#IF I HAD LEARNED THE PITCHES WHEN THE WORDS WERE FIRST TAUGHT TO ME I WOULDN'T FORGET THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CHOPSTICKS AND BRIDGE

[dxtreza]

⋆｡°✩ nxx-ray; artem, marius, vyn, luke (tot)

⋆ summary: what've they got going on down there? ⋆ xtra: afab mc, nsfw under the cut! first upload, so excited. reqs open in ask box; fandoms are in bio ⋆ wc: 1.7k (includes drabble under artem's hc)

i. artem wing

tbh i think he'd be pretty insecure because mc his canonically his first true experience with romance, concerned about his size even though he knows it's irrational; from hearing what marius gossips about artem probably thinks he's below average. he'll learn through your reassurance that this is not the case. he's literally the goldilocks zone. he's not insanely big, but still above average. i'd say about 5.6 inches and tilts slightly upward (6.0 measuring with the curve), ranges from about 5 to 5.5 inch girth (2.5 inch diameter). tip has a complete ridge, his skin is of a slightly darker shade than the rest of his body. he's pretty too, smooth moisturized skin with a thick vein on the bottom. really really sensitive head and balls- won't admit it but he loves it when you smooth your palm on them. it's reactive, too- his cock jumps and twitches at the slightest bit of arousal. as for hygeine: kempt, but not obsessively so. i don't think he'd have that much body hair, but he likes to keep a bit of a happy trail and a small tuft of hair at the base of his cock.

"artem... what's got you so serious?" you ask quietly, paying attention to the way that his sighs have stopped. his lips have pulled themselves in a tight line, brows furrowed as he nearly scowls off into the distance. at your words he clears his throat, rubbing the small of your back with his thumbs and shaking his head slightly. he seems to have lost his enthusiasm now that you guided him out of the pitch darkness of his study and into the lamplight of his room, awkwardly sliding under the covers. his response comes slowly as he thinks.

"it's fine, just nervous." he says curtly, reaching for the lamp to turn it off. you swat his hand away, grabbing it and making a move with your free hand to cup the bulge in his black briefs. he shudders when he feels your breath on his neck, free hand wrapping around your waist to pull you closer as you whisper. "you're absolutely sure? nothing to do with the fact that i can see you now?"

he gulps at this, turning his head away and nodding once. "i... it's just different than your hand in the car, or under the desk in my study. in the regard that i can see that you see me, i mean." there's a shaky undertone to his voice, and the end of his sentence lilts as if there were a question on his tongue. "i'm not sure who you've had before, but i might not be able to compare in some respects."

it's confusing at first- he's big, why would he be thinking this sort of thing? you've held him in both your mouth and hand before, felt the weight of him and the way he can reach the back of your throat. he's not joking by the looks of it, a blush high on his cheeks with his admittance. "can you let me disprove that, baby?" you ask, and he's already reaching for lube from the bedside table. he hesitates for a condom, but remembers you're both clean. artem warms the lube on his hand before rubbing it along your entrance, seething to himself when you pull his cock free from his boxers.

you're already prepped from when he had you on his thigh in the study, but looking at him in the light, you would need to be stretched a bit. he's shaking now as you assess him, mouth pulled taught at the corners and gaze wavering. artem eases a bit when you guide his middle and ring finger to push into you, though he seems puzzled. you sigh when he curls his hand, leaning into his neck to answer his confused gaze. "you're not gonna fit unless we do this."

bit by bit, he's relaxing, and you tap his wrist for him to pull his fingers out of you. he blushes when he brings them up to his mouth, cautiously tasting you and looking towards your eyes for approval. you meet him with a kiss, giving him a few quick pumps before easing his head in. he moans into your mouth at this, eyelashes fluttering as his hands come to rest against your hips.

the more you take him, the more noises spill from him. its intoxicating, breaking him bit by bit as his nails dig into the soft flesh of your sides and trace circles against your spine. you grab his chin, directing his face to look down where you two join. you're nearly seated fully against him, with still half an inch to take. his hips go slightly rigid when you whimper, and then it clicks in his brain that you need help with the rest. any doubt he had quickly falls away when you whine against his cheek, grasping at the sheets under him as he slowly shifts his hips up.

artem can't help but to cry out pathetically when he's fully inside, sheathed snugly just in front of your cervix. the noise spills from his plush lips, breaking at the end when you squeeze slightly. "feel how tight that is baby? you're a perfect fit..." you coo to him, interlacing one of your hands with his and brushing the hair out of his face as you sit up. he shifts with you, sliding against the headboard so he could still press your chest to his while you rode him.

"not gonna... last." he bites out the moment you start to move, enveloping your mouth in a heated kiss. it's unlike the chaste ones you usually receive, this time fueled by some deep desire artem had never previously expressed. he meets your hips with a thrust, causing you to choke on your air and whine into his skin. he's stuttering now, unable to make any coherent phrases other than please and oh my god. it's cute in a way, until he's got you right there with him and you're unable to control the way your head buzzes and your eyelids twitch when he's stimulating you so desperately.

"artem-!" it comes out in a shriek, and in your last moments of coherence you shove your tongue into his mouth and bear down with a tight squeeze around his cock. he groans as his hips stall and buck up one final time, trying to thrust through his orgasm with weak sighs and whimpers. it's not long before he's detaching from you, checking your body for bruises and whining when he has to pull you off of him. it seems he had a lot to give; his cum drips down the inside of your thigh and he grimaces at the sight, feeling guilty for the mess.

you heave, rubbing your head as you come down from the high he gave you so easily. "i've never... you know, that fast." you mumble, and he's already scooping you up to carry you to the bathroom with a worried expression. He looks down when you cup his cheek in your hand, lips parted slightly. "seriously, you're just right, that was the best i've ever had."

it's nearly uncomfortable to say, but worth it when his face turns beet red and he sputters for what to say, sitting you down on the counter and wrapping his arms around you as he breathes a wish to you, one that you're more than happy to grant. "please tell me you'll be the only i ever have."

ii. marius von hagen

knows he's got a good dick. constantly showing you his hands and making it a point that his ring finger is longer than his pointer finger; weird mentality about it, the aforementioned reason artem thinks anything below 6.5 inches is below average- marius seems to think so. almost too big, so much so that it's unrealistic. he's 7.5 inches long and doesn't curve, and a solid 6 inch girth (3 inch diameter). his tip has more of a shallow ridge, and his skin is a few shades darker than the rest of his body. not particularly sensitive unless you press down on his frenulum or very lightly drag your nail where his cock meets his v-line. he's not very veiny, has two prominent ones that branch off. i think marius would also be fairly hygienic, but he has more body hair than artem. he keeps a happy trail as well, and grooms but doesn't really shave that much except to maintain a uniform shape/direction of the hair. he knows it can be a turn off for some people, so just ask and he'll wax everything off.

iii. vyn richter

he's not too privy to what marius loves to spout about himself. doesn't really care for comparison that much; why should he when you're the only one who will see? he can comfortably make you feel good- he doesn't have to split you open to do it. if anything, he's elegant. definitely the most aesthetically pleasing out of all the boys lol. I'd say about 5.4 inches, with a 4.5 inch girth (2.2 inch diameter). extremely veiny, also the most sensitive because of it. they're not very pronounced, just slightly raised off the skin. as for the color, it's the same as his body, with a dusty pink tip; full ridge. i also think he's uncut. also very hygienic. always smells of balm and herbal oil, and routinely shaves clean. he's not too fond of any body hair really, and likely won't grow it out if you ask him. he doesn't care if you have any, though.

iv. luke pearce

another one that doesn't care too much about marius' words, mainly because he thinks that he's joking. slightly below average, but knows how to use it. he's not small by any means, still sizing in at around 4.6 inches. luke has above average girth, though, peaking just below his tip at 5.4 inches. he's curved to the left a little bit, but not enough to notice. a few small veins, but he doesn't have much reaction to you touching them- he's most sensitive when you're giving attention to his slit; just a few seconds is enough to make him practically scream. slightly darker than his body, with a pink tip. hygienic... ish. don't get me wrong, he'll never smell bad or be unclean. he just doesn't pay that much attention to his hair, it's more fun if he gets to watch you do his grooming for him.

#tears of themis x reader #lalala i love artem #artem x reader #artem wing #artem wing x reader #marius x reader #marius von hagen #marius von hagen x reader #vyn richter #vyn x reader #tears of themis #luke pearce x reader #luke pearce

[standfucker]

The Break

Characters: Kid, Killer

Reader: GN, they/them

Word Count: 7.5k

CW: Gore, graphic description of injury+pain+first aid, hurt/comfort, confessions, highly oblivious reader

Summary: You knew you were bad with feelings, but the fact that it took a severe injury for this to come to light was maybe a little concerning.

Ao3 Link

There had only been two moments in your entire career as a pirate where you didn’t live up to your “Slippery” epithet. The first time was when Eustass Kid had bested you in combat. Rather than killing you, he offered you a place on his crew, which you had accepted–partially in the hopes of becoming stronger, and maybe also because you kind of found him incredibly attractive. That was three years ago.

The second time was right now. The enemy���s weapons consist of giant, metal crab claws, one of which snaps shut around your forearm with the force of an industrial machine before you can shave away. You’re pretty sure the whole battlefield heard the snap. A few things run through your brain in quick succession:

One–that’s going to hurt really, really badly in a second. You only have a short amount of time to counterattack.

Two–this was karma for that conversation in the mess room a few weeks ago, where you taunted the others over your having never broken a bone.

“I grew up on a dairy farm. My bones are like iron. Don’t compare it to the shortbread you all have for a skeleton.”

“You just haven’t battled enough, Slip.”

“Wrong! It’s because no one can catch me. They call me ‘Slippery Y/n’ because I’m too fast.”

“Yeah, yeah. But not fast enough, since you’re with us now!”

“Fuck off!”

Not fast enough indeed. But at least, now, you’re within striking range of the enemy. He doesn’t block in time; your scimitar opens his throat like a cut purse and sends him to his knees, gurgling. Your arm is released and you collapse on the ground, but before you can get back up, the pain hits with an intensity that immediately rips an agonized scream from deep in your lungs.

It’s like your arm’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Burning and sharp, sharp, sharp, so overwhelming you’re nauseous. You make the mistake of looking at your arm, and the flash of white sticking through the skin nearly makes you vomit on the spot. Seeing it for what it is somehow makes the pain worse, leaving you breathlessly curling over yourself on instinct, unable to move. Somewhere next to you the body of your enemy thuds onto the ground, dead.

The battle against the opposing crew is almost over. Though it’s not much longer before the last enemy is slain and someone rushes to your side, it feels like an eternity.

“Slip, are you okay?” You hear Hip’s voice before you, high-pitched with concern. It drops once she notices your injury. “Are you–oh. Oh, fuck. Um, guys! Hey, you guys! Slip is really hurt!”

Footsteps, more voices. One by one, crewmates converge around you.

“Oh, ew.”

“Oh, shit, Slip!”

“Slip!”

“Get out of the way!” 

That last one would be Kid. You look up in time to see him push past a crewmate, face taught in what seems like anger but you’ve since learned to recognize is worry. Most of his deeper emotions are like that, sitting in the shadow of enmity but easily discernible if you knew him well enough.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks, unable to assess your full state with you hunched over. The gruesomeness of your injury doesn’t seem to bother him. You shake your head, and relief softens his expression. “Okay. I know it hurts, but you’re gonna live.”

“I can’t get up,” you gasp, breath coming out short.

“Then I’ll carry you to the ship. Doctor’s on standby.” Kid crouches down next to you, flesh hand resting on your good shoulder. “It’s gonna hurt. Sorry in advance, Y/n.”

He’s the only one who doesn’t call you by your nickname. It makes sense, as he’s the one who caught you in the first place–it doesn’t really apply to him.

“It already hurts,” you reply, stupidly inviting more karma. Kid must think the same thing, because he frowns at you.

“Oh, just wait,” he mutters, and scoops you up as carefully as he can. The movement tears fresh hell through your arm, and you shout before you can even think to hold it in.

At least he doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ It would only be salt in the wound, and you’re already in so much pain you can barely think. The walk back to the ship is its own trial, every step jolting your arm again, even with Kid’s best efforts to move smoothly. You tell yourself to be tough for about three seconds before it goes out the window. Frankly, you don’t deal with it well at all–you’ve never had a strong pain tolerance, it’s partly why you learned to be quick–but you manage not to scream with every step, so that’s something.

It’s a terrible shame that you’ll only remember this as excruciating–under any other circumstance, you would have cherished being held by Kid like this.

You glimpse your injury again, a wave of queasiness rising in your stomach, and press your face into Kid’s shoulder so as not to look. “I’m gonna throw up,” you say weakly.

“Since when does gore bother you?” Kid says under his breath, but you hear it.

“Since it is coming from MY BODY!!” you snarl. For once, Kid pities you enough not to scold you for talking back.

You’re shaking by the time you get to the infirmary. Most of the crew has come out of the battle unscathed, or with only minor injuries. The ship’s doctor is only concerned with you, and getting your bleeding to stop. But to close the rip…

“I have to reset the bones, first,” he says.

That was obvious to anyone with eyes, but you didn’t really think about it until just then. Your guts turn to stone at the thought, heavy and sinking as your heart starts to race. The lightest movement to your body is already enough to make you want to quit life on the spot; you are not prepared, capable, nor willing to see what it would feel like when the bone itself is directly touched. 

“You can leave it as-is,” you say, not joking in the slightest, not caring if it sounds cowardly, not even caring that half the crew is surrounding the exam table to hear it.

Kid takes one look at the fear in your eyes and turns to the rest of the crew. “Get out,” he commands. Everyone complies without question, only Killer staying behind, the unspoken exception.

Once the last person closes the door behind them, Kid focuses on you. “Y/n–”

“I can’t do it,” you cut him off, eyes welling up with tears. “I–I don’t want to.”

“Tough,” Kid snaps. “This is what you get for getting caught.”

“Kid,” Killer says, a warning to go easy on you.

It’s not necessary. You can see right through Kid’s harsh exterior. He always gets upset when a crewmate is hurt badly. What he’s really saying is ‘this is what you get for making me worry.’

“No time for discussion,” says the doctor. “I’d like to get this done before any more blood is lost. Hold them down, would you?”

Before you can protest, Kid and Killer secure you in place: Kid’s metal hand presses down on your legs while his flesh one wraps tightly around your good arm, and Killer pins your torso to his from behind.

“Wait, wait, wait!” you cry out quickly, but you can’t budge against them both. 

Kid nods at the doctor. “Do it.”

The disinfectant comes first, stealing the breath from your lungs, like acid on your exposed flesh. The doctor gives you no time to process the first action before he moves onto the second–rationally, you know it’s to minimize the amount of time you’ll be in pain, but you are incapable of viewing his actions kindly at the moment. He immediately forces the bones back to where they should be in one firm, expert motion. 

The world goes white. Nothing exists anymore except for the pain in your arm, unimaginable and all-consuming. You don’t perceive anything else, blind and deaf to any stimuli that isn’t sheer agony. Later on, you’ll realize that you must have screamed, if the soreness when you speak is any indication, but you don’t remember it.

The intensity eventually wanes enough to restore your senses, though your head is still swimming from the assault. Your sight returns first. Instead of the cold infirmary, your vision is entirely filled by Kid, his face so close you’d be staring into his eyes if they were open. His forehead is pressed to yours, and he’s saying something, but you don’t process it until your hearing comes back a moment later.

“...did good, Y/n, you did good. You’re okay. Easy, you’re okay.”

Kid… you think dimly, followed by, huh. Have I seen him do this with anyone but Killer?

You don’t question it beyond that thought, hanging onto his every word. The closeness abates the hurt, even if just slightly, and you bask in it, taking any mercy you can get. Kid and ‘comfort’ aren’t things that generally go together, but to you–scared, in pain, and maybe just a little bit hopelessly in love with him–it’s everything.

Killer smooths your hair back. His solid chest against your back is grounding, helping you stay present through the haze of misery. You’re suddenly grateful he’s there, too, his presence equally as soothing as Kid’s, the degree to which triggering a new realization: It’s obvious in hindsight, but you’ve never been great at analyzing your own feelings, and as such, it only just dawns on you that you’re down just as bad for the first mate. The revelation would have been panic-inducing if it wasn’t for the pain currently demanding all of your attention.

“They still with us?” Killer asks behind you.

Kid’s eyes open, meeting yours. You’ve never seen them this close before. The irises are an orange-gold, reminding you of smoldering embers. Your breath leaves you once more, but you’re not sure pain is the cause this time. Though it must have left you delirious, because your mouth moves before your brain can catch up.

“You have pretty eyes,” you mumble.

Said pretty eyes widen, Kid pulling back in surprise. He glances at Killer. “...That answer your question?”

Killer hums, gently rubbing your good arm. You go limp, leaning your full weight back against him without shame, hurting too much to care right then. He doesn’t seem to mind, anyway.

There’s a faint tinge of pink on Kid’s face, and he smirks down at you. “Better be careful there, Y/n. You can’t blame what you say on a head injury.”

“Whatever,” you huff, knowing you can get away with being rude without repercussions for now. “I don’t–” your words break into a gasp as the pain in your arm spikes so intensely that spots dot your vision.

