is better."

"No problem," Abbacchio replied and nodded to the sweater. "You can keep that too, it was just something Bucciarati gave me. You'll need it if the heater doesn't get fixed soon."

Fugo offered a very small smile, huddling into the sweater as they continued with their work.

3. Narancia

"I'm…so sorry."

"Just shut up," Fugo snapped, feeling mud squelch in his shoes—they were probably ruined by now. But at least the mud had been relegated to his lower half. Narancia was practically covered in it. He didn't even realize you could find that much mud within the city limits but any calamity seemed possible with their new recruit around.

He fumbled his keys out of his pocket and opened the apartment up, cringing at the thought of all the mud they were about to track inside. The car was already a disaster.

"Just don't touch anything you don't have to," Fugo muttered.

Narancia tip-toed delicately into the apartment after ditching his shoes by the door.

"Probably the best thing is to dump the muddy clothes into the bathtub so we can rinse them out before putting them into the washing machine," Fugo said.

"Uh, yeah okay," Narancia replied. "But, um, problem—I don't have anything else to wear. I left my wash in the washing machine and I only have my pajamas pants.

Fugo sighed tiredly. "Just…throw your stuff into the tub and I'll loan you something to wear."

Narancia perked up and Fugo hurried to dump his clothes in the bathroom, washing briefly before grabbing a towel to wrap around himself to go find something clean to wear.

He dressed quickly, hearing Narancia swearing as he struggled with his mud-covered clothes then turned with a sigh to his dresser, digging around for something Narancia could wear.

A bundle of dark wool caught his eye and he pulled the sweater out, remembering how Abbacchio had given it to him when he had been freezing that one night. It had kept him warm through the winter, but he could do with passing it on now, especially since Narancia really didn't have that many clothes.

He grabbed a pair of his sweatpants as well and set the neatly folded pile outside the bathroom door.

"Clothes are outside," he said before going to make a call to Bucciarati to tell him the mission was finished.

He was just grabbing the laundry basket in prep to take the clothes down to the washers when Narancia reappeared, practically swimming in the sweater, sleeves slipping down over his hands. But he was grinning, waving the floppy sleeves around.

"Dude this is so cozy! Thanks for loaning it to me."

"Oh, you can keep it actually," Fugo replied. "Abbacchio gave it to me so…it's not really mine."

"Really? Thanks man!" Narancia hurried off as Fugo yelled at his back.

"Narancia get back here! You have to go finish your own laundry—I'm not going to do it for you!"

Narancia hurried back and grabbed the basket from Fugo. "Yeah, yeah, I'll meet you down there."

Fugo shook his head and went to gather the muddy stuff before he realized Narancia had run off with the laundry basket.

4. Mista

Narancia wasn't entirely sure what to think of the new guy yet. He'd been nice enough if not a little out of place with all of them, and Narancia didn't exactly understand why he hated the number 4 so much but he wasn't one to judge.

Still, Guido Mista had a habit of moping around when he wasn't given a task. Narancia could understand that. He'd been the same after getting out of prison. It was hard to adjust back to normal living when you'd had your days so regimented for a long time.

Narancia was currently relegated to the apartment due to a minor injury and that day it was just him and Mista there. The new recruit puttered around in the kitchen getting coffee for a while in the morning before he sat on the old couch in the living room, staring at the wall.

It was…kind of driving Narancia nuts. He didn't understand how someone could sit still like that doing nothing. At least Fugo was usually reading, he could understand that; even if reading didn't keep Narancia's attention for long, it was still doing something.

He didn't want to be annoying, but he poked his head into the living room.

"Hey, um, can I do anything for you?"

Mista looked up. "Nah. I'm good."

Narancia fidgeted. "Aren't you like…bored?"

Mista shrugged. "I don't know. It's just nice to be out of prison." He stood up. "I guess I'd like to take a shower though."

Narancia nodded and went to make lunch as he heard the shower running. Mista returned when he was halfway through eating in just his pajama bottoms and a towel slung over his shoulders.

"Hey, um…I still need to go shopping for some new clothes. Could I borrow some change so I can do a wash?"

"Oh sure," Narancia said quickly and pointed over to a jar on the counter. "Bucciarati keeps that for laundry and stuff."

"Thanks." Mista said and hurried out of the apartment.

Narancia thought about what he had said, and got up to head to his room. He grabbed a box of VHS tapes from under his bed and rummaged in his drawer until he found the oversized sweater he was looking for.

When Mista returned, Narancia tossed him the sweater.

"Here! You can have this for now," he said.

Mista held the sweater up, surprised. "Oh, hey, thanks man. I really appreciate it."

He slipped it on, tugging it down. "This is really nice. You sure you want me to have this?"

Narancia nodded. "It kinda gets passed around between us. You can use it for as long as you want. But only if you answer a question."

Mista cocked an eyebrow as Narancia presented the box he had been holding under his arm. "Do you like movies?"

Mista's face lit up. "I love movies! Hey, you got some great stuff in here!"