Kid’s smirk instantly falls. You try to look at your burning arm, but he turns your head back so you’re watching him instead.

“Don’t look. He’s stitching it now. Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

Another wave of pain has you fighting back a sob, barely able to keep it down. You instinctively go to look again, but Kid keeps your head from turning with a steady hand cupping the side of your face.

“Look at me, Y/n. There you go. Just hold on a bit longer.”

You try to do as he says, focusing on his eyes rather than the current torture, but it’s impossible. “Hurts so bad,” you whimper.

“I know,” Kid says softly. “We’re right here.”

The curved needle hooking through your skin isn’t the problem, nor is the nauseating sensation of the sutures sliding through the layers of flesh. Both, while admittedly sucking hard, are tolerable. The problem is that even as careful as he is, the doctor is still moving your arm with every stitch.

“Almost done,” Killer says, “almost done. You’re doing great.”

Am I really? you want to ask, but you’re currently unable to form anything more coherent than groans and curses.

The final trial is the splint, more unbearable movement to your arm that has you gripping the edge of the exam table so hard your knuckles turn white. Killer takes notice, peeling your hand from the table to hold in his, instead. Despite his hand being twice the size of yours, you’re pretty sure you crush it with the strength of your grip, but he doesn’t complain.

“I’ll apply a proper cast once the swelling goes down,” the doctor says once he’s finally, finally fucking done. “Rest in one of the patient beds and keep your arm above your heart as much as possible. You’re to sleep here until further notice.”

You’re helped into one of the beds, and once the doctor’s applied ice packs to your injury, Kid dismisses him. The three of you are left alone, Kid and Killer pulling up chairs next to the bed. Lying back, you stare blankly at the ceiling, catching your breath, humbled and terrified at the human body’s ability to feel such all-consuming anguish. Adrenaline still courses through your veins, making you jittery and hyper-aware, and you’re sweating, but at least the pain in your arm has simmered down to a dull, throbbing ache. While it still feels like the bones are screaming at you, you can endure it quietly, though it does make your eyes water. 

With the diminishing of the pain comes just enough clarity for you to feel utterly and totally disgraceful. You don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone on the crew scream like you had, and plenty of them had endured their fair share of awful injuries. So why couldn’t you handle it better? How could you call yourself a pirate after such a display? All of that, and still visibly on the verge of tears now that it was over? You’d be more embarrassed about crying in front of them if you hadn’t just spent the enitre past fifteen minutes acting like a complete bitch.

Kid may have said you couldn’t blame your words on a head injury, but you think the pain alone is enough to make you loopy, because you find yourself laughing shortly at the thought. It’s more of a huff and a grin, really–anything more would jostle your arm.

“Y/n?” Kid asks, concerned.

“It’s just,” you glance at him, then back at the ceiling, smiling ruefully. “I wanted to be tough, if you can believe that. But I couldn’t manage it… Pitiful, right?”

“What are you talking about?” Kid scowls. “That pirate broke your arm and you still killed him.”

“Only because I didn’t feel it right away. It doesn’t count. When push came to shove, I couldn’t handle it at all. I’m a Kid Pirate–I should be tougher. And yet, I…” You blink, and the tears gathered at the corners of your eyes break free, running down your temples. “I didn’t have it in me.”

“Y/n…?”

You look between Kid and Killer. Kid’s worry is evident behind the tension in his face, and while Killer’s expression is hidden, there’s nothing in his body language to suggest he’s upset with you. Your smile wavers, chest getting tight. The next wave of tears has nothing to do with pain.

“Aren’t you ashamed of me?” Your voice cracks, as if you couldn’t be any more pathetic.

“Don’t,” Kid says stiffly. “Don’t do the self-pity thing now. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But I–”

“Look,” Killer says, “everyone’s different, with different tolerances for pain. You don’t need to be unfeeling to be a capable fighter.”

Easy for him to say–Killer had the highest pain tolerance in the crew. Still, you don’t miss the compliment, mentally clinging to it like it could redeem you.

“You think I’m a capable fighter?” you ask, voice small.

“I invited you onto my crew for a reason, okay?” Kid says. “I saw potential. I still see it. You’ve gotten stronger since we first met.” Kid looks away. “...I haven’t once regretted my decision.”

“Oh…” Self-doubt tells you that Kid’s just saying those things to make you feel better, but experience has you discarding the thought. You know him better than that. Kid has always meant what he said, he wouldn’t make such claims lightly. The words are real and sincere, threatening to make you cry harder, but you force it down. He’s never liked dealing with tears.

Kid won’t meet your eye. From your angle on the bed, you can see a blush spread across his cheeks, darker than before. Maybe that’s why he makes to leave, pushing his chair back and getting up, Killer following suit. Or maybe he just means to check on the crew. Regardless, a surge of objection rises in your chest, every bit as selfish and puerile as a child protesting their parents leaving them in daycare.

“You’re going?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

They pause, Kid turning back to you. “Do you want us to stay?”

You don’t look at him when you nod shallowly, ashamed. But you don’t want to hurt alone. Rationally, you know you’re going to be in pain for a long while, and they can’t be at your side the whole time. Still, if they’ll let you, then you’ll be self-centered for just a bit longer.

Kid and Killer sit back down.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. Then, even quieter, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Kid grumbles. “I told you to knock that shit off.”

You swallow a lump in your throat. He could be so rough about it, but there was genuine care behind his refusing to let you wallow in self-pity.

Killer takes your hand. “Is this the first time you’ve been injured like this?” he asks.

You nod.

“Listen... Sometimes, when you’re hurt bad enough physically, it messes with your head, too,” Killer says. “You feel vulnerable and insecure. Helpless, even. So,” he squeezes your hand lightly, “it’s okay if you’re more sensitive than you normally would be. No one's going to hold it against you. You came out of the battle alive. That’s what matters.”

Damn him and his tenderness, you’re trying not to cry. You pull your hand away, lower lip wobbling, and take a shaky breath, holding it down. You glance at Kid. He’s staring hard at your broken arm. Suddenly his ire stops being transparent–just like when you first joined the crew, you’re completely unable to discern what he’s really thinking. All you see is the discontent, so close to disapproval that it makes you uncertain.

“Are you, um,” you say nervously, “are you mad at me?”

“No,” Kid says, but it comes out a bit stiff. “At least, not for the reason you think. I’m proud of you for taking out that pirate. He was twice your size and faster, but you still won.” He taps his nails against his metal hand. “Y/n… When Hip said you were really hurt, I feared the worst. I thought you’d been fatally injured.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” you joke.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kid snaps, glaring. He’s gritting his teeth, eyes hard and angry, but then there’s a break, a crack in his expression. It’s just a glimpse, but for the first time, you see fear behind the fury. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. Got it? Or I’ll break your other arm.”

Despite the harsh words, emotion swells in your chest, fuzzy and light. You feel yourself tearing up again. “Yes, captain.”

“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

You smile slightly. “Yes, captain.”

Kid leans back in his chair, arms crossed, scowl etched deep. You watch as Killer touches Kid’s arm briefly, reassuring. With the worst of the pain behind you comes the presence of mind to start overthinking, and you dive right in: They have each other. It’s clear that they care about you, but it will never be in the way you want. 

The ache in your arm seems fitting, a backdrop of physical pain behind the emotional. Liking Kid is stressful enough, but now that you were aware of your feelings for Killer, it was compounded, growing like a chemical reaction into something huge and overwhelming. As a trusted crewmate, you pretty much have front row seats to the small intimacies those two exchange. How are you supposed to go on watching and not be eaten alive by jealousy? 

Maybe you should leave. Maybe this was your sign that the good times had run out, and it was time to strike it out solo again. You don’t want to go–crushes aside, you were fond of the crew, having come to see them as family–but could you handle living with Kid and Killer now? The unrequited desire was already burrowing under your skin like a grass seed, threatening to travel and lodge deep into your heart. Cutting ties now would spare you more hurt in the long run.

But first you had to heal from this injury, something better done with the security of a crew protecting you.

Then, unprompted, Killer reaches over to wipe the sweat from your forehead, and you start reconsidering even that notion. If they were going to be gentle the entire recovery period, you were really gonna lose it. The compassion was too close to intimacy, a taste of what you couldn’t have. 

"The next few months are gonna blow," you say, the true meaning of the statement masked.

"Just wait until it starts itching under the cast," Killer says lightly.

"Ugh. And I'll hardly be able to move." You grimace. "I'll need help even with basic tasks… You're right, Killer, it does feel helpless."

"It'll be fine," Kid says. "You have us and the crew." 

He's still frowning, but you can read him again. Not that you need to with the frankness of his words.

"At least there's a bright side," you smile impishly, "if you're gonna be soft this whole time."

"Watch it," Kid warns, but his lip curls up just a bit. "Don't get used to it."

Too bad for him, you fully intend to abuse your power. It’ll be interesting to see how much you can get away with, and you might as well have some kind of outlet for these awful feelings in the meantime.

“Nah, I’m gonna enjoy it while I can,” you say, “because it’s not gonna happen another time. I’m gonna get even stronger, so I’ll never go through that again.” You wipe away the gathered tears with the back of your hand. “I’m gonna surpass even the shave technique. I’ll be uncatchable.”

Kid and Killer exchange glances–an impressive feat considering Killer’s mask, but that’s just the kind of wavelength they’re on–and then they look at you, Kid wearing one of his rare serious expressions. “I know the last half hour was rough, Y/n. But you won’t get any better as a fighter if fear is your motivator.”

That makes you pout, mostly because you know he’s right. Arguing that it had worked out for this long was pointless, because it really hadn’t. You only survived the fight with Kid years ago because of his whims, and today’s battle had ended in agony. You wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon, but maybe that was better. Maybe a reminder that you weren’t invulnerable was what you needed. So long as you didn’t succumb to fear, like Kid said.

“I guess it wasn’t entirely miserable,” you muse, thinking back to how Kid carried you to the ship. That was a lie–you were hurting far too badly to enjoy the contact–but the thought that it happened still made you kind of happy, in a messed up way. Maybe you were more touch-starved than you thought. “I got to be held. Can’t remember the last time I was that close to someone.”

Kid looks surprised, and then his expression slowly morphs into something smug, an arrogant smirk plastered on his face. “If you wanted to be close to me, Y/n, you could have just asked.”

Your cheeks instantly flare hot, caught so off-guard all you can do is stare in dumb shock before you turn your head away. What the hell was he doing? Why would he say that? Now there was an ache in your chest as well as your arm.

“Is that what this was all about?” Kid continues gleefully. “Did you let yourself get hurt so your captain would come take care of you?”

No, no, no. Don’t do this to me. Regardless of what he meant by the teasing, it felt like a weight was sitting over your sternum. And really, he was such a fucking jerk, taking obvious pleasure in your flustered response. Honestly, why did you even like him?

“We’re right here.”

Your brain plays the memory back like a traitor, impressing the reason. Why did he have to be so damned nice to you? Why couldn’t he have been cold or stern or even harsh, like usual? This would have been so much easier if he just told you off for screaming, or called you a pussy or something, but no. He had to hold you and reassure you and now you didn’t know what to do.

“Stop it,” you say, but it comes out small and feeble. This was all too much, especially now. Killer had a point–you were in a delicate way mentally. The walls weren’t up, you couldn’t buffer any of these feelings. “Talk to me like that and I’ll leave.”

Kid pauses. “What do you mean, you’ll leave?”

“I’ll leave the crew.”

“What?!” Kid grabs the arms of his chair, leaning forward like he didn’t hear you right the first time.

“Slip?” Killer questions.

You avoid their eyes. “I can’t–I can’t do this. I can’t be around you if you’re going to be like… like that.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Kid demands.

“Slip, what’s wrong?” Killer asks. “Was it something we said?”

“No! I mean, yes!” you say, tugging at your hair with your good hand. “I mean… I…”

“Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?” Kid says hotly. “What the hell is your problem?” 

“I’m in love with you!” you shout. “That’s my fucking problem, Kid!”

Oops. Well. It was out now. Might as well go all-in. You cover your face as you add, “Killer, too. I love you both. I’m sorry.”

The shame settles like rot in your stomach, as nauseating as the physical pain was. There was no taking it back now. You expect shocked silence, or even Kid getting angry. 

What you don’t expect is Kid, as casually as if discussing the weather, responding, “Oh. Yeah, I know.”

It takes a minute to process what he said, mentally flipping the words over in an attempt to parse them. Your hand slowly drops from your face, and you fix him with a look that manages to be both pointed and baffled. “...What?”

“I already knew that,” Kid clarifies.

You stare a hole through him. “...What?”

“What exactly are you not getting? I’m telling you I already knew.”

“Fucking excuse me?!” It finally processes, crashing over you like a boiling wave, drenching and searing all at once. “Since when?!”

“Since we met, you idiot.”

Your jaw drops. He had known all this time? For three fucking years? He knew?

“You’re not a subtle person, Y/n,” Kid says, then grins. “You got really, really worked up when I caught you that one time. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“You knew?” You look between him and Killer, at a loss. “The entire time?”

“Y/n, the whole crew knows.”

“What?!” You sit up so quickly it jostles your injury, sending a hellish jolt of pain through your arm that makes you hiss.

“Easy,” Killer says, gently pushing your good shoulder to prompt you to lay back.

“Don’t tell me to take it easy!” you snap, but acquiesce, letting him push you back. “What the hell do you mean, you knew… The crew knows… Oh my god…”

“There, there,” Killer says, but you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Anyway,” Kid says nonchalantly, “you don’t have permission to leave.”

Ordinarily, you would say 'I wasn't aware I needed it,' but you're currently too stunned to reply. All this time. And the crew knows.

What are you to make of that? Kid doesn’t look upset. Killer doesn’t sound upset. They’re fine with your crush? Did such things really not bother them, or did they… No. There was no way. You can't wrap your head around the implications. There was no way. Right? Because if they liked you back, wouldn’t they have said something by now? 

You have to find out. Living on this ship with that hanging over you is beyond what you can handle. And with months of recovery ahead of you, now would be as good a time as any to shoot your shot.

But you only get out "Do you–" before your voice catches, the query dying in your throat. You can't say it, can't bring yourself to ask. Something in your head is as broken as your arm, refusing to form the words. 

Kid and Killer are listening, waiting for you to continue, but you shake your head. “Never mind.” 

The answer to that question would hurt, and you’ve had enough of that for a good, long while. But without it comes the uncertainty, which almost feels worse. Unable to reconcile how you feel and exhausted from the aftermath of the adrenaline, you find you just want to be close to them again. Maybe you’re too much of a coward to ask the crucial question. But you aren’t above taking advantage of your current state to seek out a bit of comfort.

"Back when I was a kid," you say, "and I had to go to the doctor, my guardian would take me to get a treat afterwards. Like ice cream or something."

"Yeah?" Kid says, grinning wide. "Is there something you want from me? What could it possibly be, I wonder?"

Suddenly you're tongue-tied. You didn’t expect him to cotton on so fast, but underestimating Kid was why you had lost to him in the first place three years ago.

When you don't respond, Kid rests his chin on his metal hand, having the gall to look even more smug. "You need to say it out loud, Y/n."

Fucking jerk. Fine. "Um…" you start, fresh heat warming your face, "well, uh… Can I have, uh… A hug…?"

Kid looks surprised at that for some reason, raising a brow. What was he expecting? Still, he rises from his seat, and you sit up in anticipation. This was enough for now. Just to be held, one more time. You could figure out the rest later.

“That’s really all you want?” Kid says, looking at you like he can’t figure you out. He leans over you, towering, your height difference exacerbated with you being seated. “A hug?”

“...Yeah?” you respond hesitantly, unsure of what he means by the question.

Kid regards you for a moment, searching your eyes. Then he smirks. “I’ll do you one better.”

Before you can register the meaning of his words, Kid tilts your chin up, leans in, and presses his lips to yours in a firm and intent kiss.

Suffice to say, your brain promptly short-circuits. For a moment, not a single neuron fires. Then there’s a storm of activity, a thousand different thoughts and feelings screaming all at once. At the same time, a soft sort of tingling spreads throughout your whole body, fluttering and warm, so pleasant that you could cry. And, for just a second, like something out of a fairy tale, you don’t feel any of the pain in your arm. (You can never, ever tell this to Kid–he will hold it over your head for the rest of your life.)

While you’re too shocked to reciprocate, once Kid pulls away, you find yourself leaning forward, chasing the contact. He notices, if his widening smirk is any indication.

“Better than a hug, right?” he says, self-satisfied.

“Um,” you respond cleverly, still bewildered by the action. “Uh… Kid? Do you… Do you like me?”

Kid pinches the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I literally just kissed you. What the fuck do you think?”

“Wait, shut up. Hold on. Wait.” The fact that Kid doesn’t react to your telling him to shut up is a testament to his going easy on you, and you make a mental note of it for later. “If you liked me back, why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been flirting with you for years!”

Your eyes bug out at him. “You have?”

“For someone who thinks so quickly in battle, it’s amazing how slow you are on the uptake,” Kid says, exasperated. You frown, because rude, but he keeps going. “At first, when you didn’t respond, I thought you weren’t interested. But the way you acted around me and Killer proved otherwise. It was confusing as hell! Then, a few weeks ago, the crew was at a tavern, and you were approached by that bounty hunter–you remember?”