"Then let's watch something! Then you don't have to just sit around doing nothing all day," Narancia said. "Pick whatever you want, I'll grab some snacks."

They spent the rest of the afternoon watching movies and chatting and Narancia thought that he and the new guy were probably going to get along really well.

5. Giorno

Mista roamed the safehouse after everyone had gone to sleep, making sure everyone was okay. He checked in on Narancia last, but the kid was sleeping soundly, knocked out from pain pills and exhausted from his still-healing body. He'd been able to leave their makeshift infirmary yesterday though so he was doing a lot better.

Speaking of…

Mista headed down the stairs to the guest room they had made into their designated infirmary while their teammates were recovering. Bucciarati and Abbacchio were still usually unconscious and hooked up to IVs aside from a few times they had woken.

Giorno was sitting beside Bucciarati's bed as Mista figured he would be. The blond had been watching tirelessly since they had gotten to the house three days ago and had barely left the room.

He looked up briefly as Mista poked his head in.

"Hey, can I get you anything?"

Giorno shook his head, reaching up to rub his face. "No. I'm okay."

Mista nodded slowly, taking in Giorno's exhausted frame. "You really should sleep. They'll be okay for the night. They're stable, right?"

"Yeah, I just…" Giorno sighed, before he finally stood up. "Maybe you're right. I'll catch a couple hours on the couch."

Mista frowned as Giorno passed him, noticing that he was still wearing the same lavender suit he had been wearing the whole mission. It had the look of being washed, water thinned bloodstains visible around a couple tears, but Mista realized he'd never seen Giorno put on anything else.

"Hey, um…you want me to wash and fix that suit?" Mista asked. "I think there's a sewing kit somewhere. At least until you can get a new one?"

Giorno looked down at the suit. "I, um…I don't really have anything else to wear."

"Oh." Mista blinked and then realized Giorno hadn't brought so much as a backpack with him. "Hey, I'm sorry man, I should have asked earlier."

Giorno shrugged. "It's not really a big deal. I'll get something soon."

"No way, you need to be comfortable. Stay here, I'll be right back."

Mista hurried up to his room and dug through his duffle bag until he found—ah, there it was.

He took the bundled sweater and a pair of sweatpants down to Giorno, dropping them into his arms.

"Keep these. I've got more changes of clothes."

Giorno smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Mista. I really appreciate it."

Mista gave him a salute and a grin. "Anytime. How about I make you a cup of tea? I was just gonna get one myself."

"Sure."

Mista headed to the kitchen and by the time he got to the living room Giorno was curled on the couch, bundled into the big sweater, fast asleep.

Mista chuckled and set Giorno's mug down on the coffee table before throwing a blanket over him.

"Sleep well, GioGio."

6. Trish

Giorno was up late reading one night when he heard the back patio door open and shut. It was right below his bedroom and he had his window open. He figured someone might just be getting some fresh air, but then he heard the soft, unmistakable sounds of someone crying and frowned, getting up to go see what might be wrong.

He pulled on the heavy sweater Mista had given him and padded downstairs and toward the back of the house.

Through the glass door he could see Trish huddled on the steps leading into the garden, shoulders shaking. Giorno hesitated a second, not sure if he would be intruding or not, but he ultimately decided that Trish shouldn't have to be alone if she was upset and if it turned out she really wanted him to leave, he would go.

He stepped outside, the sound of the door opening causing Trish to turn around, hurriedly wiping her eyes.

"Oh, hey," she said quietly.

Giorno silently went to sit next to her. "Hey. Are you okay?" he asked.

Trish looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. "I…I guess."

"If you don't mind me saying so, you don't really look okay," Giorno responded. "Anything you want to talk about?"

Trish took a shuddering breath and scrubbed a hand against her wet eyes. "It's just…Now that everything's settled down it's kind of hitting me, you know? That I'm not going home—that I don't even have a home anymore."

"I know it's a lot," Giorno said quietly. "I didn't…really have anything to leave, but I can understand how you must feel, being forced to leave everything."

Trish sniffed. "And I miss my mom. I didn't even really have the time to mourn her, so…I guess it's all hitting now, three months later."

She curled around herself, shaking slightly, breath hitching.

Giorno didn't know if she was cold or not, but the weight of the sweater was comforting to him so he tugged it off and looped it over Trish's head.

She looked up in surprise, before a small smile turned up one corner of her lips as she sniffed. "Thanks." She tucked her arms into the sleeves, letting them fall past her hands as she dabbed her eyes on the sweater.

"I'm sorry about your mother," Giorno told her quietly. "But you're wrong, you know."

Trish sniffed again. "About what?" she asked sounding slightly offended.

"That you don't have a home," Giorno replied, nodding back to the house. "This is your home. It's all of our home, and you never need to go anywhere else unless you want to."

Trish looked at him for a long moment, eyes wavering, before she simply leaned forward and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"Giorno that's…that's such a sweet thing to say," she said shakily.

Giorno smiled, hugging her back, letting her cry for a few more minutes before she pulled away and wiped at her eyes again.