“Yeah… What about him?”

“He started flirting real heavy, and it all went right over your head. It was incredible to watch. I realized then that you weren’t sending me mixed signals on purpose, but that you were really just that fucking oblivious.”

You blink. “He was flirting with me?”

“He bought you a drink!” Kid shouts, throwing his arms out in frustration and nearly knocking over another bed with his metal one. Killer covers his mask over where his mouth would be, as if that would help him suppress a laugh.

“I thought he was trying to sucker me out of information.”

“He was trying to sucker you out of your clothes.”

“Oh… So that’s why you nearly killed him.”

You stare down at your lap as you try to process all the new information. Kid liked you back. Not only that, but he had been attempting to show it pretty much since the beginning. You knew you were bad with feelings, but the fact that it took a severe injury for this to come to light was maybe a little concerning. And what about Killer? He wasn’t nearly as open as Kid, so even if he had been showing similar signs, you would have never picked up on it.

“Does, uh,” you say, looking up at them, “does Killer also…?”

“Yeah,” Kid says, “Killer too, though he never flirted with you over it.”

“I kind of did,” Killer speaks up, “here and there, but I stopped when it seemed like you weren’t into it.”

You think back, trying to recall any times where that might have happened. While Killer seemed outwardly stoic, he was surprisingly affable toward crewmates, so you never thought twice about any lingering touches or supportive words coming from him.

“Um… Wow. I’m sorry,” you say, “I didn’t mean to be confusing. I guess I just never thought it was possible that anyone would like me that way.”

“Why would you think that?” Killer sounds genuinely confused, and you tense, the question dredging up a host of bad memories. That was one traumatic can of worms you didn’t need to open, so you just shrug it off. 

“Uh, no reason…”

“You’ve never been in a relationship?” Kid asks.

“Not really,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. All of this was new territory, the revelation that they were both interested leaving you stumped. “...What do I even do now?”

“Whatever you want.”

You stare at Kid, then glance away, cheeks growing warm in embarrassment before you even say it. “...I want you to kiss me again.”

“You really think you deserve it after all that you’ve put us through?” Kid grins, but despite what he says, he leans right back in to grant your wish.

The second kiss is softer, even tender. Your eyes close as you cup his cheek, and his hand covers yours. That fluttering sensation returns, prickling across your skin like you’ve sunk into a warm bath, enveloping and soothing.

When Kid breaks free this time, you can’t help but look at Killer afterwards, the longing in your expression making your thoughts evident.

“What, I’m not good enough for you?” Kid accuses, but you can tell he’s teasing.

“No,” you say brightly, safe in the knowledge that he won’t retaliate while you’re injured. Or so you thought–Kid pinches your cheek (with his flesh hand, at least,) harder and harder until you apologize. You rub your sore cheek, pouting. “I swear I’m not complaining or anything, but, uh… You don’t want to, Killer?”

Killer turns his head away, quiet for a moment. “...I will… Once you’ve recovered, and the cast comes off.” He looks your way again. “So you have the motivation to heal quickly.”

Later on, when you’ve gotten to know him more intimately, you’ll look back and realize that the ‘motivation’ line was complete bullshit, and that he was just covering up his shyness. But right then, you accept him at his word, though you’re a bit disappointed.

“Sure. Okay.” You lay back in the bed, a smile slowly stretching your lips. “I can live with that.”

Today was a one-two punch in staggering experiences. First you went through the worst physical pain you’d felt yet, then Kid revealed that he and Killer both liked you back. You were ecstatic, of course–but the fact that you never had to go through breaking your arm to learn of it made you more than a little mad at yourself.

“We can talk about all this later,” Kid says. “You need to rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kid looks at you sharply, and you get a funny feeling in your gut. Did… Did he like that? What a stuck-up asshole. God, you love him. Which is why you’re going to use that against him later.

“Try and get some sleep, if you can. The next island we’re stopping at has a pharmacy. Once we raid it and restock our medical supplies, you won’t be hurting so much, so just hang on until then. Okay?” Kid touches your cheek.

“Okay,” you reply, trying not to show how giddy the simple action makes you.

But given that he knew of your attraction all this time, he can probably tell anyway.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!” You glare at the crewmates sitting around your bed. The doctor will only let a few people in to see you at a time, so right now, it’s just Heat, Wire, and Quincy, the latter currently signing your cast. “Some nakama you are! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It would have interfered with the betting pool,” Wire says. 

“Betting pool?!”

“After a while,” Heat adds, “it just became kind of a social experiment.”

“Betting pool?!” you reiterate.

“Relax,” Quincy says, capping the marker. “If you get worked up, the doc will kick us out.”

“Fine.” You scowl, but relent, shoulders drooping.

“So how’d it go down?” Heat asks. “Did you tell Kid first, or did he tell you?”

“I said it first.”

“Damn,” Wire mutters, fishing a thick wad of cash out of his pocket and passing it to Heat.

Your eyes widen at the blatant exchange. “I will fucking strangle you both!”

“With one hand?” Wire asks, and the three of them burst into laughter.

You throw your medicine bottle at his head.

After months of waiting, you’re eager to finally have the cast off, but a part of you will miss looking at everyone’s signatures. Heat even drew the crew’s jolly roger on it.

“Some pain and stiffness afterwards is normal. Your range of motion will be limited. After months of being immobile, the muscles are weakened,” the doctor explains. “You are to wait one week before any exercise or heavy physical activity with that arm. Understand?”

The moment the cast is removed and the doctor releases you, you go find Killer on the ship.

“Hey, Killer!” You wave at him with your newly-healed arm, though you find the action is more difficult than you expected, just like the doctor said. “Cast is off, big guy. Time to pay up.”

When Killer doesn’t respond right away, you think maybe he’s forgotten what he said months ago. He looks around at the other crewmates on deck, then takes your hand and wordlessly leads you elsewhere.

“Killer?” you ask as you follow, but he remains silent.

Killer takes you all the way to the captain’s cabin, closing the door behind the both of you. Kid is currently there, sitting at his desk and looking over a map, head turning to you as soon as you enter.

“Everything okay?” Kid asks, then, noticing your cast is off, he smirks. “Oh, I see. Went for it first thing, huh, Y/n? You must have really been looking forward to it.”

“Shut up, Kid!” you say, face growing hot.

Kid rises from his seat, coming to stand behind you, and rests his flesh hand on your shoulder, squeezing in threat. “Careful, Y/n. You don’t have that injury to protect you anymore.”

Despite the warning, something about the way he says it, voice low and smooth, makes your stomach knot.

“Alright, alright, fine. Yes, I’ve been looking forward to it, okay? I’ve been thinking about it every day since,” you admit, swallowing. “But, Killer, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Killer is silent once more. You scan him anxiously, trying to get a read on his body language. He seems tense, so it takes you by surprise when he quietly says, “I want to.”

“Oh.”

Killer steps closer, right in front of you, so you’re sandwiched between the captain and first mate. Belatedly, you realize he’ll have to take off his mask, which you didn’t think about before. You’re not sure that even Heat or Wire have seen him without it, and you’re suddenly nervous that you’re violating some boundary by asking him to kiss you.

Then, Kid moves his hand from your shoulder to your face, covering your eyes from behind. You hear a faint noise like rustling hair that must be Killer removing his mask. Unable to see, you can only wait, heart pounding. It feels like forever before you feel his breath on your face, not making contact yet–he’s hesitating. And then, finally, after months of patience, he closes the gap, soft lips capturing your own.

Just like that, all your nerves melt away, fading behind the static that seems to spark through your body. You reach out for Killer blindly, hands landing in his hair before they slide down to hold his face, pulling as if you could draw him even closer. He sighs into your mouth in response, making your knees grow weak.

After far too short a time, Killer pulls away, and your grip on his face tightens in reluctance. 

“Wait, wait,” you mumble, “again. Please, I–”

Your protest is muffled by Killer’s mouth closing over yours again, swallowing your words and your sanity all at once. He’s firmer this time, indelicate and needy, large hands grabbing hold of your waist. The little whine that slips out of you is involuntary, and you hear Kid chuckle behind you.

Eventually, Killer breaks away, leaving the both of you stunned and flushed with endorphins.

“You have no idea, Y/n,” Kid whispers into your ear, raising goosebumps on the back of your neck. “How much he’s talked about this.”

“Like you haven’t been talking about them?” Killer says defensively. “The sheer amount of grievances I’ve had to listen to the last few years… Where do I even begin? First, there was–”

“Okay!” Kid cuts him off, uncharacteristically flustered. “I get it.”

You snicker, and Kid immediately wraps his metal hand around your hip, gripping just tightly enough so as not to be painful, but still securely enough so that you’re trapped in place. It’s huge in comparison to you, the pinky sinking into your thigh while the index presses into your stomach. You gasp, going rigid, the position intimately familiar–this was the exact way that Kid had caught you three years ago.

“You know, Y/n,” Kid says, his tone soft with warning, “you’ve been a real piece of work these last few months. Smart-mouthed. Insolent. Talking back to me. Thinking you were so safe because of your injury.” He’s speaking into your ear again, breath hot on your skin, and your heart starts to race. “I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted, Y/n, because I’ve been keeping track. Every comment, every cheeky little quip, I committed to memory, waiting for this moment. I think it’s time I paid it back. Wouldn’t you agree, Killer?”

“Definitely,” Killer responds without hesitation.

Heat courses through your body, collecting at the apex of your thighs. Still blinded by Kid, you can’t see Killer move, but you feel his rough fingers tracing your throat a moment later.

The third time around, you are perfectly okay with not having lived up to your epithet.

#one piece imagines #one piece x reader #eustass kid x reader #killer x reader #reader insert #zen writes

[ya-zz]

PLEASE WRITE ABOUT RAMATTRA'S PARTNER FINDING OUT ABOUT THE VIBE SADDLE PLEEEEASE

Ooohhhh this one was fun to write! The moment I woke up I had the perfect way to start and end this! Thank you so much for requesting!

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 1619

NSFW - Although not explicit sex it does has NSFW themes

Everyone had their training sessions, some more than others, and you were no exception. There were multiple different ways to log your sessions, whether that was to do one on one training with the bots, scheduled group sessions or one on one sessions with others whenever you both had the time. Some were more intense than others, and depending on who was willing to train with you, depended on the bruises you were leaving with. 

It was mandatory and there was no way out. Even though you weren’t part of any special forces, being able to use your skills in sudden attacks gave you the higher advantage rather than just being seen as the omnic repair person, someone who would otherwise be seen as weak.

With no other scheduled repairs on your database, it seemed like a good idea to get a session in before the day ended and that’s what you did. After putting away your tools and cleaning the workbench and floor, you grabbed your duffle bag and headed for the training room. 

The walk was silent. Some members were away on missions, others chilling in the wreck room or hanging out in the garden, while some resorted to alone time in their quarters. It was peaceful. The hallway lights flickered, a small humming above you as you walked, nearing your destination. 

Upon entering the training room, you look around before heading straight for the lockers, dumping your bag on the bench before dressing into your gym clothes. 

A noise behind you caused you to turn as you continued pulling your t-shirt over your head. The rather large omnic quickly turned his head in an attempt to give you a little privacy.

“My apologies.” He spoke out, tone laced with a form of embarrassment. 

“It’s okay. You can look.” You smile over at him, placing your clothes in an empty locker before closing it and heading over to one of the training bots. 

He watched you, optics scanning your form as you walked. “I assume you do not have any more repairs scheduled for the rest of the day?” 

“You would assume correct, Ramattra.” You look over your shoulder. “Unless you have something that needs repairing.” 

“I am in perfect working condition.” He chuckles, resting a hand on his hip. “Perhaps we could train together, yes?” 

Turning your body to fully face him, you nod. “Sure, beats the bots for a change.” 

“They are predictable.” He states, walking closer towards you.

“I suppose. Easier for you to say, anyway.” You approach the omnic, walking to the left a little, keeping a close eye on him. 

“You are correct. I have learned their ways.” He walks to the right, the pair of you beginning to circle the floor. 

“Does that not weird you out?” You ask, cocking your head slightly as you tense your fists. “Fighting one of your own?”

“It did at first, however, they are not programmed like me.” He keeps his optics on you, waiting. “They have been programmed to follow simple rules.” 

“Suppose you were the same at one point, right?” 

“Yes. But here I am now.” Ramattra’s tone never faltered, never raising or lowering in pitch. “Now, are you going to keep talking or are we going to train?” 

You shrug, raising your arms in front of you, hands balled into fists as the omnic comes towards you. He was quick, almost silent as his body lunged forward. You, however, were just as fast. Years of self defence had taught you many a thing, especially when the enemy was coming directly at you. Having never trained with Ramattra before, you didn’t exactly know what to expect, but if this was his first move, you were confident in your ability to take him down quickly without any other means of force. 

Your hand connected with his fist, stopping him from punching you. Twisting your body, you move to the side, leg behind his and toppling him to the mat below. He grunted, seemingly caught off guard by your strength. 

“Didn’t think that would work, honestly.” You smile down at him, hands holding his wrists down as your legs locked with his. 

“Humans, however, are not so predictable in certain aspects.” He tilts his head, optics looking up at you from behind his faceplate. “You are stong.”

“Picking me as weak was your first mistake, Ramattra.” 

He noticed your smile change, something more of a smirk embracing your face.

“Oh?” While he wasn’t denying your strength, he pushes himself free from your grip, hands holding onto your thighs, an amused and flirtatious tone in his voice. “But this view is quite something.” 

“What-” Your eyes widen slightly at the sudden change of tone, cheeks flushing as your hands join his, holding onto the purple metal guards. “Shut up.” 

“Come on, [y/n].” He chuckles, hands teasing their way up your arms and pulling you back down, making you lean against his chest before resting his hands back on your thighs. 

“Ramattra…” You look back down at him, looking over his scratched faceplate, wanting nothing more than to trace your fingers over each scratch. 

His fingers circled your thighs gently before applying a small amount of pressure. 

“We are not fucking here.” You state, looking up towards the doorway.

“Who said we were?” Ramattra laughs, the low static rumble escaping his vocaliser. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “What are you planning?” 

“Nothing.” He squeezes your thighs just a little bit harder, watching your heartbeat rise ever so slightly. “Is someone nervous?” 

“Ramattra, I never know what you’re gonna do.” You lean back slightly, hands still resting on his chest. 

“That makes it fun, does it not?” His head tilts again as he speak with a teasing tone. 

“Ramattra, I swear. You better not try anything-” A sudden vibration from his pelvic plate caused you to fall forward, hands gripping his shoulders as you moan out. “F-fuck you.” 

The omnic beneath you laughs, a warmth circulating within his chassis as you continue to whimper next to his receptors. “Such sweet sounds.” He coos, holding you in place against his hips as he fiddles with the settings within his system. 

“Since… when did you… have that…?” Spoken between breathy moans, your grip tightens, the vibrations not stopping as he adjusts the speed, teasing you slowly.

“Suppose I have had it when I got my other features installed.” He changes the settings once more, sudden bursts shocking you and making you squirm over his hips, soft moans slowly growing louder. “You should probably keep quiet…”

“Easy… for you to say…” You bite down on your lip. 

“Humans have their weaknesses.” He smirks internally, tone cocky as he sets the speed higher, feeling you writhe on top of him. 

Something inside of you burned, the coil threatening to snap at any moment. “Y-you- fuck…” 

“Oh? Is someone getting close?” He chuckles, turning it down, hearing a sad whimper from you. 

“P-please…” 

“Needy little one, aren’t you?” Ramattra’s fingers dug deeper into your thighs, bruises threatening to form as he keeps you still, not wanting you to move. 

“Rama… Please…” 

He keeps the setting on low for a moment longer, waiting for the perfect time to drive it higher. Your whimpers grew softer, the vibrations rumbling against your sex gently. 

Without any warning, he put the speed up to its highest, feeling it within himself also. Your sudden cry was music to his receptors, his fans speeding up to cool him down as he gripped your thighs tightly, keeping you in place. 

“Rama…!” Instead of biting your lip to keep quiet, your teeth connected to his neck, biting down on the thick cable that ran down his side. A small groan escaped the omnic, the sensation new to him but not unwelcomed in the slightest. 

He could feel you shake on top of him, moans and whimpers getting more intense before you eventually cry out, holding onto him just as tight as he was holding you. Your thighs squeezed his hips, the vibrations growing more intense as you came from your high, orgasm slowly rolling out. 

When he heard your soft whimpers and felt the jerking of your body, he slowed it down before completely shutting it off. He smirked internally again, tone cocky as he spoke out. “Well, someone enjoyed that.” 

“S-shut up…” 

Ramattra chuckled, releasing your thighs and gently rubbing your back, watching your heartbeat slow down gradually from within his sensors. “Maybe we need another training session. One to keep you quiet.” 

You huff amusedly as you sit up, body still recovering, cheeks flushed and warm. “I will get you back for that.” 

“I would love to see you try.” 

Raising an eyebrow, you smirk. “Coming from the one that’s currently beneath me?” 

He rolled his head, mimicking rolling his eyes. 

“Oh… Well, Ramattra… Perhaps you should come back to the workshop.” Your fingers trace over the bite you had left him as you spoke, red wires peeking through a tear in the protective rubber. 

As you stand with shaky legs, you offer him a hand, attempting to pull him up even though you knew he didn’t need that help. He stood, looking over you while his other hand went to his neck, feeling the split rubber. 

“Perhaps I should.” He watched you smirk before you walked back to the locker and grabbing your bag. He knew you were already planning something, just the way you spoke to him gave him the idea, putting him slightly on edge while his mind ran through every possible sexual scenario he could think of, and that damned playful smirk didn’t help his case either. 

“Come. Let’s get you fixed up.”

#overwatch #ramattra x reader #ramattra #ow #overwatch ramattra #fanfic #reader insert #overwatch fanfiction #reader #overwatch 2 #ow2 #yazzfics #yazznsfw

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

*Madoka Higuchi, huh?*

Very well… I shall give unto you 3 asks! (In 3 sepearte asks, to help you keep track.)

First Ask! S/O asking Madoka to teach them how to dance and sing!

(iDOLM@STER) Madoka teaching her S/O how to sing and dance

My favorite idol is a person who didn't even care to be an idol to begin with.

Madoka practices and puts a lot of effort into being an idol (as much as she does not want the Producer to know about that), so it's safe to say she knows how to perform properly.

Her S/O on the other hand only saw the concerts she performed with the rest of her unit.

And as they were sitting on the couch, Madoka was finally asked the question:

(S/O) "Hey, do you think you can teach me to sing?"

Madoka's eyes glance over to S/O from her phone, her facial expression not changing too much as she stoically responds.

(Madoka) "...Why?"

Then, something dawned over her.

(Madoka) "You're not planning to become an idol like Toru, are you?"

Her frown grew sharper before S/O was quick to respond, lest Madoka kill them with her gaze alone.

(S/O) "N-No! I was just...wanting to sing some of your songs."

Madoka's body seemed to relax but her deadpan expression remained.

(Madoka) "I see...Sure."

Madoka gives S/O a basic rundown of what she had learned in her time as an Idol, making sure to train your vocals, warming up your body, and learning what pitch your voice naturally goes to.

And being herself, Madoka gives honest feedback on how S/O sounded.

(S/O) "Um, how was that?"

(Madoka) "That was awful."

(S/O) "T-Thought so..."

(Madoka) "You're doing this for fun. Don't be that hard on yourself."

Despite her harsh words, she is surprisingly encouraging...In her own unique way.

She was only like this with Toru and her other members.

Though not a single word of what she was doing for S/O would be getting out to the others.

The last thing she needed was the Producer catching wind of this impromptu training.

If anything, it was nice teaching S/O this. It was good for her to revisit the basics and make sure she wasn't going rusty herself.

When it came to dancing, that was a whole different experience.

(Madoka) "I'm not teaching you how to dance."

(S/O) "Huh? Why not?"

(Madoka) "It's a pain. Trust me."

She is very reluctant to teach them how to dance.

It was an absolute pain in the ass with how much she had to be coached on it, not including all the exercises they had to do, the diet, everything.

But when it came to just freestyling it, Madoka had no problem with that.

Plus, it was funny to her to watch S/O flail about while she retained an air of elegance to her dancing.

(S/O) "Hey, no fair! You actually know the dance to your songs!"

Madoka had a small smile form as she paused singing, still stepping to the beat.

(Madoka) "Not my problem."

She couldn't hold back her small teasing smile, still moving as her instructors taught her.

(Madoka) "By the way, if Toru tells me she's seen you singing or dancing to my songs, I'll kill you."

(S/O) "My lips are sealed, trust me!"

Turns out, S/O didn't need to worry.

Because Toru burst through the door as they were practicing herself, leading to Madoka's eternal torment.

#idolm@ster x reader #idolm@ster imagines #idolm@ster headcanons #madoka higuchi x reader #madoka higuchi

[visualtaehyun]

9 People You'd Like To Get To Know Better

I've been up since like 3 am because of jetlag so I thought I might as well answer one of the thingies I've been tagged in, thank you @airenyah ✨️

3 ships

1) Scallisaac - Scott, Allison and Isaac (Teen Wolf)

A perfect triad that first opened my eyes to poly ships and triads in particular! I gotta rec this one fic here that's been percolating in my brain for, oh, just- you know, a decade 🙂

2) River/Doctor - River Song and the 11th doctor (Doctor Who), or as I used to tag them- OTP: Whoney I'm home :D

They were arguably my first major OTP after I first learned what that means lol I love a flirty dynamic, bickering, tragic fated lovers, and time travel! My time in the Doctor Who fandom was when I first taught myself how to gif and use photoshop (back when I still had it...) so there's a bunch of gifsets and edits still on my blog from around then, at least one of which I remember featuring this ship!

3) To no one's surprise, I gotta nod along to one of @airenyah 's choices: Destiel - Dean and Castiel (Supernatural)

The amount of fics I read...! I even still have a 9 year old inactive sideblog that I made, posted a lot on, and then abandoned all within the span of one year lmao

First ship

I honestly don't remember but since one of my earliest fandoms was W.i.t.c.h., I'm just gonna say it was one of the canon relationships, like Will x Matt or either of Cornelia's romances

Last song

Spotify tells me it's Blooming Just For You (꽃이 피는데 필요한 몇 가지) by NuNew and Paul Kim but that's kind of cheating since I've been using it as an alarm recently lol

So, checking my recently played, the next one down is จังหวะตกหลุมรัก (Magic Moment) by DIDIxDADA ✨️

Currently reading

I'm still reading เจ้าชายน้อย /jao chaai naawy/, The Little Prince in Thai, because I tend to read a chapter while marking unfamiliar words as I go but then the looking up of them all afterwards takes me forever so I'm kinda lazy about reading it 😂

Last movie

The Lost Lotteries, or in Thai: ปฏิบัติการกู้หวย (/bpa dti bat gaan guu huay/ = Operation Recovering Lotteries)

It's a Thai comedy from 2022 that's basically about a heist but since I know folks here love First Kanaphan, here's my tumblr pitch: he stars as a spoiled rich kid, has a neck tattoo, and is in all of two scenes lol Also- not related to First anymore but- the characters are all nicely color-coded 🌈

Currently craving

Sleep 🤓 No but for real, jetlag is a bitch and it always only hits me after traveling back west which, like- usually people find it to be worse when traveling east so what the fuck is up with my inner clock hm????

No pressure tags: @zimmbzon @thegalwhorants @twig-tea @rocketturtle4 @sunshinechay @khaostache @slayerkitty @bruisingknees @berestweys - if y'all've already played this tag, please do point me towards it 💕

#bella and the blorbos #tag game #if you're wondering why i'm so slow to react to notifs- hi! i'm on vacation!

[shroudkeeper]

My dreams are filled with the faces of those who are not long for this world. It is a haze, a dark sea made of bodies, most are unrecognizable to me, people that I have never come across; I perhaps never would if not for the duty passed unto me. When I awaken, the images are embedded into my memory, and in darkness, I seek to set them free. Each one has a name, a life they have lived, and in some cases, barely had an opportunity to exist beyond their youth.

One would assume I would be accustomed to it, to watch life diminish before my eyes, but it never gets easy; as I stare at your face now, I am haunted by the twisted vision of your end, while being wide awake.

❝A gorgeous blade, but that steel has not tasted blood since it has fallen into your hands,❞ Shigure's smile was that of a shark, far too toothy and wide, full of hunger.

Mortals were monsters that I could not willingly fight and kill.. and he knew it.

His eyes darted quickly to the katana held, watching for a tremble, any indication that my resolve had been weakened.

❝But mine has, and it has fought against Hayate, so you know that drawing it against me is pointless, I know every move your dear master has taught you, every deflection, every single attack.❞

Behind his words, stone met with steel with his languid approach. But the blade itself seemed to be wailing under the scraping sound in a pitch no one could hear unless they were sensitive to the otherworldly.

For the first time, I felt hesitation. His silhouette did not match the outline of his tall frame. That is why I did not recognize his gaze, it was a stranger that looked at me now, and behind his eyes, something called out to me.

He was no longer just a man. Something brewed within, corrupting from the inside, dismantling what made him mortal.

He read my expression, the wordless inquiry I wore, and from his lips bubbled out a malignant chuckle, one that struck a chord of caution within me. To execute him outright, would take more than Amanokaze.

❝Each one of those souls, paid to be broken reflections of you. I had them paint their face, wear your perfume, and even found similar pins the old man gave you to complete the look. But none of them could amount to who you were, what you are.

I could not taste the same darkness in them. In the end they were all the same, useless puppets, puppets whose strings I had to cut for their lack of perfection. But they have found a new purpose, sacrifices I offer in worship.❞ He glanced down at the blade, my assumptions were correct, but he continued, forcing my eyes back to his own with a wave of his hand directing me to pay attention before he continued.

❝Then I realized something.. I was still just a man, a man chasing after a monster, to catch one, I must become one.❞

There it was, I suddenly felt my grip loosen and something inside me twisted into sickening knots. He chose this, to give himself to a spirit, to let it infest him, and soon devour anything that made him who he was. The madness that drove him will lead him straight to his grave, he just did not know that dawn would not come to greet him after tonight.

❝The floating world could never compare to the pleasures you will unleash unto this world. No more hiding your nature, no more having your wings clipped and forced to live behind your father's crafted cage. A flower trapped in a vase, nothing but an ornament made to admire. Let me liberate you from that prison; together we may be free to be our true selves. Clans will recognize our strength, our power, and bend to us.❞

But he would not stop there I feared, the Shigure of the past was my teacher of history, he instructed me on the battles and bloodshed that happened between the clans seeking power. He was educated in the histories of their rise and fall. These lessons enriched my knowledge of a land still new to me, I am ever thankful for his patience; I thought nothing of it, only that he simply enjoyed learning about the foundations of our society.

Not use it as his handbook to further an agenda, one I never wished part of.

I could only fathom what delusions he had about me.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of his shadow slithering behind his heels, with each pendulum swing of the lanterns hanging above us, much like too much ink spilled upon rice paper. There is no remorse that I could sense, only hunger was a constant found in his steady gaze; his lips were primed, his blade unwavering and deafening with each step he took closer, making the gap between us smaller. ❝I have loved you and been denied every dark part of you, time and time again. So I fixed it, your pathetic ijin may have not found a treasure to bring to your father's feet, but I certainly found something, and it has brought me every delight possible, except for you.

I deserve you now more than before..and I won't denied anymore, little bird. ❞

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshot #ff14 screenshot #ffxiv writing

[jsprnt]

Healing Hearts PT.4 | Virgil van Dijk

Would a fresh start bring you more than just a new job?

T/W: mention of blood, harassment.

WC: 3.368

Summary: Y/N L/N is a very skilled and praised physiotherapist. A certain event pushing her for a fresh start, as a physiotherapist for Liverpool FC. One question always being in the back of her mind: Will she be able to let go of her past and allow herself to experience new things?

I get out of my car, taking my heavy bag with me as I park in the Anfield Stadium garage. I turn around and see the players and staff get out of the team bus. I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. It was practically my first game day at Liverpool. Making me slightly nervous at the thought.

I walk inside, as all the players have gone in. The speakers were loudly blasting music. I look around curiously before I get called by Dr. Davis. I glance at him, seeing him standing next to the locker room.

"You arrived smoothly I hope?" He questions.

"Oh yeah it was easy!" I laugh. 

"Alright, let me show you around quickly."

He guides me through the place, showing me the most important room: the medical room. 

We enter the room, it consists of two treatment beds, a sink with multiple built in cabinets, and not to forget a huge flat screen TV to watch the match on. I check the cabinets, reaching for the ones above my head. I nod my head satisfied. "Nice place, I'll definitely will be able to help out to my upmost ability." I beam. "Oh we know you will. I've heard a lot about you y/n. You're definitely going to help us out this season and in the future." He compliments. My heart warms at his compliment. We chat some more about the stadium before he checks his watch.

"Oh the guys will start warming up now. Follow me." I follow him out of the room, walking along the famous tunnel onto the pitch.

"Wow, this never gets old." I mumble, admiring the stadium. We walk up to the players, greeting them. They start warming up thoroughly. We watch the players carefully, looking for any signs of injuries. 

As I'm studying the players' movements my eyes catches Virgil's focused eyes. My heart practically leaps into my throat at the look he's giving me. I avert my gaze immediately, looking at a different player, trying act like nothing had happened. I glance back swiftly to see he's not looking anymore. I breathe out a sigh of relief before, Dr. Woods starts talking to me about something I half listened to.

We all walk back some minutes later so the other team can warm up. We walk through the tunnel as I hear Klopp greeting Bournemouths manager Iraola. I raise my head to watch. The guys walking slower to witness the interaction. They're so damn nosy, can't blame them though.

I'm minding my business talking to Ibo about his warm up before I hear my name being shouted in a thick Spanish accent. I look up, my eyes widening like a dear in headlights. Iraola is walking towards me with a smile on his face. I glance around me, seeing both staff and the players staring at me, confused.

The manager walks up to me, pulling me into an embrace. Why is this man hugging me like I'm his long lost daughter? My face contours into a confused one, accidentally making eye contact with Virgil again. He doesn't look very happy.

Iraola pulls away, a smile plastered on his lips.

"How have you been? How is Theo doing?" Then it clicked.

I had met him at a dinner when I was Theo's plus one. He had talked my ear off all night, drunkenly explaining multiple strategies on how he'd make sure Barcelona would win the league title again, after learning I worked there. Thankfully, that night had ended with me and Theo arguing, so I went home earlier.

I force a smile on my face replying to him. "I've been doing great. About Theo, we broke up some time ago. I'm sure he's doing fine." I fiddle with my sleeves, the vibe turning awkward.

"Oh- thats shocking you were together for so long. I taught you'd get married." My heart practically breaks at his words, feeling that aching sensation in my chest. My face flushing slightly.

"Well that's life I guess." I reply, trying to hide my pained expression. He places a hand on my shoulder. "You'll be fine. I heard his mother was getting ready to step down and make him chairman. Do you know if that's true?"

I fight the torturing urge to roll my eyes, opting to force a smile. "Oh I'm not sure, good for him though." I reply. I actually would rather see him get eaten alive by a hippo to be fully honest. He pats my shoulder before saying goodbye.

I breathe out a sigh of relief, thanking the heavens he left. I glance around seeing the players have left. Did they hear everything?

I walk into the medical room, sitting on my chair. I check the time. Only half an hour left for kick off.

I think back to the conversation again. I can't help but let tears well up in my eyes. Trying to hold them back from falling, but failing to as I let some tears roll down my cheek. He thought we'd get married? Well fuck he wasn't the only one. I let out quiet sobs, trying to muffle my sadness.

Suddenly, the door flies open. My eyes widen and my breath hitches in my throat. Of course, it had to be Virg. His expression softens, looking at me with wandering eyes. He locks the door, walking up to me as I try to quickly wipe my tears. 

"y/n? What's wrong." I avert my gaze embarrassed, this really had to happen right now? "I'm fine-" he removes my hands from my face. Caressing my hand softly with his thumb, and for the second time today my heart leaps into my throat again.

"Was it Iraola? How do you know him? Did he make you uncomfortable?" He shoots out questions, his expression is irked at the last one. His eyes gaze into my teary, red ones, I can't help but stare back. He breaks the eye contact, grabbing a tissue from the dispenser and handing it to me.

I wipe my tears, trying to assure him I'm fine. "I'm okay, I met him through an ex boyfriend. I promise it's just something personal." He looks at me for a second, before deciding to not probe any further. "Alright then, I'll be here if you need to share something."

Why is he acting like we're close? I mean, I'm just one of the physiotherapists, and we've known each other for- a week? "You should get back to the locker room. Or did you have something you wanted to ask since you came here?"

He shakes his head immediately, his gaze lingering on my face. "You looked sad when you walked away from Iraola, so I thought he did something." He states. 

"Oh- you should get back then." He nods, leaving the room again. I notice my heart pounding like it was going to escape my chest. Trying to distract myself, I start to rummage through the cabinets, looking for anything that could be important.

Half-time break just started, I walk out of the room as I see the guys walk in. They look tired but still manage to give me small smiles. Us physiotherapists continue to ask the players about their condition before they have to get back on the pitch.

The second half has a rocky start as Alexis is given a red card by the referee. My eye widen as I can hear the stadium erupt in protests throughout the walls. The team now having to continue the game with ten men.

Luis also having a slight muscle injury a couple minutes before the end of the game, despite playing amazing the entire game. 

Though, winning doesn't seem very difficult with the saves Ali had been making, the match ending with a 3-1 for Liverpool.

I walk out of the medical room again, walking onto the pitch seeing the guys talk to some other players, thanking them for playing. I walk up to someone familiar, it's Neto. Keeper of Bournemouth, he used to play at Barcelona. He smiles at me, giving me a quick hug as we chat for a bit.