"Thank you, that…I feel better now," she said.

"I'm glad," Giorno replied. "I'm always here to talk if you need."

"I appreciate it," Trish said as she stood. "Thanks for letting me borrow the sweater too. It's…really comforting."

Giorno waved his hand as he also stood. "Keep it for now. Mista gave it to me when we first got here, but you should use it now."

Trish smiled with a grateful blush and waved to him as they got inside. "Good night, Giorno. And thanks again."

"Good night, Trish."

7. Bucciarati

Trish was having a hard time sleeping that night and decided to run down to the library to grab something to read.

She had thought everyone had already gone to bed, so she was surprised to find Bucciarati sitting in there in the middle of the floor in his pajamas, a box of photos open and spread in front of him.

He startled as she walked in and Trish stopped.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were up."

A look passed over his face and Bucciarati cleared his throat and said, "It's okay. Can't sleep?"

Trish shook her head, feeling a little like she was intruding as she cautiously stepped into the room. "Not really. You either?"

Bruno gave her a small, sad smile. "Just…looking through some old memories."

Curious, Trish came over and knelt beside him. "May I?"

Bruno waved a hand and Trish picked up a picture of a young boy holding a large fish up proudly. His black hair and blue eyes told Trish that it was obviously the man beside her.

"This was you?" she asked with a smile. "You were adorable!"

Bruno let out a light laugh. "Thank you. It was… a long time ago. I…haven't looked at these for a while but…"

There was a weight to his words and Trish watched him carefully, finally realizing that his eyes were slightly red, the lashes damp as if he had been crying.

"Bucciarati? Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

He cleared his throat again. "I'll be okay, Trish. I…it's been four years today since he died. I just thought…I would take a moment to remember him."

"Oh, Bucciarati, I didn't know," Trish said softly, reaching out to take his hand, squeezing.

"I usually keep it to myself," Bruno replied simply.

Trish was silent, wondering if he wanted to be alone, but, she thought about how she felt when she remembered her mom. How alone it felt. And it was too sad to think of going to bed when Bucciarati was sitting here alone with the pictures of his past.

"Would it…be okay if I stayed here to look at the pictures with you?" Trish asked hesitantly. "Unless you'd rather be alone."

"I wouldn't actually," Bucciarati replied, voice slightly raw.

Trish felt a little relieved, but stood. "Okay, I'll be right back, I promise."

She hurried away to make some hot chocolate, and as an afterthought, ran to get the sweater Giorno had loaned her a while back when had had found her crying. She always put it on when she was feeling bad now and thought that maybe it would comfort Bucciarati too.

She brought the items back to the library and Bucciarati looked up in surprise.

"I made hot chocolate—thought you could use some," she told him with a small smile, setting down the mugs before holding out the sweater. "And this. It's so warm and cozy it…"

She trailed off at the look on Bruno's face when he saw the sweater, eyes wide, mouth parted as if in awe.

"Bucciarati?"

He reached out to take it from her, holding it carefully in his hands, fingers curling into the chunky knitting.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Um…well, Giorno gave it to me, he said Mista gave it to him before that."

Bruno laughed lightly, eyes wet. "And I gave it to Abbacchio a long time ago." He turned to Trish with a small smile. "It was my father's. I had…actually forgotten about it but it seems to have made its way through the team somehow."

"And back to you," Trish replied. "Where it should be."

Bruno slowly tugged the sweater on over his t-shirt, running his fingers over the hem, eyes full of nostalgia. "Funny how things have a way of coming full circle when it means the most." He turned back to her, eyes wet. "Thank you, Trish."

Trish couldn't help herself and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly in the comfy sweater. "I'm glad it came back to you when you needed it most," she told him.

"It did. But anyone is welcome to borrow it at any time," Bruno said. "Perhaps it's best that it belongs to all of us." He smiled "I think that's what my father would have wanted."