We bid each other goodbye as we retreat back into the locker room. The guys talking about the game. "Dr. y/n? Why do you know everyone?" I flicker my eyes to Andy. A smile on my lips, pretending to think. "Because I worked with them and I'm like able?" I joke, he rolls his eyes before speaking again. "Of course, yeah-"

I change the topic. I look around cheekily, before whispering. "In no way was that a red right?"

He glances at me nodding, but placing finger on his lips as if to not talk right now. I laugh at his mannerisms. The guys walk into the locker rooms, changing and freshening up.

I grab my bag, walking out to the parking garage. Seeing the teams buses still there, as I see the wives and girlfriends of the guys wait in front of their cars. I give them a warm smile, which they return before I start walking towards my car parked all the way in the back. 

I open my trunk placing my heavy bag there before walking back to my drivers door. I'm about to step in until I'm stopped by someone poking at my back. I turn around, my face clad with confusion. It's a older guy dressed in a Bournemouth shirt, how the hell did he get in here?

He glances at my shirt noticing the Liverpool F.C. logo. "Oh so you work for them?" He says in a menacing tone. I don't answer his question. "Sir, you shouldn't be in here. I'm going to ask you to leave before I get security involved." I say sternly, trying to choose my words carefully to not piss him off. He places a hand on my shoulder creepily caressing my throat with is fingertips. "Come on pretty lady, let me get some compensation for losing." My brows raise at his words, glancing for anyone else in the garage. Fuck, why did I park all the way here?

His hands travel to my face as he holds onto my jaw. I freeze in fear, what the hell do I do?

"Come on, let's just have some fun hm." My breath hitches as his hands start to travel down. I'm practically shaking in fear at this point. I do the only thing I can think of: bite. I lunge at his arm, biting it as hard as I can.

The man loudly yells a string of cuss words before raising his hand and planting a harsh slap on my face. His ring cutting my flesh. I flinch as he raises his hand again closing my eyes. I'm waiting for the impact but it never comes, instead hearing some shuffling and multiple cuss words.

I peer out of my closed eyes, being greeted by an insane sight. It's Virgil, holding onto the man while he's practically sitting on him. I can't help but freeze and stare at them. Hearing Virgil cuss at him. "You piece of shit. How dare you get in here let alone harass someone?" He yells for security quickly as the man is hoisted up by them. Virgil explains the situation quickly before he looks towards me.

My body is trembling slightly from shock, hissing as the cut on my cheeks stings. He walks up to me, engulfing me in a tight hug. I can't help but let a few tears fall, sobbing into his chest. This had to be one of my worst days ever.

"You're okay, you're okay." He repeats, the garage is silent apart from the small noises of my sobs. He runs his hands along my back trying to soothe me. Muttering reassuring words.

I pull away after some time. Noticing a bloodstain on his shirt. "Your shirt-" "It's fine, let's get you back home hm?" I nod before he stops me from opening the driver's door.

"You shouldn't be driving in this state. Let me take you home?" I look up at him, his chocolate eyes sweet and laced with concern. I nod once more, handing him my keys before walking towards the passengers seat. He follows me around opening my door for me and putting my seat belt on for me. My face flushes a little at the proximity, though I doubt he could see it as my face was already red from crying.

He motions for me to fill my address into the navigation system. Telling me to duck a little as we pass the crowd around the stadium.

It's almost six, the streets a little calmer as we continue driving to my home. "What did you think of the match? Did you like it? It was better than watching a Barcelona game, right?" He jokes with a smirk on his lips, probably trying to distract me from what just happened. "It was good yeah, though, I'll have to see some more games before I give my opinion on that." I chuckle.

We arrive at my home after thirty minutes of driving, the faint sounds of the radio calming me down. We get out of my car as he offers to take me upstairs, I accept solely, so I can get up safe.

We get to my front door as I rummage through my bag fishing my keys out of it. Opening the door inviting him in for some tea, it's the least I could do after he got me out of that situation. He accepts, I guide him into my living room, telling him to be comfortable.

I go into the kitchen after discarding my bag in my room. Turning on the the kettle. I walk back into my living room, joining him on the couch.

"Your house is nice, I love the view." He says gazing out of my windows. I chuckle, his house is probably ten times the size of mine. "Thank you. I was stressing about the interior but I think it ended up looking great." I beam, lifting my hand to lean my head on it, though I flinch at a painful feeling on my face. Shit, I forgot about the cut on my cheek. I pull my hand away from my face, my hand now covered with dried blood bits.

"Oh you should get that treated before- hold on let me-" He leans forward, placing a hand on my jaw, tilting his head to get a better look at the cut. His hands are a little cold, making the hairs on my body stand up.

"You have a first aid kit right?" I nod, his hand still on my jaw. "It's in the bathroom-" I stand up to walk into the bathroom, realizing he's following me there. We get to the bathroom, I tiptoe to reach the cabinet above my head, snatching it after jumping up slightly. I can hear him chuckle right behind me.

I turn around, his tall frame towering over me. I clear my throat before waving the first aid kit in front of his face. "Got it!"

I place it down on the counter rummaging through it for gauze and antiseptic cream. He stops me, grabbing the gauze out of my hand, his finger tips grazing my palm. "I'll do it- let me-" He gently hoists me up by my waist, placing me on the bathroom counter carefully. I fight the way my jaw almost slacks open due to shock. Looking away immediately. If he was someone else I would've yelled, but I didn't mind whatever this was.

He cleans my cut, carefully applying the gauze and bandage on my face while holding onto my jaw gently. I glance at him, his face close to mine. My eyes travel down his side profile, his eyes are focused on my cheek. His eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones and his soft breaths on my face putting me in a daze. My eyes fluttering shut from relaxation and exhaustion of the day.

"It's done." He says a while later, my tired eye's snapping open again. "Thank you." I mumble my voice tired. He reaches up to remove a strand of hair stuck to the bandage on my cheek, chuckling as he studies my face. "You must be tired. You should go to bed after I leave." I nod, my sight a little blurry as I try to blink away the sleep.

I get off of the counter, leading him into the kitchen. He protests saying I should just go to bed instead of offering him tea. I refuse, he had to at least drink a cup, just, so I could show him my appreciation.

I slide the freshly steeped cup of tea towards him.  Walking around to sit with him at the kitchen counter.

"You're okay right? I'm sure you're still shaken up." He asks softly after taking a sip of his tea. I glance up at him from my cup, a tranquil expression on my face. "I'm fine, it wasn't totally horrible thanks to you." I say. "Still you must've been scared. I'm so sorry on behalf of the club, I mean it was your first game day you should've had an amazing time. I would also advise you to press charges, I mean we have cameras to prove it." He suggests in a soft tone.

"Virg, it's fine, I'm fine. The guy was probably drunk. Let's just forget about it, thats probably for the better." His nickname slips past my lips easily, like I had been using it the entire time. He studies my face for a moment. "Okay I'll drop it if that's what you want." 

A comfortable silence settles between us, as we sip away at our tea. "I should go, it's getting late and I need to rest for tomorrow." He says. I raise a brow, "You're taking a taxi back home?" He nods. I stand up following him out. He gives me a hug, turning around to step out as I wave at him.

I close my door, leaning against it. Sighing as I take in the days events.

I yawn, taking a sip of my coffee, greeting Clara at the front desk with a long hug. "What's up with you? You look like you haven't slept." I pull away from her giving her a look. "Thank you for the compliment." I smile sarcastically, giving her a sickly sweet smile. "Come on, you know what I mean." She insists.

"I just haven't been sleeping properly since that incident happened. I don't know I just feel weird being home alone." I confess. I had told her everything that had happened that day, she literally became my work best friend in two weeks.

I had been totally focused on working the last few days, trying to get my mind off of everything that happened last Saturday. I had a few interactions with Virgil. I couldn't help but feel a little awkward around him after he left my house, something in my heart wanting to keep a distance. I don't feel fully comfortable with getting close to a man right now, not after a horrible break up.

Clara pulls me closer to her for another hug, running her hands up and down my arm comfortingly. "You'll be fine I promise." We share some more words before we're interrupted by the players walking in, giving us weird looks at the way we are hugging.

"You girls dating or something?" We hear someone yell in a Scouser accent. We pull away from our hug, turning to see Curtis and Harvey.

I roll my eyes at his comment deciding to play along. "No, just got married actually." I give him a  sarcastic smile. Curtis and me just had to bicker with each other at least once a day.

I check the time turning back to the guys. "You guys should go, before your bank account is harmed." I tease, referring to the late fines.

They check the time, their eyes widening before they bolt towards the locker room. Clara and me sharing a laugh at their surprise.

#virgil van dijk fanfiction #virgilvandijkimagines #Virgil van dijk #virgilvandijk #van dijk #liverpoolfc #football #football fanfic #football imagines #liverpoolimagines #liverpool fanfic #virgil van dijk x reader #virgil x reader #footballer x reader

[penrose-quinn]

Green Light | Part Ten

“You’re not bad,” Izana told him, a mutter at first as if the sentiment was so delicate and important, but he didn’t bury it in his chest anymore that it gleamed in his gaze, looking up to him. 

“You’re my big brother. Of course, you’re not bad.”

Shinichiro should’ve corrected him. He’s only half his age. He didn’t know what he was doing, though he’d learn that most adults didn’t either and he just didn’t want to screw up so much for his words to no longer matter.

pairing: shinichiro sano/gn!reader

content tags: childhood friends. angst and hurt/comfort. slice of life ft. gangs. idiots to lovers. old friends trying to reconnect but are being dumbasses about it. they don't deserve the friends to lovers tag because they're stupid and pining. my sad attempt at writing shinichiro’s backstory. implied infidelity. implied death of a relative. underage smoking and other reckless shit kids shouldn’t do. tokrev manga spoilers.

a/n: happy belated birthday, shin! just gonna remind everyone that we start with his backstory at 17 years old and onwards to the present. this chapter and the next one are special to me, poured all my heart and soul and tears into every word just for this guy, so i very much appreciate every like/reblog/comment this receives!  

m.list ❁ read on ao3

Shinichiro trudged back home late with a tired grimace.

On another day, he'd think he's lucky because his grandfather – who had zero tolerance over a sink stacked high with grimy dishes – was asleep, though he's still a bit injured after a recent fight. Don't I get a break from this?

Manjiro and Emma were watching cartoons in the living room after hauling out a bunch of VHS tapes stored in the TV cabinet. Their third watch was a Ghibli film and it'd probably be their last when it's late in the night.  

Raising his voice a bit, he asked one of them to come over and clear out the crockery from the dish rack. This, however, set off an argument between them that his request went ignored and he had to remind them about it again when he finally padded in the room with a sigh.

Emma piped up that she already did the first batch of dishes this morning while complaining about how Manjiro neglected his chores today, which had him cross his arms adamantly, excusing himself that he'd been occupied with karate training.

He was caught in the lie when she ratted on him that he actually snuck out to meet-up with Keisuke and Haruchiyo. He didn’t speak up to defend himself this time, acting all huffy and disgruntled, cheeks puffed up from the accusation. 

Then Shinichiro cleared his throat, voice pitched low and stern. "Well, Manjiro . . ."  

"Whatever. I'm not watching with you anymore."

"Fine," shot back Emma, pressing play on the remote.

Before Shinichiro could mediate between them, Manjiro slid off the couch and made a beeline to the kitchen sink. True to his word, he went to bed sooner.

After washing the dishes and wiping the counter spotless, Shinichiro joined Emma a little later on. He already knew how it ended before the credits rolled.

A part of him was bothered after belatedly realizing that the movie was too mature for her, even though he’d been close to her age when he first watched it himself; curious, confused, and a bit horrified but morose to all of these hideous concepts about war and loss, death and desolate youth, the poverty of children.

Siblings striving, he thought. From the brutality of a world no different from what he had seen and would rather keep her safe from. 

His little sister was brave, though.

Shinichiro often wondered whoever taught her to be, sitting through the film as if she understood what had happened in it anyway. He likened the quiet between them to something almost forlorn before moving on from the sentiment and stating that it was a really sad story.

Emma blinked at him, slow and drowsy, misty-eyed. He didn't ask her if she cried.

Ever since one of the kids from the dojo called her a crybaby, she'd clench herself and refuse to acknowledge her tears. She felt more inclined to do this after Manjiro scared off the boy. This didn’t register to his brother yet, even when his honest intentions were to protect her. Shinichiro didn't want anyone to hurt. He didn’t want her to cry, but he told her that it's okay to let it out. We need to cry, sometimes.

Still, he had to be delicate with her. His mother always reminded him to be more sensitive to girls. He didn't tease her, though he did confess that he bawled from a scene – see, it's the one where all the fireflies died and she had to bury them – and when Emma asked why, he said he forgot the reason, just that he could still recall his emotions so vividly.

Grave of the Fireflies wasn’t even one of his favorites and a lot of it didn't make much sense to him at the time, but he sobbed so much that day, grieving before he could understand what would be lost to him.

Emma listened, but she didn't comment after that. Then her nose wrinkled at the damp spot on his shirt; his sloppiness. He lazily waved it off. Eyes poring over his arm, she asked him if she could doodle on his plasters and he would’ve said yes though she let out a yawn, making him recall that it's time he got her ready for bed.

Teeth brushed and frocked into her cotton pajamas, she was tucked in her covers. Before Shinichiro closed the door of her room, he overheard her murmur longingly for her big brother that he knew was neither addressed to Manjiro nor him.

When Emma hadn't eased up to him yet, she told him that she already had Izana and that he'd never replace him.

When Shinichiro asked her why he wasn’t with her, he didn’t expect that his words would unintentionally hurt her feelings, and you shook your head in disapproval when he recounted the tale after he begged you to talk to her instead. C’mon. Just help me out, please?

You did, and you still would when you explained to him how adoptions worked, all that complicated, jargony stuff.

Then you asked him what was all of this for. The better question was for who.

On his next visit, Izana got himself a nice guitar. Someone lent it to him, but he didn't elaborate more about that or the scratch on its side when he began playing him a verse of Sweet Child O' Mine. He sulked a bit, deeming his attempt amateur, though Shinichiro assured him that he recognized the song – from heart, he’d even proclaim with a pat to his chest, and Izana always knew but he’d still roll his eyes – and he improved by a mile, knowing he'd been self-taught from his letters.

Shinichiro could barely even pull off the basic chords, believing the F chord actually stood for Fucking Hard in English. Izana agreed but he told him that he should just practice and quit messing up the tuners.

Shinichiro hadn’t mastered playing the guitar months later. Even so, Izana would approach him, asking if he could teach him how to ride a motorcycle. He’d rather teach him how to talk to girls, though he still guided him through the clutch, the throttle and brake, the steering for a bike to roll smoothly, but he wouldn’t actually let him drive until Izana would rush ahead and do it by himself at thirteen.

Shinichiro was there in all of Manjiro and Emma’s milestones. He wanted to be there for Izana’s too.

Ueno Park almost felt bare on July.   

Perhaps, there was melancholy in prolonged misplacement.

That there weren’t any cherry blossoms abloom in the park and his mother wouldn't be celebrating Hanami next spring.

His immersion of the surroundings seemed to change after a long stroll to Hanazono Inari Shrine, bedecked with torii gates that couldn't grant wishes, carmine stippled with green shadows overhead. The heat swayed with the trees that it could make a bug curl under a rock and nestle itself there with dreams of the coming season. There’s a zoo nearby, though Izana would rather glance at the fishes from the pond. A smile bent his lips when the fat, red-bellied carps swam under his feet once he fed them morsels of his taiyaki. One of them jokingly brought up cannibalism or if carp liked sweets as much as people do.

His mother would probably say something as absurd, like that time she claimed she was his best friend on this same bridge, a sprig of transient flowers clutched between her fingers. Manjiro was two, but he wouldn’t have memories of her outside the hospital as much as he did. Shinichiro wasn’t sure what kind of child he would be without his mother always holding his hand, though he still threw a fit that what she insisted was downright embarrassing.

Shinichiro reflected over her words, if she had only told him that so he wouldn’t feel as lonesome as she did.

It made him wonder if it was inherited. If Izana had it too, averting his eyes after lingering for too long at the crowd from the distance, couples with strollers and children with parents. 

Parks were spaces meant for big, normal families. The shape of which had been hollowed out of them, and through each other’s pensive gaps, Shinichiro just knew he had to take him anywhere but here.  

They spent most of the time around the city, going to a corner store where he bought himself a pack of smokes without being asked for an ID; to Okubo-Dori and had Korean corn dogs slathered with too much mustard and sugar; to JB’s Music Store, owned by an Aussie who wore John Lennon tea shades everyday. You tipped him about it because this was the place where you usually purchased CD albums at a cheaper price, though this wasn’t where he got Izana’s Walkman. It’s secondhand, but one could never go wrong finding the best kind in Akihabara.

The both of them gawked at 70s band posters and memorabilia, listening to some random, garbling song by Led Zeppelin, then T. Rex, The Doors, Kiss, Queen. Izana had quick hands when he stuffed a cassette tape inside his hoodie, though the owner had sharper eyes beneath those pitch-black shades and chased them out of the store, making them scram three blocks ahead like their lives depended on it.

Shinichiro would’ve paid the man if he wasn’t low on cash today. He still reprimanded Izana for stealing, panting shallow breaths that gradually heaved out a wild laugh, because the cassette tape was worth the trouble when he eyed the track listings, a collection of the all-time greatest rock hits.