Trish hugged him more firmly and genuinely felt at home.

~~~~~~~

Check out my Whumptober Masterpost HERE for more stories!

If you want to follow me on other social media or ask about fic or art commissions, find my info on My Carrd

#whumptober2023 #no.30 #borrowed clothing #jojo's bizarre adventure #fanfic #team bucciarati #found family #hurt/comfort #trauma bonding #jjba part 5 #golden wind #everyone lives au

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broken-clover · 11 months

Note

Who in the GG/BB universe do you think play Minecraft?

I hate that I put so much thought into this but it's the weirdest questions that make my brain tism the hardest.

I think it helps to divide them up into subgroups. A lot of them play, but not all of them play the same! Minecraft is a very open game, after all.

Silly Players:

-The Jellyfish have their own group server, For the most part they just have fun building things, exploring and making fun little houses. Nobody get into any scuffles unless someone accidentally punches one of April's 27 tamed wolves

-Sin plays a hint more seriously, just enough to go nuts exploring and trying to find all the cool stuff he can. He likes giving all of his enchanted armor and weapons cool names. He still doesn't know how to deal with creepers outside of screaming and trying to stab it as fast as possible.

-Ramlethal, obviously, has tamed an obscene number of wolves and just wanders from place to place with them. She doesn't even have a sword because as soon as she bonks a mob with a stick the dogs swarm it and kill it for her.

-Dizzy doesn't really know what she's doing but she has a nice little garden and collects all the different kinds of flowers

-Taokaka has done the same, but with cats. She makes little dirt houses to spend the night in and then immediately forgets where she put her bed. She's trying to actually play but keeps getting distracted

-Makoto is on a quest to have a dyed sheep of every color. If you ask why she doesn't have an answer, but she's very passionate about it

-Noel is so scared of the game but she's being very brave about it. She built her house in a bamboo grove so she lives nearby the pandas. Tsubaki goes to the nether to get stems and glowstone for her because she's too scared to go herself.

-Arakune has made himself a house of wool, concrete and terracotta. Everything is dyed azure. He is living the dream.

-Nagoriyuki is currently level 233. He does nothing but fish and farm potatoes. Once he fished up a sword with five different enchantments on it, but he never uses it

Serious Players

-As far as Answer is concerned, Minecraft is not a game. It is a tool for beta-ing ECK settlements in excruciating detail. Chipp tried introducing it to him as a fun game to play during downtime but it did not work.

-Bedman constructs world landmarks in precise one-to-one scale. It's kind of amazing to just let him go at it, he'll work for hours straight and spend weeks to make a perfectly detailed facsimile of the Roman coliseum.

-Tager, when not accidentally breaking keyboards, is making giant detailed boats. He currently has them organized by size, country of origin, and year of original construction.

-Kokonoe got really into Minecraft for about two and a half weeks, after building a bunch of automated systems to produce and sort more resources than anyone would ever need she immediately got bored and quit.

-Carl builds incredibly elaborate contraptions that are impressive but tend to explode

-Axl heads off into a mineshaft and gets lost for a week. He's having a great time, except for the part where the Warden showed up and threw him into a wall. He likes the music players

-Faust digs perfectly chunk-sized holes in patterns then proceeds to make floating cubes out of the cobblestone and miscellaneous rocks. Apparently he finds it calming, though he tries to limit his screentime to avoid eyestrain.

-Kagura has convinced himself that slaying the Enderdragon is something girls will find cool. He doesn't actually know how to get to the End. He does have a very cool set of enchanted armor and a fancy house (mostly built by Hibiki)

#ask #guilty gear #blazblue

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platinumrosetail · 2 years

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Yandere platonic shadowpeach dbk free noddles and sandy and Mei x wooloo sytr toddler child reader

Like she's really really fluffy but that's not all she's a pokehumajn

And she gets lost and confused looking for Mary) Mary had a little lamb little lamb the fleece was white as snow 😆)

Mary was her trainer

If she has her little bow her little red bow around her neck that keeps a lot of her long fluffy hair away from her hoofs

She looks around doing her little sheep calls for Mary but instead of getting married she gets new family

She acts top for a second knowing stranger danger and does little little intimidation Baaas

But you see this cute little kid that's literally a kid have kid half human ( baby sheep are called kids I thought that was adorable)

Trying to scare you warn you off with her little Baaas

They show her that mean no harm and take her home

Oh I’m so going to love to do this, especially the baaaas part 😆😍😁🤩

Also I adore wooloo’s!! It’s funny how strong their wool actually is, cause if they fall down a high cliff or something similar their wool would protect them, isn’t that fascinating plus it would make a great reader story idea.

Warning: noob author, dark theme, yandere platonic characters, female!reader, cuteness overload, and others.

Characters: shadowpeach(sun wukong x macaque), freenoodles(tang x pigsy), sandy, mei, dbk family.

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Freenoodles:

You had lost your trainer when going to next city for the other part of your vacation and now walking around trying to find her but as you’ve seem to never really been anywhere.

You were a wooloo before entering it but now you’re a human with features of a wooloo. You had walked in front of Mary so as to not worry her if you were behind her, you marched in a tune you remembered hearing back at home on Mary’s tv and so you became distracted not noticing that Mary is no longer behind you anymore before walking into the city, transforming into a little girl.