You’re insane. Don’t ever lose it, Shinichiro told him, tousling his hair. Izana didn’t have much back at the orphanage anyway, and there’s really something alive in his eyes that warmed his chest.

They wandered around graffiti walls and railroad ways, neon-signed establishments, scraps of Tokyoite urbanity that smoldered at dusk. There’s the arcade near the pachinko parlor, and there’s the oceanside park at the edge of the city, where the sand stretched for miles that their footprints had been lost to the sea, to the smoke and asphalt on the highway towards the horizon.

There’s a lot of places his brother still hadn’t known yet and some could span far and wide as long as the road could take them together.

Izana didn't like to talk about his mother so he pondered over the father that he never had the chance to know. Or perhaps, was fortunate enough to have never known more about because that meant his father could be anyone; someone who could've been the pillar of his life; someone who he would be proud of being called as his father's son.

"You and Emma have the same father," recalled Izana. "What's he like?"

"He worked hard. When he was around, we watched TV sometimes. Hm, he’d get me out of trouble when Grandpa's about to give me an earful. Always had an excuse," Shinichiro let out a clipped chuckle, then stopped, blank and bleak, when he recounted that his father didn’t discipline him as much as Takeomi’s did and maybe that’s the case because he’s almost never home.

He wondered if fathers were lost creatures. Or if his had only gone astray.

Shinichiro grinned roguishly. “Look at how I turned out to be.”

“You’re not bad,” Izana told him, a mutter at first as if the sentiment was so delicate and important, but he didn’t bury it in his chest anymore that it gleamed in his gaze, looking up to him. “You’re my big brother. Of course, you’re not bad.”

Shinichiro should’ve corrected him. He’s only half his age. He didn’t know what he was doing, though he’d learn that most adults didn’t either and he just didn’t want to screw up so much for his words to no longer matter, blooming with something like love and fond admiration.

He hoped to cradle them forever, reminded of the same, fulgent feeling from years ago when Manjiro had first babbled his name and the world around him changed ever since, brighter.

There was a time Izana made a strange promise that he'd break the leg of the guy who got him hospitalized someday, which ought to be raising his concern with how little it sounded like a joke. Shinichiro wrote to him that he reminded him of Manjiro for that and what he drew out of it was a stranger reply. He’s serious apparently, though no word on the comparison.

Even if Shinichiro recounted about Emma getting along with Manjiro in his letters, Izana would dismiss him in favor of his sister. Oftentimes, he wouldn’t acknowledge them together at all.

He penned back that he should stop getting into brawls so much, recollecting how he had to rewrap the bandage on his ankle in his last visit. It’s one thing to fight in self-defense, and another to rampantly commit violence.

His lenience would then provide him that he was only defending a friend. The name kept eluding him.

He searched for one, but his eyes found conviction in a sentence instead.

I just want to be more like you.

Shinichiro almost read that in Manjiro’s voice, but he knew better than to mention it.

At sixteen, Shinichiro thought his biggest hurdle was approaching his grandfather into adopting Izana in the same vein he attempted talking the caretaker to just let him adopt him because they were related anyway—so what if he was still in high school? A delinquent? He led the Black Dragons a year younger and raised his siblings when he’s barely even a teenager.

You’d refute him that he’d only stop being a child at eighteen and would legally be an adult by twenty. Besides, his grandfather was at a certain age wherein he shouldn’t be taking care of another kid anymore. Then you would nag him about the process, the long duration, the qualifications of a guardian. The statistics were slim. There’s a reason why adoptions were so rare and difficult.

At seventeen, he had to accept that the truth was harder to swallow.

Did you ever look back and think why his mother didn’t abandon him with his little sister in your house?

Shinichiro stopped wondering how he could keep a terrible secret for over a year when he'd already been good at keeping them far longer, just so his mother's smile would endure. Izana deserved a kinder life.

They could’ve been listening to records in the vinyl shop downtown or marveling at fiery zelkovas on the route to Omotesando.

But they’re out here lounging around a deserted basketball court, chain-wire fence on their backs, squatted under the late-autumn sun.

"All this legal stuff is stupid. I wish you never had to wait." Shinichiro sighed. "I wish I could bring you home."

Izana was so quiet. His breaths were even, muffled in the wool of his scarf, though he couldn’t seem to scream out his disappointment; he stared. The distance was indistinct, almost leaving no trail but the despair in his eyes. Shinichiro couldn’t help but feel as if he let go of his hand in a crowd, making him crumple down to his knees.

"You,” murmured Izana. Then he glanced back at him, searching. Shinichiro had seen something like this before, so long ago. “You'll come back for me anyway, right?"

"Always," Shinichiro promised, ruffling his hair to shake him off it, as if to gently remind him he’s still here. "But you won't feel too lonely at the orphanage, will you?"

His shoulders trembled; his arms taut around his knees for something else to cling on because Izana looked like he’d been through it a hundred times, and Shinichiro reached, anchored him by the arm, though he couldn’t offer any more consolation than this. 

"Kakucho will," Izana realized wistfully, "if I just leave . . ."

"You won't leave him then." Shinichiro smiled, but the corners of his mouth ached. "'Cause you're a good friend."

His eyebrows pinched. "Kakucho's my servant."

Ah. His brother had to work on that.

"Okay. He's your friend," Shinichiro told him this as if he hadn't heard him, provoking a peeved reaction. He just reached forward and pulled at his cheeks to tug up his frown. "Jeez, who calls his friend a servant? You're so weird."

"You're so annoying, Shin," Izana countered defensively, twisting his face away from his hands. "You're the worst!"

Even after the both of them ended up jostling each other in a stutter of soft, exasperated laughter, Shinichiro knew that he really was.

Shinichiro was doing homework.

The book you chose was one of the older copies in your small collection. He's not good at deciphering stuff like this, finding himself not reading the prose but the history: indentions, lignin on paper edges, cracks on the spine like faults or broken lightning.

In Akutagawa's Life of a Stupid Man, you went on about how Death and Illness had two entries each that shared the same title. Perhaps, the meaning should be telling to both the author and the reader, though he couldn't help but be more invested on the singularity of his third entry, The House, highlighted with a faded, broad stroke of neon green as if to scream the passage in an adolescent voice:

He often wondered, in that suburban second story, if people who loved each had to cause each other pain.

Shinichiro ended up copying and paraphrasing your essay when you lent it to him with a shrug.

Sometimes, he pondered if you were the one that highlighted that sentence when the book, like the rest, had belonged to your big brother once.

The truth was he didn't know what to feel about his father.

Shinichiro wondered how could someone hurt another when they weren’t there anymore, and in some despondent way, he understood you a little better.

His father left him a house. His grandfather was too old and his brother was too young. He forgot that he was a child on the day he began to carry the roof of the household on his shoulders, make a pillar out of the boy, tall as ten years and growing.

His mother wept for him that time, spilling soup on the edge of her hospice bed, and he picked up the lacquer bowl as if to salvage something in the remains. There’s a dent on the lip of the bowl that he wouldn’t acknowledge, forcing a smile for the cracks not to show. He told her he’d be strong for all of them. Her tears still kept falling.

You called him unbreakable once. He often wondered if it was true.

The train was slow and swift at the same time when you're standing in the middle, hands clutching on the grab handle above you as if in white-knuckled prayer, but your face was passive, not peaceful. You were gazing at the window behind him and Shinichiro saw the setting sun reflect back in your eyes.

The stop to Meidaimae, then passengers flowing in and out once the doors opened; one of them was the old lady who sat next to him, wading through the crowd with a trolley bag full of canned goods. He still had the Pancan she meant to give to you on his hand.

"Can you sit with me?" Shinichiro asked.

It's just that you looked more content where you were, but it's like staring at a painting for too long and after you acquiesced, he's painfully aware of the distance between both of your shoulders lately, if the gap between them could measure to a fracture.

He defied the sentiment, deciding to rest his head on your shoulder, even though he wasn't tired. He was still heavy, so heavy these days, but he knew you – you were strong, safe in every single way no one understood you for.

You didn't groan out that he should get off you as he clasped to your warmth, hanging himself to the neckline of your sweater in a mutter, "what do you think about Izana?"

You shifted a bit. "I don't know. Fond of you, I guess."

There's a part of him that wanted to convince you that he's a good kid, a terribly lonely kid, but he needed to know your opinion of him first before imparting everything else.

"Is he really your little brother?"

"He is," it's not a lie.

"Then he is," you repeated. "He doesn't act like one, though."

"What do you mean?"

"He acts more like he's your only brother."

"He just hasn't met Manjiro yet." Shinichiro paused. Suddenly, everything mattered and the confidence of his previous statement wavered from a low, sullen, "do you think they'll get along?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

Because he tried.

Stop talking about Manjiro.

When he couldn’t provide a clear answer, you did it for him, even though he’d probably dislike what it was.

“They’ll fight,” you sounded more somber and profound than you should. “Siblings always fight.”

Shinichiro remembered how you shed blood and tears in Chiba; the open wounds of your eyes, a wound for years.

“But you’ll know how to stop them. That’s actually one of your least annoying traits.”

“Then what’s my most annoying trait?”

“When you’re like this.”

A sigh rolled off your lips, and he held a breath as if to snatch the air between them.

"I can't help you when you're like this, Shin," you reminded him, exasperated and resigned and tender, but even when your sentences weren't knife-edged, he felt like he'd bleed from the truth regardless. "You can't just keep hiding things to yourself, you know that?"

"I know," Shinichiro murmured pensively. But you wouldn’t understand . . .

Maybe, he shouldn’t have made promises he couldn’t keep. Maybe, he should’ve let Izana and Emma meet earlier, but would it have made a difference if it wound up towards the same conclusion? Would he hate Manjiro? Would they hate each other?

They’ll fight. The words held a tremor of dread and frustration because the truth would be something Izana would hate most of all.

But Izana held so much hope on his throat, and what big brother was he to let it become his noose.

You wouldn’t understand.

The next two stops should be closer to your place and he counted the seconds like how he counted the passing months on a calendar and the snow-capped roofs of houses slanting under the evening sun. February was ending soon. 

"Can you walk me home too?"

You did with a sigh, not even protesting when Shinichiro persuaded you to stay there for awhile, and he's almost tempted to ask if you'd do anything for him. The words didn't quite spell out as he silently hoped when the both of you ended up bumming on a cigarette in the garden, coalesced over a waft of fragrant incense his grandfather lit from the house. He mentioned to you that Manjiro didn’t know how to properly pray to the butsudan and you shrugged because you never had a reason to pray either, offering smoke to no one but him.

He could've been more honest that night, though he didn't want to tell you that he's afraid he didn't know how long he could still have you like this.

A year after you left for Nagoya, Shinichiro told Takeomi about Izana.

You’re just trying to protect them, was his only reassurance.

Shinichiro wished he could do better at it. Months from now, it wouldn’t be enough.

It's like you have a little sister, Shinichiro announced on the day he first held a baby in his arms; a privilege, perhaps, that he should've reserved for Manjiro but he didn't know he'd have a little brother yet, and you furrowed your brows, denying his statement. No, Keiko's my niece.

You would repeat it whenever you were tasked to watch over her from the crib because your sister was grinding away in her second part-time job during the weekends.

Shinichiro hung around with you till his curfew. In fact, he had so much free time that he could play hide-and-seek at home by himself and still get bored for years while responsibility was thrust upon you earlier for him to misinterpret your petulant unwillingness for disaffection.

You scowled over changing diapers and looked like you're about to collapse into tears the moment you heard a piercing, infantile cry, though you would always know when Keiko was hungry. Permit her to grip your glasses like a toy when she's saddled on the hook of your arm, a hand rubbing her back. You're the same with your nephew too, a little boy named Yoichi, sucking his thumb when he followed you around everywhere.

Whenever Shinichiro saw this different side of you something inside him unfurled, about what it's like to hum some soft, lilting lullaby to put one to sleep or to grasp a toddler's hand, crossing the pedestrian lane.

What's it like to hear a baby burp out a laugh? You told him it was the weirdest sound Keiko ever made, revealing a warm liveliness to you behind the humor and a pang of jealousy in his grin.

Then Takeomi had Haruchiyo, and the feeling carved through him. 

Shinichiro didn't have anything like that. He didn't think he would want something so much until his mother rested a hand over her womb and then he called you over the phone, so overjoyed that he yelled at the top of his lungs that he's going to be a—

“Can I see you?”

“I can't exactly come back to Tokyo.”

“No, I'll come over to you.”

“Right now? Really?”

“Yeah . . .”

“All right. Hey, Shin,” a soft, concerned pause. “Did something happen—” Are you okay?

Shinichiro pretended to not hear you, pressing end call after lingering for a second.

Taking the bullet train to Nagoya hadn't really been the most impulsive thing Shinichiro had ever committed, and despite it being the most expensive ride he’d ever spent, he still got cold feet from meeting you.

A part of him was hollow, an ache between the space in his bones. It’s like he’s missing a rib, curved along your smile from the window of the café, a sigh ghosting through the glass as if to make the sentiment apparent in the longing. How it wasn’t the same without each other’s presence anymore.

You didn't appear like you changed all that much yet. He no longer wondered if he did.

Shinichiro asked for directions, burned the soles of his shoes across the city to find you, and once he did, he lost the half of him that you might’ve loved. Where did all of his courage go? Why did it feel selfish to barge back into your life and believe everything would be as it was?

He pulled out his phone and sent you a message that something urgent came up. I’m sorry.

In a way it kind of was.

Fearing the thought that it’s there in Nagoya; your resolve of wanting to search for yourself in a world without him.

Shinichiro dismissed it entirely as he bolted into a sprint, running through where he went wrong when Izana was thrown in juvie, and Manjiro scarred Haruchiyo, and he didn't really know where he hurtled himself into when the descent felt more real and harrowing than anything, spewing his guts out on the pavement from some alleyway.

It was Takeomi who found him and brought him home that night, half pitying and half responsible for him.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” he told him this as if he’s been living in it, and Shinichiro wanted to ask if he’s okay.

But Takeomi would probably brush it off, something about having to prove he’s tougher than this, and he shouldered the weight of him, even if he did look brittle himself. He’s unshaven too. The both of them used to joke about stuff like that, growing beards and pubic hair.

“Something like that,” offered Shinichiro, thinking maybe they could meet somewhere in the anguish. “Hey, I really missed you.”

There’s a stiffness to his shoulders. Sometimes, affection to Takeomi was a scar, callousing a little more over time, and he didn’t say the words but it’s still there, on the firm grip of his hand. The silence between them was scuffed with footfalls, like coming out of a war again. He never had to do it with blood or bravado, though he only had to be the boy he remembered from a lifetime ago.

“Please don't let Manjiro and Emma see me like this.”

Shinichiro figured he'd understand, ignoring the kaleidoscope of wicked, blinding lights from Kabukicho, the scent of tobacco and another woman's perfume on his best friend’s clothes like his father's . . .

If someone were to ask him about his father, Shinichiro would always tell you that he couldn’t recall much of his face. There were photo albums and picture frames on the walls, but somehow, all he saw was a stranger. Then he’d glance on the mirror and trace out the lie.

All the unlikely bright spots of his memory resurfacing, like the fresh smarting of a bruise.

How his father compensated by giving him that Nintendo console he'd been begging his parents to buy for him on his eighth birthday; how he smoked more than his grandfather, but unlike him, he's mindful enough to tamp his cigarette under the heel of his shoe when Shinichiro was around him; how he loved him very much, perhaps in all the poignant ways absent fathers could for their children that he had to wonder for the longest time why his father couldn't return all of this love to his mother.

Shinichiro had contemplated about it for a decade and locked it so close to his chest that it had long since lost a voice from every secret he had kept for him.

He just didn't want anyone to hurt – never again.

Shinichiro wasn’t alone in his room.

Manjiro had been playing his Gameboy.

Shinichiro was a little disoriented, a little ready to reproach him to not play games all day, though once he stirred from the bed, he woke feverish with a cooling pad plastered on his forehead. Swaddled in his comforter, his body ached and shuddered; throat parched.

Manjiro was attentive beside him, putting down the Gameboy and reaching him a sweaty glass of water. The condensation trickled along the line of his wrist, but it's nice and cold on the pads of his fingers, tilting up the glass to his mouth. His mind was still muddled. 

“Grandpa called Yoneda-jiji that you were sick today.” Then Manjiro pointed at the plastic container from his nightstand; warm clumps of onigiri inside. “Emma made you those. Sorry, I ate one,” he added, flicking the grain of rice on his t-shirt.

The hem tag at the back of his collar poked out. It’s thoughtlessly childish, endearing really, and Shinichiro was about to mention it until Manjiro spoke for Emma’s behalf. “She wanted to stay behind too, but I told her that she should go to school.”

Then Shinichiro craned his head at him. Cleared his throat again. “Why aren’t you in school?”

There’s resolution in his dark eyes. 

“I’m gonna take care of you.”

“I’m fine. Don’t skip school, dummy,” dismissed Shinichiro, but he didn’t mean to sound mildly annoyed about it. He wasn't exactly the model of good health, but his body had endured the worst so he searched for all the cuts and scabs that weren’t there because he never had a fever since he was about his brother’s age and he'd rather be annoyed than admit how much he felt like a burden. 

Manjiro was unyielding in his concern. “Promise me you’ll get better first,” he demanded with a clench to his fist, like he’s looking for a fight. “Then I’ll go back tomorrow.”

Shinichiro just tucked the hem tag back inside his t-shirt and gave him a pat on the head, his hair soft and unkempt under his hand, seeking comfort. Gentleness wasn't new to Manjiro, but it's a language he struggled at conveying so he dropped his gaze, uncertain and a bit lost.

There's a heaviness to his eyes that made him slouch on the bed and the both of them were reminiscing of a simpler, more vulnerable time. 

"You never get sick," Manjiro told him with an edge to his voice that's close to trembling. "You just never do, Shinichiro." 

Shinichiro sighed under his breath. “I’ll be okay, all right? I’ll be better.”

His throat ached. He sounded so much like their mother. 

Shinichiro didn't quite realize how his reticence could hurt his brother when the both of them knew that there's something profoundly wrong. 

They really were related. They're Sanos. Awful with words, awful with feelings; a shared helplessness. 

Manjiro feared the weakness of it more than Shinichiro had withstood for all his life, but he didn't mind. He could learn from his big brother's failures, know when to not step on the cracks from his path, rise up again if he did so that the fall wouldn't wound him as much.

Manjiro could even kill a person right now and Shinichiro would still do anything for him. He'd do the same for Izana. 

Terrible and twisted, his brothers, but Shinichiro loved them anyway. Emma and Grandpa did too. 

They're all what's left. 

They're a family. 

Later in the afternoon, Shinichiro would be faced with dishes on the sink with a stab of betrayal, and be bombarded with errands from his job tomorrow, and be attending Manjiro and Emma's PTA meetings right after work. He still had to make amends with Nitta-san for Manjiro's aggression towards her son. There's so much laundry to do . . . 

But then he’d also recall how Emma beamed when he complimented her that her onigiri was perfect after laboring on it for hours just to get the shape and taste right; her fingers slightly burned from a clumsy attempt at molding hot rice. Manjiro was the one who suggested grilled salmon flakes as a filling because he knew it’s his favorite and dashed towards the grocery store to buy the ingredients himself.

His grandfather was always the stoic one. He'd scold him a lot, but they never argued and no one had the real temper to combust. Nothing was deeper; every response was delayed and every conversation was either terse, ruminating ones or complete silence like in Mokuso. Even in the kitchen table where they sat together for years, he brought the austerity of the dojo with him.

Shinichiro wouldn’t inherit the family dojo. He had no interest in pursuing martial arts. Had other plans.

His grandfather asked if he was doing well anyway, and Shinichiro was close to saying that he's sorry for being a disappointment but he bit it off at the last second before telling him that he was good.

That's good. He nodded and nothing much else.

Perhaps, Shinichiro could never get more from this, but it's all right. They would drink tea in silence and fall back to the same, mundane talks in circles until he turned twenty, not feeling older than he should, because he was still his grandfather and he was still his grandson. It was good.

Exposition corner:

[1] “his father's son”: a reference to the names of Shinichiro and his father, Makoto, from the Sano Family Tree; Makoto [真] and Shinichiro [真一郎], [真] being the kanji for ‘truth’ or ‘sincerity’ and [一郎] for ‘first son.’ Another reading of [真一郎] could be Makoto’s First Son. Full credits to Yoko for this one! If you see this, you my friend are amazing for picking this up!

[2] Hanami: The Japanese traditional custom of viewing cherry blossoms when they are in full bloom, usually accompanied with family and/or friends. On the topic of Hanami, Ueno Park is popularly known as one of the best cherry blossom viewing spots in Tokyo.

[3] "[...] torii gates that couldn't grant wishes”: Shinichiro was referencing the Fushimi Inari Shrine from Kyoto, in which the Senbon Torii there are believed to grant wishes.

[4] “[…] he’d only stop being a child at eighteen and would legally be an adult by twenty”: According to the Child Welfare Law, a person under 18 is considered a child while under the Civil Law Act, the age of adulthood is 20 in Japan. In context of the story, Izana could leave the orphanage when he’s 18. If Shinichiro wanted to adopt Izana, he would have to be 20 because he wouldn’t be considered an adult if he’s still 18-19. Sadly, even if he was already an adult, adoption in Japan is a whole can of worms. It is rare and difficult. It’s known that orphans are likely to grow and move out from their orphanages than to be adopted.  

[5] Life of a Stupid Man: It’s an autobiographical short story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa. It’s his last written work before he committed suicide right after. 

[6] House: In Japanese, [家] translates to ‘house’, but it could also mean family, household, and family’s lineage. Hell, Family [家族] is one part a character for the term. I don’t want to bore anyone with the subtle distinctions between [いえ] and [うち], but my main point is ‘house’ carries the same weight as ‘family’ to Shinichiro specifically. If I were writing this in Japanese, this would’ve made more sense, but I’m just playing with my words in English (^_^)

[7] Butsudan: It is a shrine commonly found in temples and homes in Japanese Buddhist cultures. Its primary use is for paying respects to the Buddha, as well as to family members who have died.

[8] Mokuso: It is a type of martial arts meditation practiced in Japanese martial arts like Karate and Kendo.

a massive shoutout to ObsidianMoonstones's Tone of Things to Come and As long as I’m dreaming, I’m alive – they told me the dead don’t dream. his characterization of izana is the best i've ever come across in any site. heck, how he writes izana is my main source of inspiration! i highly recommend everyone to check out his works!!

a/n: next chapter is the second part of his backstory so we're still going to suffer a bit. sorry, if it feels a bit incomplete for now, but i swear if i didn't cut this in half, all of you wouldn't get the chance to breathe because I'm pretty sure yall know what's coming next :')

part nine ❁ m.list ❁ part eleven 

#shinichiro sano x reader #shinichiro sano x you #shinichiro sano x y/n #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x you #black dragons x reader #black dragons x you #shinichiro sano fluff #shinichiro sano angst #tokyo revengers scenarios #tokyo revengers angst #tokyo revengers #shinichiro sano #izana kurokawa #emma sano #manjiro sano #takeomi akashi #green light #pen writes #finally done!!! #i kept my promise and didn't post this on his death day ;)

[masterwords]

“I’ll do it for you”

Make it hotmontagne. Do it. Please.

Your wish is my command! Now I need more excuses to write them. I've done it, I broke the seal. I'm in it now. (1053 words about Hotch and Will at a cabin. On AO3, if you prefer.)

Want me to write something quick and fluffy for you?

**

Less of a cabin, more of a shack on stilts at first glance. Will's family had owned it for generations, barely used it anymore. It had fallen into a state of disrepair and Will intended to start some renovations during an attempt at a vacation. Neither man was much accustomed to taking time off.

“No one wants to come out here much these days,” he'd said as they hauled their bags inside and Hotch listened to the high-pitched squeal of a mosquito near his ear. The cypress trees wept thick over the water, roots twisting and gnarled along the kudzu drenched banks. A willow draped herself over the place they parked their car, long tendrils fluttering in the gentle warm breeze. “Watch for gators.” Will winked at that and Hotch glared. He knew. He and Jack had been reading about this ecosystem for the last two weeks in preparation for this trip he was taking, and the more he learned, the more he understood why Will's family might choose somewhere else for vacations.

It wasn't the alligators he needed to contend with, though, it was the mosquitoes. They hovered in thick clouds above the still water and swarmed his sweat slicked skin without mercy. He smelled like citronella, so strong is made his stomach ache, which only seemed to incite the anger of the indignant little beasts...they came anyway, and Will sprayed him down again and again to no avail.

“They don't seem to want anything to do with you,” Hotch grumbled, scrunching his nose as he smacked another one and was left with a small spot of blood on his forearm. Hopefully his own, though he doubted it very much. It itched immediately. He wiggled, shimmied his shoulders to stop his shirt from tickling his itchy back. Trying to arch his arm up over his shoulders to reach the spot didn't work, and going from beneath was even worse, each time just barely missing the spot. Watching Will cook, he leaned against the corner of the doorjamb, ramming it between his shoulder blades to cut off the misery at the source. It held momentarily so he could watch Will cook the catfish he'd caught earlier with his bare hands, slicing and seasoning and breading it the way his dad taught him. Without thinking, Hotch began shifting from side to side across the edge like a bear, scratching his miserable spine against the wood.

“Why would they want me when they got you?” Will asked his question without even turning around. His fingers were caked thick with wet, seasoned flour, red and black and white goo dripping into the hot oil behind lumps of the fish. Once the fish was in, hissing and popping in the oil, he washed his hands and set to throwing together their salad.

The cabin smelled like hot peppers and fish while they ate, and the angry bites gave him a brief respite in which to enjoy the fruit of their labor. He had helped find the greens for the salad, but he'd only watched from the shore ankle deep in thick gray muck while Will waded into the water and plunged his arm in at the exact moment to come up with a catfish wrapped around his fist. It's not exactly legal, Will had mentioned as he tossed the now dead fish into their cooler of ice. Not expressly illegal either, Hotch replied with a smirk. The meal was important to Will in ways Hotch could sense in every bite, this was his childhood in a snapshot.

After dinner they set up the outdoor shower, just a hose hooked up to the kitchen sink and run out through the window. Moths fluttered against the porch lights, tiny furry bodies smacking against the bulbs eagerly. Will insisted that showering this way was the best way...the cabin had a very nice indoor shower, a new addition in the last decade or so, but Will was adamant. It was the way he and his cousins showered off after a long day fishing or playing in the mud and climbing trees. While he would have just preferred to be stark naked right there on the groaning deck, he threw a tarp up on some hooks for Hotch's sake, the man's modesty extended even to being in the middle of nowhere with no one around. Afraid the owls are gonna say somethin'? Will had asked, tying up the last corner of the tarp. Hotch frowned and folded his arms over his chest, preferring the chorus of the frogs to Will's ribbing.

“You ready?” Cranking the faucet, Will turned on the sink and listened as the water moved though the old, cracked hose. It was cold, would only get lukewarm at best. Still far too hot outside, even in the black of night, for a hot shower. “It'll take some of that itch outta you.” Hotch shivered under the cold spray, but Will was right. It did quell the irritation.

Washing the sunscreen and citronella off while watching the fireflies dancing was like floating in a weird dream. Nothing he saw made any sense. Up was down, down was up and he was cold on a hot night. Tiny glowing balls flickered on and off, hovering over the water and creating shifting constellations no one would ever have a chance to name on the black surface of the water. Turning his face to the sky, he saw familiar shapes and clusters. Orion loomed over the canopy of trees. He was suddenly very aware of being small and unsteady in this waking dream, but then Will's hands were soaping and swirling over the expanse of his back, up his shoulders and neck, wrapping around him. Warm, wet kisses and low humming sounds joined the song of the night creatures. His pulse quickened as the intensity of the song reached crescendo.

In bed, Hotch struggled to get comfortable. His arms would itch first, then his legs and feet, finally culminating in a creeping sensation up his back. He wiggled against the sheets until Will rolled toward him and nudged him over onto his belly. “I'll do it for you,” he whispered, scratching long lean lines up and down Hotch's spine, gently grazing each miserable mound until he was comfortable enough to fall asleep.

#aaron hotchner #will lamontagne #hotmontagne #hotmontagne time #criminal minds #it finally happened #we have arrived

[m3ntallyillwriter]

Whispered Confessions

Part 1

LIfe is an ocean. 

An ocean of emotions, hatred, disgust, glee, greed that's what I've learned. For me it’s a life of numbness. I have repeated the same thing over and over again every day since I was nine. I wake up, I sit on my knees in front of my grandmother as she prays for it to be another beautiful day. 

She prays for us not to be taken over by the devil with greed as my mother did and when she had me before she was married. Ofcourse, as soon as she had me she was shipped off in an arranged marriage. I took her place I was taught since I could talk about what not to do and how to protect yourself from the devil.

It was either kneeling on rice grains as I continuously repeated a prayer or sobbed the ten commandments as I was slapped on the wrist with a ruler. All i knew was pain, i knew the bible front he back of my hand because if i didn’t hell was to pay.

I listened to the prayers my grandmother spoke over me. It was the same one that she had told me was said by the priest when I was born.

Thank you lord for another day

For you shall banish the beast of the devil and let us rise up in your favor

For shall we put down the ones who disobey and we will see the angel it sprouts.

We give you all the glory, in help teach these youths what is right and wrong

We shall perfect the youngs and punish them for their wrong

For you died on and cross and rose again for us

I was first taught this when I was four when I spoke my first word they pushed me towards this prayer. By the age of five I knew it by heart. My grandmother stood from her queen sized bed, her silk white nightgown draping her old plump body. We had just moved here after my grandfather died. 

He was strict about religion but not like my grandmother who studied the bible and always had a bible, holy water, and a rosary. We had okay times together until he peacefully passed away in his sleep last december. It was sunday today we were going to our new church so that required me to look my best.

My grandmother picked out my dress as she sat in on her bed pulling out some jewelry and some gloves. She walked towards me and lifted my head by chin as she pulled out the necklace with a cross on it as she does every Sunday.

“Thank you Angelique, you’ve already proven you live to your name an angel, now get dressed we have to eat and head to church,” My grandmother said as she went back to pulling out clothes for herself.

“Yes Mam,” yeah she named me angel of all things because i certainly don’t look like one with my pitch black hair, but i guess my face can make up for it. My mitch matched eyes one green and the other hazel with my rosy cheeks and lips along with my freckles lining my pale face.

I got dresses standing up from my kneeling position and stripped out of my clothes pulling on my white lace underclothes and my slip. Pulling my dress over my shoulder I look in the mirror in the corner seeing the off the shoulder dress with a closed cleavage and a flowy bottom reaching my calves.

I grabbed the heels and stockings that were sitting on the bed and put them on, careful not to tear a hole in the stockings, I slip my shoes on and head to my grandmother who stands in front of the vanity, putting her jewelry on. 

I come behind her and clip the pieces into place as she grabs pearls from the drawer and fastens them around my neck. She reaches for a ribbon spinning me around, tying the white ribbon in my hair with a mid ponytail, and slides a white hair clip in my hair.

“Stand back so I can see you well,” My grandmother said as I stepped a few back and turned around when she gestured her finger. I watch her look around for any imperfections as I look at her in a similar outfit: a ruffled white top with a white and gold floral skirt reaching her calves. 

“It looks good now, grab your jacket and prepare us some oatmeal, not a lot because we have a lunch date with the ladies of the church,” My grandmother said and turned around starting her makeup.

I walk out of her room grabbing my yellow cardigan on the way out. I hurried into my room grabbing my phone off the charger, the basic setup of the room was an aesthetic of white and yellow. I walk out of the room into the kitchen, walking to the cabinets. I grabbed 2 packets of peach flavored oatmeal. 

Putting one of each into a bowl, I put  water in both and stick them in the microwave for a few minutes. I lean back against the kitchen island, sighing in relief to get out of that suffocating room, and if you hadn’t noticed getting ready in a quiet judgment moment. I’m surely hoping that the ladies are cool, so I can get a break from being Ms. Sweet and Responsible.

Sure, my grandmother is going to be leaving at the beginning leaving me with a group of 20 to 40 year old women.Well it isn't bad then but when you are a raging homesexual in disguise somethings gonna come up. I pulled out the milk and cinnamon and put some of each in the oatmeal once the microwave stopped. I mixed both before sitting them in place at the dining table. I put the milk and cinnamon away and grabbed 2 spoons before going to sit at the table. 

I sit down and start eating after placing my grandmother's spoon in her bowl. I’m halfway done with mine when my grandmother walks out her short brown hair straightened. She sat down and we continued eating. Once we were done I took our bowls to the sink and washed them out, as my grandmother heated the car.

Once I was done I took my key from the key holder and shut and locked the door.

 I went and sat in the front seat after swinging my body into the tall family car. We drove to church, the sun shining through the window as steady gospel music plays as my grandmother quietly sings along to it.

We made it, I got out of the car and looked towards the church, it's a hell a lot bigger than our last but eh a church is a church. We walk towards the door among the few people standing outside, we climb up the stairs, my shoulder subbing as a cane for my grandmother. I opened the right door allowing her in first and followed behind her greeting only when people greeted me which was close to none. Which I like.

My grandmother headed to a group of ladies who I assumed was the church ladies. We sat down on the peer behind as my grandmother greeted them, then she slapped my thigh. I hid a wince as she looked towards me as did the church ladies. I can only assume what she wants me to do.

“Hello mam, my names is Angelique and I am the granddaughter of Ms. Suzzete which you can tell is my grandmother, It is nice to meet you,” I said putting on a smile knowing Im ready to fucking kill my self.

They looked worried as I sparsely looked at the 4 of them before lowering my head. My grandmother continued talking to them as they sent a few more worried looks my way. Why can’t they just turn the other way! I wanna get on my phone and just pretend not to fucking exist for a moment but their making it very fucking hard right now.

Soon the bell rings over the church signaling the beginning of the church, but like first of all why over the church? Second that motherfucking bell is loud had me flinching which gave me unconditional more worried looks. I shift my phone into my cardigan pocket.