And since you had never been human before, you had walked wobbling every second, though you remembered watching Mary walk all the time it was harder than you thought so it took you many tries as you would fall done every so often; it had taken until noon rolled around to at least stay up for a while without falling down.

Now it’s time to find Mary!

You let out a ‘baaa!’ While throwing your hands up in the air in excitement though that set you off balance and made you tip over with how fast you threw your hands in the air.

You prepared for the fall but it never came, when you opened you eyes you see a man with glasses along with clothes that a johto citizen would wear as you’ve in some magazines.

He checked for if you had any injuries before hand, smiling to reassure you; you had let out a small ‘baa?’ all the while tilting your head to the side.

Tang; the man who saved you from scrapes and pain silently ‘aww’ed and felt a nonexistent arrow hit is heart at the cuteness in front of him.

You thought he didn’t look like trouble but still wary and hesitant to do anything but at least you can use your bite if anything should happen.

He noticed the little nubs for horns and sheep ears on the sides along with two puffy braids going down from the sides of your face and in front of your ears, you also had big puffy (white/brown) hair being held by a single red ribbon.

He decided to bring you to his husband to show how adorable and cute you’re and that he had found you all alone so it’s not considered kidnapping, he also wanted to convince him of adopting you.

When tang brought you to the noodle shop his husband that he owns and had explained how he had found you all alone.

The pig demon known as pigsy scolded his husband and offered some of his famous noodles as compensation and fee of charge as he knew you wouldn’t have enough money on you for it unless your caretakers is with you.

They soon didn’t won’t to let you go to your caretaker and since neither them or anybody else understand you you just have to stay with them, forever…

But don’t worry you’ll have amazing friends who’ll protect, like mk, mei, sandy, and your new parents, all you have to do is stay with them!!

Shadowpeach:

You had appeared on a mountain after going into a cave that had crystals worrying Mary and having to scold you as you went further and further away.

You hadn’t noticed you had begun changing into a human as you started following a monkey Pokémon that you’ve never seen before.

As you chase after it not wanting to be alone anymore while calling out with the usual wooloo ‘baaa’s just in case Mary hears it and finds you.

You were picked up at some point in the chase after the companion you wanted as you didn’t want to be alone. You thrash around while letting out distress ‘baaa’s before deciding to use your only option that you could think of.

By biting the culprits as it was close to you to be in biting range.

Sadly since you’re a wooloo and they’re herbivores your teeth aren’t that sharp enough to break loose as it only made the culprit flinch.

Soon after you felt a weight lifting and going back down in a stroking pattern.

You can very well hear the cooing from the culprit making you start to naw on their arm though you came to soon realize that there’s hair on the arm so you let out a ‘baaa’ in disapproval.

The next thing you knew is that you’re in a house sitting on the lap of the one who kidnapped you.

You notice the culprit has a male voice to them as they started hugging you and saying how soft, cuddly and adorable you are and that this ‘macaque’ would love you as much as he does, whoever these two is.

When you finally met this macaque it was when you you used headbutt on the who captured you who soon told you his name but that you may also call him dad.

Macaque saw the weirdest sight ever but got over it quickly as he knows it’s just sun’s natural weirdness that mk as well.

What he saw was a child with nub like horns head first going to his mate in a attempt to headbutt sun, and he was accepting it!! Sun hugged you as soon as you got close and rocked you in his arms with you grumblingly went with it.

They decided to adopt you as they figured you’re abandoned; which you ‘baaa’ed in anger for not accepting it at all, and even if you weren’t you’re already theirs now, the caretaker shouldn’t have left you out of their sites but how fortunate for them that sun and macaque will be taking care of the child now and forever.

And with how little you’re and how caring they are to you, you start to love them as your parents like they wanted.

It was all part of the plan; macaque had stole a serum to make you start to forget about your caretaker and have to rely on them to parent you more.

But don’t worry macaque and his mate will cherish you forever no matter how many people they have to kill even mk is starting to pick up a few things from the to make sure you’re safe.

Sandy:

You had followed a cat Pokémon when you lost Mary, or at least you thought it was a cat Pokémon as it seems to have blue fur and orange Mohawk like hair on his head.

Your now surrounded by many cats with you trying to pet them all and them wanting a turn even if they had already went.

When sandy can back to ship/home he wasn’t expecting to see a little girl who had long fluffy hair tied in a red ribbon and noticing the nubs of horns along with the sheep ears to match; he worries that something tragic had happened.

He tried to see if you know what happened but all he gets is cute little ‘baaa’s but it can work with it as he explained that you could tell him by drawing.

When you were finished and help him understand the situation of what happened and now understand that you can’t get home as it’s not from here but a different world entirely.

So he decided to take care of you, you were of course hesitant about it as it would feel like you were replacing your trainer Mary.

And as a stress reliever, he had given you tea that he especially made for the stress of any kind and you can even pet the cats some more to help!

The tea is a special blend of herbs that would make you sleepy and groggy but relaxed as well so you soon never thought of your past trainer and started thinking sandy as your new caretaker.

When you spend time together it’s usually sandy brunch and styling your hair in styles that you had found in a magazine while you pet the cat relaxed as ever.

He makes sure to be as careful with you as he is with his cats even if you’re bigger than them you’re still fragile and precious to him, I mean look how small you are compared to him!!

As long as you’re with him you’ll be safe and sound plus have a healthy diet, so please stay with him….

(A/n: ok! So something happened when I posted this, I had thought I clicked saved then post but I didn’t which deleted a lot of the work I had already done, so I had lost dbk family, mei’s and some of Sandy’s last bit so I’m going to make a part two so I can make it as if I would edit this post and try to edit the missing thing that had been deleted plus new bits I would feel sad and unmotivated to do it, but thankfully @monkeyking-and-liuer-mate gave me the advise to make a part two so I don’t feel overwhelmed so to @monkeyking-and-liuer-mate thank you so much this helps as I didn’t want to have to not do all of your characters you had)

(This will be where part two is)

#anime #crossover #various x reader #anime crossover #anime x reader #lego monkie kid x reader #lego monkie kid #x reader stories #lmk macaque #jttw #lmk sandy #lmk dbk #lmk mei #pokemon crossover #pokémon #wooloo

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angelus-a13 · 10 months

Text

Grave Expectations

So here's something that is less of a poem and more of a micro-fiction. It's not poetry at all but I did have fun scribbling it. If you would prefer to read it over at AO3, you can find that here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49494334

It's about a trans grave robber, and a possible vampire. CW for blood, murder, graverobbing etc. You can read below!

Kit cursed the frost that had settled on the ground - it would only make his job that much harder tonight. Getting the shovel though the frozen earth, even freshly dug, would be a nightmare. That was if the crunch of his every footstep didn’t alert the watchmen around the cemetery first. His hands were already red and numb at the tips, and even the wool around his joints did nothing to dull the ache that had settled in. Damn it all, he thought, damn every circumstance that had led him to take this life. Anyone sane was bundled up in front of any hearth they could get in front of, within any shelter they could get in this godforsaken city. Kit wasn’t sure that kind of comfort would be in his future anytime soon, not unless something miraculous happened, and this wasn’t the kind of city that you found miracles in. Not for people like him.

Kit picked his way across the kirkyard, he bet you wouldn’t find the anatomists and surgeons out of doors in this, not for anything. They were far too busy indoors with their scalpels and knives, well off enough to not need to stain their own hands with such a crime. Hunger drove them all, only it was less metaphorical for the poor resurrectionists like Kit and the scores of others in rookeries or slums dotted around the city that did whatever they could to keep food in their bellies. Hunger: for money, for knowledge, for a hot meal. That was what kept turning the cogs of the machine they called progress. He’d take what he could get, and keep taking until he had enough to run from this life and to whatever he could grasp. Kit knew the odds were stacked against men like him. Men with secrets buried better than anyone in this kirkyard could be.

He was for once, grateful for the linen bindings around his chest - at least they were extra protection from the cold. His shabby coat was in desperate need of repair, although he’d been recommended it would be better served to fuel a fire, but Kit was damned if he was spending any of the paltry coins he earned on something so frivolous. This one would do. He wrapped it tighter around himself and tried not to shiver. He had to remind himself he’d chosen this, that he was strong enough to weather a night like this. What other option did he have? Crawl back home to the town houses, look upon his parents faces again and beg them to take him back? That he’d do anything they asked, deny who he was and marry that dull-witted fool Sir Edward they’d settled on? No, he couldn’t do that. Being blown apart by grave guns was a more appealing fate than that.

Kit stumbled over a mound of earth, hidden in the poor light and the mist that had settled. No surprise he lost his footing now that his chilled feet could barely tell what they were trampling over anymore. The grave he’d marked out as his prey, the grave he’d watched filled in earlier that afternoon, was hollow. If he didn’t know how crucial his silence was, he’d sit back and howl in frustration. So few burials had taken place the past week with the weather continuing to conspire against him and his ilk, suitable bodies were few and far between. No honour among thieves and all that: you had to be quick, and Kit hadn’t been quick enough tonight. The dearly departed loved ones were probably relieved to know the bitter cold and the blasted snow would keep the graverobbers away for just long enough for their sons, mothers, sweethearts to earn their promised rest and escape the doctor’s theatres.

There was a thud. Nearby, not close enough to be any real danger, but near enough that Kit’s pulse picked up. It wasn’t the soft thud of earth being moved, the crack of a coffin, even the shock of a gravegun. Like a body hitting the ground. Oh, the irony. Kit hoped whoever it was had fallen in an empty grave and broken a leg. He was not feeling charitable tonight. If it was someone struggling with what should have been his prize, he should go and help lighten their load. He’d maybe strike it lucky with someone who’d split whatever they could get for the cadaver - maybe he’d have something to eat and a place for the night after all. Anything would be better than nothing.

As Kit quietly gathered his tools to move off towards the source of the noise, which had already stopped. He knew he should be more wary, really, this wasn’t his first circus, but it was nearly two in the morning and he’d really had enough of it all. A shadow split away from the night, beside the marble monument 3 graves over. Kit froze. He wouldn’t scream, it’d be the end for him either way. There was something familiar about the tall imposing frame materialising in front of Kit, the cut of that coat, the suggestion of lamplight playing off of the coal black waves of his hair… Clem.

“Tough night for you?”

The shadow stepped forward, a flash of white teeth and clothing far too fine to be worn to a cemetery in the small hours of a winter’s night noticeable in the dim lamplight. Kit bit back a curse.

“Come on, you could be happier to see me! I’ve got something for you.”

And that couldn’t be anything good, not coming from Clem. The sharp featured young man had his own reasons for sneaking around here, and Kit suspected they were far worse than his own. At least Kit only took the ones that had finished with their lives, not to get too moralistic about it, but he wasn’t a murderer likely to find himself on a surgeon’s slab himself. Clem could suit himself, it wasn’t any business of Kit’s how he spent his nights.

Clem stepped forward, reaching to take the lamp and shovel from Kit’s grip, whose knuckles were white and flesh turning a pallid blue. He shoved his now free hands deep into the pockets of the stolen overcoat, and decided not to analyse why he wanted to return the grin on Clem’s face. Lack of sleep gets to a boy after a while, that’s all. It meant nothing, he didn’t feel any draw to the other man other than pure curiosity.

“Did you follow me here? Is that what happened?”

Clem laughed, a sharp and quiet laugh, “Oh darling, I was here hours ago - saw your little friend dragged out as soon as I arrived. Bad luck by the way, but you did take your time coming back. That’s a lesson to you - early bird and all that.”

He turned to bestow a pitiful look at Kit, the pout on his lips sparking annoyance in Kit’s gut. Kit was having none of it, not after the mess that tonight had shaped into.

“Either help me out or fuck off, in case you didn’t notice it’s bloody cold out here.” A quiet laugh came from in front of him, the lantern’s light dancing around as they ducked behind a masoleum.

“Such a temper! Come on, just over here and you’ll thank me for earning you a decent night’s pay.”

Clem set the light down and leant on the shovel and Kit peered around the hedge. The pale flesh peeking from the swathes of fabric almost made him baulk, he didn’t want to think about why Clem would have been here with someone else after dark. What was the best excuse for this? Was Clem the one who took his prize? The alternative was a little too unsavoury to bear thinking about.

“You..? You took.. The other grave?”

Clem shook his head and snorted.

“Darling, do you think I spent my evening knees deep in that horrendous dirt? And still looking so immaculate?” Clem spun so the skirt of his coat danced around his calves. Kit didn’t want to say he’d not be able to tell if the deep jet of Clem’s coat was coated in gravedirt or not, and didn't feel pointing out the now obvious differences in their night vision, or their sensibilities, would be worth the time to say them out loud.

“Look, she’s perfectly fresh if that’s what you’re worried about. No maggots, no rot; I promise you.” Kit stared blankly at the barely lit side of the corpse’s face, the slender pale neck, the dark rust smear beneath the ear. The crisp whiteness of the skin, fragile as first snow. Bloodless and cold. You had to have a strong constitution in this line of work, but clearly he hadn’t worked on it enough. The sight disturbed him more than it had any right to.

“What’s wrong? I can help you carry-” “I can’t take her, I can’t,” Kit turned his horrified gaze from the ground, and to Clem’s bewildered face, “They’ll notice something’s not right. She’s not right, what did you do?”

Clem sniffed, delicately. “Only what’s natural to me, darling.” He pushed the shovel into Kit’s bundled chest. “You can’t hate me for surviving as best I can, how hypocritical you would be.”

Kit spluttered. It was clear Clem had a comfortable existence, didn’t have to beg and scavenge for every scrap he won for himself. How else would he still dress like that, keep himself so well groomed?

“Take her, or leave her to rot. What’s it to me?”

And before Kit could say anything else, Clem had turned on his heel and melted back into the misty darkness. Kit stood there, wordless and stunned. He supposed he should fetch the cart and do what he’d come to do in the first place. Plenty of surgeons wouldn’t ask a single question, wouldn’t worry about the how’s and why’s.

Clem had given him a gift, and he was in no position to refuse it.

#writing #writer #microfiction #short story #blood #graverobber #vampires #supernatural beings #spilled ink #fiction

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contreparry · 10 months

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Happy Friday, Ann! I'd love to see something for the Romantic Yearning prompt "imagine if we really did like each other that way, huh."

Here’s some CullenxF!Trevelyan for @dadrunkwriting !

He knew she would hear the rumors eventually. No one was being particularly subtle about it, after all. He felt the eyes of foreign courtiers rake over him every time he walked through the courtyard and heard them whisper behind their hands when he passed them in the halls: there he is, the Inquisitor’s lover. Have a care when you speak with him, he has direct access to her ear and is in her favor.

Favor? Ha. Anyone within the inner circle would have howled with laughter at that one. A part of him (cynical and suspicious) wondered if Leliana had her hand in the gossip, seeing as she took a perverse delight in making him squirm. But she wouldn’t do that to Trevelyan. Leliana treated the woman with the care that one treated an injured animal- never pushing too far, never asking too much unless they were desperate. If her caution was born out of fear of what a skilled Mage might do when cornered or out of genuine concern for Trevelyan’s welfare, Cullen couldn’t say. All he knew was that Leliana would not gossip about Evelyn Trevelyan, especially not for her own amusement. But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was that Trevelyan heard the tale, and she climbed up the watchtower to speak with him at once.

“It could be worse,” she offered once she sat down across from him, his desk serving as his bulwark against her. “At least the gossip claims you can easily influence me. Must give the clergy some comfort.” Her smile was almost friendly. The tightness at her mouth was softened by the genuine sympathy in her dark brown eyes. Cullen clung to the knowledge that Trevelyan would have had this conversation with any member of the inner circle inspired the sort of rumors that now surrounded them. But she was rarely this warm or cordial with him, never mind informal. Don’t ruin it, Cullen told himself as he tried to think of something, anything, to say. But all he could think of was that she had done something different with her hair, wearing it down in a loose tail rather than a tight braid. The dark strands clung to the heavy wool cloak she wore. Maybe he ought to advise her to sit by the fire? But what if she took that suggestion poorly, if she thought that he thought she was some sort of invalid-

“Their comfort is the least of my concerns,” Cullen finally muttered, and he scratched out his signature on a form to compensate a farmer for the destruction of his wheat field during an Inquisition skirmish with a rage demon.

“I suppose it is a little absurd. We’ve only just managed civility,” Trevelyan said, remaining poised and polite even as her gaze shifted away from him to examine his desk and the piles of paperwork. “Not to mention the amount of time these gossipmongers must think we have on our hands! When would we manage to arrange a liaison?”

“I have a half-hour after the tenth bell rings.” The comment slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and he froze at the horror of it. He hadn’t- it wasn’t-

Trevelyan laughed. It wasn’t a polite titter or a stifled squeak, something that he would expect from the proper and quiet Trevelyan. No, Trevelyan let out a long, loud wheeze of laughter as she crumpled into the chair. She wiped a tear from her eye.

“Oh- oh blast, I didn’t mean- I’m so sorry, it was just- your face! Oh goodness, you had an answer so quickly, I-“ Trevelyan began giggling and buried her face in her hands.

“I… keep a schedule,” Cullen hesitantly explained. Schedules were important. Kept him grounded. Kept things moving. Even if he was unwell, everyone else knew what to do if they had tasks and a timetable.

“I see that. I- I didn’t mean to laugh at you. It was how you said it. As if you could…” Trevelyan snorted, “Pencil me in, as it were. Goodness, could you imagine it? Excuse me, Lady Montilyet, I have an assignation at the tenth bell. If you would pardon me.” She lowered her voice and furrowed her brow as she spoke, an obvious attempt at imitating his own demeanor, but it didn’t sting the way it might have only moments ago, before Trevelyan (solid, stern Trevelyan, as strict as any First Enchanter in their prime and twice as overbearing) collapsed into giggles as if she was a young girl instead of a woman grown.

Evelyn Trevelyan was frustratingly charming. It only made this whole business that much worse. He wouldn’t be nearly so discomfited if he hadn’t any feelings for Trevelyan, but he did. Complicated ones, yes, but he had feelings and some of them tended towards the romantic: admiration, desire, longing- and he hated it. He hated that he knew he was going to cling to the memory of her laughing in his office for the rest of the day- the rest of the week, truth be told. He was going to pine over it and bitterly wish that the gossip had a grain of truth to it, but as his ma always said: if wishes were fishes we’d swim in a sea. And Cullen was swimming. He was drowning.

But he wouldn’t let her see that. He could do that much for Trevelyan. She had enough to contend with, and Mage and Templar love tales rarely ended happily. So Cullen took another stack of papers from his correspondence and scanned the contents.

“I believe the rumors will fizzle out once something more interesting comes along. That usually does the trick,” Cullen offered. Trevelyan smiled at him, broad and warm. Her eyes crinkled up at the corners.

“You probably have the right of it,” she said. “But can you imagine it, if we really liked each other in that way?”

Yes, Cullen wanted to say. He could imagine softer conversations between them. Honest ones, where he pulled in his impulsive temper and kept control of his fear long enough to tell her everything- that he wasn’t much, that he woke up from nightmares most nights and fell asleep at his desk during the others, that he stopped imbibing lyrium shortly after Cassandra brought him back to Ferelden, that he knew all the herbs and flowers she planted in the kitchen and infirmary garden but only feigned ignorance as an excuse to speak with her- but he couldn’t do it. Instead he sighed and flipped a page of the report in front of him.

“Josephine Montilyet would kill us in our sleep,” he said. “But if the rumors get worse, I will see what can be done to end them.”

Trevelyan rose from her seat. “I’ll leave you to it, then. But if it does get worse… I suppose I will have to catch you during your free half-hour for a discussion. Tenth bell, yes?”

And then she was gone, sweeping out of the room in a movement that was so graceful that Cullen couldn’t classify it as a retreat. But he could have sworn that Trevelyan winked at him before she turned the corner and disappeared down the stairs. He set his pen down and fell back against his chair, a headache already blooming between his eyes as his heart raced. She was being friendly. Probably felt guilty about the rumors about them and wanted to make amends. At least she didn’t fuss. He wouldn’t have gotten through their conversation if she fussed, if she asked how he was feeling, if she brought him tea and sympathy. He would have cracked and said something that was best buried: you’re most stubborn, infuriating, wonderful woman I’ve known and I can’t-

He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. So he buried himself in his work and tried to forget that Trevelyan snorted when she laughed.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

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