#priest kink #smut #gxg #commission #no beta we die like men #angst #fuckkkk

[airborneham]

Welcome to the Game Lab

Let's Talk About Games

Hey folks.

Welcome to the Game Lab.

Despite being a spry young Millennial (or crusty old Zoomer depending who you ask), I’ve never been too good at posting on social media or keeping up with news feeds. Having run LARPs for nearly a decade, I’ve done a lot of good and successful work in analog games, but don’t much to show for it but friends, memories, and boxes of props. Those are all great, but it turns out cheap leftover costuming isn’t very marketable.

With my first physical game printed and released in 2023, I’m finally changing that, and this post is the start of me putting something regularly out into the world that has permanence, that others can gain some insights or enjoyment from, and that allows me to gather my own thoughts and form new ideas in a way that engages with the games community online.

I’ve been meaning to start writing longer form posts to talk about game mechanics and theory I find interesting, share games or creators I discover, and keep a design log of the many games I’m always working on. Substack seems like a good place for me to do that in a format that’s more my speed, and as I’ve been writing the first few posts and putting my thoughts into words my mind has been swirling with exciting new topics and ideas to explore.

I’m thrilled to see where this takes me and I am happy to have you along for the ride.

Who am I? Why should you care?

That’s a really good question I’ve been convincing myself to answer for some time now, and I’ve finally got it figured out.

That’s Abe chewing on my antler.

I’m Eric Faber, a game designer on the shores of Lake Superior. I’ve designed analog games for over a decade, primarily Live Action Role Playing Games, but dabbling in TTRPGs and board games as well. In 2016 I met one of my best friends who was running a LARP at the local college, and I fell into helping run it when he graduated and we moved it off campus.

Learning on LARPs.

We ran that game and grew the community around it for almost 3 years, designing a new game with unique mechanics, story, and characters from the ground up every month. 

Some group photos from the Haunted Mansion LARP. Don't tell Disney about the name.

We were essentially live-playtesting a game for 20-30 players each month, which taught me a lot about iterative design. We molded the framework that was originally cobbled together by college kids from an online forum game into a solid and consistent ruleset. In doing so, we built a deep toolbox of mechanics that we could add or remove in order to craft the experience we wanted for any particular game.

From mummy curses that players had to discover how they were acquired and what they did, to cyberpunk gadgets with unique mechanics that could be freely exchanged to give players agency over what role they filled on a team, Haunted Mansion explored a wide spectrum of settings and experiences that kept the game from getting stale for returning players and forced us to continually push the boundaries of what we thought it could be.

Unfortunately, LARPs don’t leave behind any way for the people outside of that building on that night to see what we made. Each event is a singular experience that players and event runners get to share, which is both the beauty of the medium as well as one of its many obstacles.

Into the game industry and right back out.

Due to the fleeting nature of LARPs, I was designing board games and TTRPGs as well in hopes of one day publishing something and getting my work out into the world. In 2020 I had decided to get serious and try to pursue publishing a board game.

I planned trips to conventions, started researching the process of pitching to publishers, and then… well, we all stopped doing all that stuff for a while. A lot of my game design stuff went on hold during the pandemic. Our LARP stopped and without momentum the community dispersed. Life got hard for everybody.

But I’m back, for real this time.

When things reopened and we got back to in-person events, I got back to LARPing. A friend of mine runs the Wisconsin branch of the post-apocalyptic LARP Dystopia Rising and hoodwinked me into writing for and helping to run it. If you are in the US, chances are there’s a branch near you and I recommend checking it out if you like horror, boffer combat, zombies, or just a weekend away from real-life problems. If you’re in the Midwest, the WI game would love to have you. We have heated cabins.

Some pictures from Dystopia Rising, or DR as we call it. Kill zombies. Build a community. Be weird.

I also designed, wrote, and used Kickstarter to publish my first game, The Last Hand. It’s a play-to-lose horror storytelling game that uses a deck of playing cards with rules emulating Texas Hold ‘Em to create tales of survivors being pursued by an unknown horror which you learn about as you play. Inspired by games like Dread, Ten Candles, and Fiasco!, the structure of the game guides you towards an inescapable building of tension and cathartic release as you move from scene to scene on the run, facilitating a warranted distrust and obligatory cooperation that is a staple of the horror genre.

It’s quite good.

Look. It's a real game that exists.

The Game Lab

I believe games are an art form that can be engaged with in the same way that our culture discusses films and literature. I love thinking about and talking about games, game design, and game mechanics, as I truly believe it helps us as players understand and find the fun in games and me as a designer find new ways to innovate in the medium.

In this newsletter, I’m going to explore the types of mechanics I think are interesting and why, games I play or that I am excited about, and parts of the craft of game design and decisions I make in prototypes I’m working on. 

This is partly a design theory blog, partly a devlog, and partly a way for me to take the knowledge I have from years of designing games and put it out into the world in a way that helps both my creative process and hopefully yours as well.

Subscribe Now on Substack

So yeah, that’s the idea. Stick around and let’s talk about games.

#board games #game design #game designers #table top rpg #ttrpg design #roleplaying games #rpg #ttrpg #tabletop games #tabletop roleplaying #board game design #devlog #larp #larping #newsletter #substack #blog

[japanese-cryptic-beauty]

Post 2: Correcting Post 1

Or: The journey of Japanese is a journey of folly.

So, I wrote that Japanese has pitch but it's usually not important for meaning, you just sound unnatural.

... Which is something you could say ... Kinda ... sorta ...

Only the Universe has been bombarding me with the importance and prevalence of pitch ever since. So I want to qualify the statement, at least.

Check out this interesting post I found here. Now, if I read this slightly cryptic answer right (it talks about "word-accent" which I assume can mean both "pitch" - Japanese, Chinese - and "stress" - English), pitch is significant to distinguish words with same sounds (homonyms) as follows: Chinese - 71%, Japanese - 13%, English - 0.47%.

Unsurprisingly, in a language (Chinese) using (in its standard pronunciation/main dialect) 5 pitches to differentiate words, pitches are "damn important" (71%). But 13% is actually also quite significant. Your mileage may differ.

Personal bias in skimming information

Now, for me, myself, this is not so surprising. I may have come across the information that pitch exists in Japanese probably twice but my brain may have chosen to willfully ignoring it.

(Textbooks may mention it but then omit it to not overload beginners, I guess.)

Thing is, I have a horrible history with learning how to stress words in other languages. These little accent-y things and squiggles on top of words? They're my nemesis. So I guess I wanted there to be no equivalent of that in Japanese.

I had three years of Ancient Greek in school, an investment of my time that taught me a valuable lesson: Don't learn Ancient Greek. I'm kidding - or am I? - the valuable lesson was to do my choices in a less knee-jerk way. In hindsight, nothing of value would have come of learning Ancient Greek even if I did well. Your opinion may differ. Fine. I really think it's a colossal waste of time unless you make a job choice requiring it. The best it could have done for me was get better at the learning itself or the learning of languages in general. But it failed in the most important thing that language does: connecting people. If it fails at that, it barely has any right to remotely exist as a subject. Nobody likes you Ancient Greek, go away.

Besides the letters, Greek gave me major problems with the stress accents. Put it on a syllable and I would never manage to pronounce the word. I always put the stress wrong. My brain hasn't unlocked how that works. I notice the same in Spanish. I may emulate a speaker (not that I speak Spanish, but when I repeat after someone), but even then I might not even hear the difference.

I know I've aggravated my Swedish teacher for not hearing the difference between his "ooh" and "uh" sounds he was making for the letter "u." (Ironically a song based entirely on the sound "U" is now playing on shuffle.) Hopefully continued exposure and awareness of the problem might help...

There's some good news, though

While my chosen learning method of WaniKani doesn't display stress, it features two speakers, Kyoko and Kenichi that say the readings. I wondered on occasion if they were real, but they do use pitch when pronouncing words. (And they might slightly vary between each other.)

So there's a neat little feature:

You pick your speaker and chose to let pronunciation play out every time the reading is featured - in case of reviews after you transcribed it yourself first.

I have to admit I was in the habit of not playing it when I could do multi-kanji word readings well, but this exposes me to pitch and pronunciation peculiarities I might otherwise ignore.

More exposure!

[EDIT:] Probably more good news, depending where you come from

So, in researching this I came across this article. It provides two pieces of context that I want to quote .

A reply to a letter to the editor of a manga magazine printed in Romaji (without accent marked) quoted in point 5: "When two or three words sound exactly alike except for pitch accent, context is going to resolve the ambiguity virtually 100 percent of the time. In practical terms, accent is probably the least important aspect of Japanese pronunciation no matter what your level of language skill."

In other words, even bad pitch accent will be understood almost always. This is where I first will employ the most horrible, stereotypical example that's ALWAYS trotted out to justify anything: the chopsticks/bridge example.

Chopsticks and bridge both transcribe to "hashi" (and to the same Hiragana). They only vary in rising and falling pitch. Now you could argue that makes pitch important. But as the above quote states - context usually resolves that quite reliably.

I mean, having browsed reddit and Quora for a while, you will inevitably see this being trotted out, and people ask the rhetorical question: Don't you think it's important to know if the bridge is burning or a set of chopsticks?

Rhetorical questions are, of course, only questions in the most technical sense. They're usually just people being smug or actually making biased or even bad faith arguments.

As mentioned above, people are not dumb. Japanese is already incredibly context-sensitive. You constantly have to keep track of things said before - because omission is common. You can leave out the subject because you mentioned it before as "the topic." Good luck with translating that, AI...

You usually can infer what is being said. But propagators of the burning chopstick dilemma are trying hard to make you think their way. Or are they even trying? It's so tired an example. If there were lots of these, surely people would quote them, too? Who cares what's going on with the damn bridge, anyway?!?

Okay, moving on.

I found this from point 6 a very useful and probably true assessment: "People without hearing impairments can mimic the melody of language, but they can hardly interpret visual accent markers into the oral/aural domain without special training because visual and auditory stimuli are processed very differently in the human brain. In all likelihood, the author of the above-mentioned letter simply feels more comfortable visually with accent markers. But using such markers to speak Japanese creates pronunciations that are worse than a crude synthesizer."

Well, I was notoriously bad at it in one language already. I guess I will hold my horses on trying to make that my method. Thankfully, audio material is available in enormous quantities, so we can learn from the melody of native speakers. And that is good news.

#learning japanese #ancient greek #pitch accent #wanikani

[calacuspr]

How an injury prompted new technology set to transform sports rehab

The Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides may not be one of global sport’s hotbeds but if Jodie Sinclair has her way, it will have witnessed the kernel of an idea set to transform sporting competition.

It all started with her older brother, who used her as a makeshift goalkeeper and target when he played football in the garden.

Jodie explained: “I joined a football team, the one my brother was part of so from a very young age I was in a competitive environment and getting monitored.

“In my early teens, there was no women’s team to play for, so I played for the guys’ team and I was the only woman on it, so that was a challenge in itself, being the only female on a pitch with teenage boys.

“Then when I was in my third year at high school we had a PE teacher join the school and he asked me and my pals if we wanted to play rugby. We just laughed at him because we had no idea how to play rugby.

“He said it would be fun and just five weeks later he told us that we'd been entered into our first rugby sevens competition. We thought he was kidding because we barely knew how to hold a rugby ball.

“We were all athletes and we were fast and were taught to ‘hit  the spaces, not the faces’, in other words running through the gaps.

“We played our games and then went off to Nando's at the end of the competition and got a phone call asking where we were. We were told we had to come back to collect our trophy because we’d won the competition and we had no idea.

“We’d played Murrayfield Wanderers who train every day, so they weren't happy!”

Sporting success continued for Jodie and she been scouted for a sports scholarship in the United States at the end of her school studies when disaster struck.

“The week before starting university I was skating on my longboard going down a steep slope by a carpark. There was a sharp exit from the carpark and I realised I was going to hit the kerb and so I jumped off.

“Sadly one foot came off the board and the other didn’t, meaning one foot hit a static ground and the other kept going at full speed.I dislocated my knee, ruptured the ACL, fractured the tibia, tore the meniscus: basically everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong in a split second.

“Being an athlete was such a big part of my personality but for three years I couldn’t do any sport and I really struggled with depression, with frustration. Essentially I had an identity crisis, going from peak performance and training and competing six to seven times a week to my physiotherapist telling me to sit in a chair and try and lift my leg up.”

Despite the personal challenges, Jodie decided to use her free time to identify a new route into university and was attracted to Dundee’s Industrial and Product Design degree and spent a year out after school building a portfolio that would secure her eligibility for the course.

The injury and how she was treated prompted Jodie to come up with a solution.

Theo is smart clothing and an app that tracks and analyses muscle performance and provides information for performances coaches and physiotherapists to help provide a greater insight into training and recovery as well as track the athlete’s mental health, which Jodie felt would be invaluable.

She explained: “While I was doing my course and going through the rehab, my physio was asking me how I’d been getting on with my exercises for the last week and I’d say I've been good or I've been fine, but how can they use that to work out my recovery? My level of good and your good are different, with different pain thresholds and how comfortable you are sharing with your physio.

“We have so much access to data and yet physios are still relying on qualitative data, which is very subjective.“

Jodie spent the Covid-19 lockdowns learning about business and figuring out how to make Theo commercially viable, sourcing developers to help with the technology.

She added: “My lecturers wanted it to be a hyper-focused ACL recovery device but now, it’s not focusing acutely on the recovery side but providing a collection of comparative biometric data and performance analysis.

“That can enhance athletes’ training, prevent them from overtraining and also prevent future injuries and thus that time out of play.

“Performance coaches can get their entire team under one platform and see who's performing, who's not performing, and also monitor the mental well-being of the athletes, because in the elite sporting world, mental health is completely overlooked.”

Jodie is currently collaborating with Ivy League universities in the United States and plans to focus on that market when the product launches in the next 12-18 months.

“We will start by launching B2B, focusing on the teams and in particular, college sports teams. Over in the US, it's a  $17 billion market, so it would be foolish not to go into it and the teams that work with us are going to have a competitive advantage.

“Theo will be used by lead performance coaches and potentially the physios as well.

“I see from the people I am meeting around the world that elite sport looks into minute data and how it can affect performance and it makes me more excited that I have created something that can help them.

“In a few years, when we have gone direct to consumer, I want Theo to be a household name like Strava, for instance, to help elite and amateur athletes monitor their performance and PBs. Essentially Theo will be your training buddy.”

For more information, please visit www.theohealth.com

#Rugby Sevens #women's rugby #sports app #Injury #sports physiotherapy #US college football #sports physio #Jodie Sinclair

[gaydelusionaltrash]

Minecraft (Nat x Reader)

The proposal every 12yr old boy would be jealous of 

Natasha hadn't had a normal childhood, really she hadn't had much of a childhood at all. That's why when you asked her to play the new Xbox with you and revealed she'd never played a video game before, you weren't entirely surprised.

"There's a first time for everything," you had smiled up at her. She'd been reluctant at first, but eventually found herself entranced in the game. You helped her learn the controller, which she picked up fairly easily, and then taught her the basics.

Months had passed since then. You and Natasha had just defeated the wither boss. It had nearly destroyed your base and the two of you were working to repair it.

Natasha made a high pitched noise and her arms tensed. You glance over at her, but she was still focused on the game,

"Shit. Creeper." You laughed aloud and she shot you a glare,

"What?" You shoot your head,

"You're just cute, that's all." She rolled her eyes,

"I could kill you, you know." You scrunched your nose at her,

"You wouldn't dare." She smiled, knowing you were right. Once she'd accidentally hit you in the game and she spent hours apologizing. She kissed your cheek and paused her side of the screen.

"Bathroom," she confirmed at your confused look. She got up and walked away. This was your chance. You quickly arranged the nether blocks into the words you couldn't bring yourself to say out loud, lit them on fire, then you climed to the top of your tallest building and waited. Natasha came back, and smiling, she handed you a grape soda.

"Come up here," you said, once she had resumed her game.

"Why?"

"Just do it, Tash." You could almost hear her eye roll,

"Fine. Is there a ladder?" You directed her to the one you'd placed going up the side of pixilated cobblestone building. You meant to push her to the side. It was only a two block top though and you ended up pushing her off.

"Shit! Y/n, I had my enchanted pickaxe!" You just looked at her.

"Why'd you kill me?" You pursed your lips. This was not going how you had planned. You hoped it would be romantic, as thins game had become your thing, something you awlays did together whenever life got to be too much.

"Did you see the nether blocks?" She rolled her eyes,

"Yeah, but that still doesn't explain-"

"Baby," you said, your voice pleading for her to figure it out. Waiting for an answer was killing you, "What did it say?"I had my best sword on me too, plus I was almost at 30! I was going to enchant my-"

"What did it say?" She rolled her eyes again, you swore one day they would get stuck like that.

"It said 'marry me?' now, explain why you killed me." You shut your eyes and cleanched your jaw.

"Natasha," you breathed, exasperated. She gasped, realizing. Her mouth dropped open,

"Are you serious?" Her voice was softer now, the edge completely gone.

"As a heart attack." You pulled a ring box out of your coat and handed it to her. She looked down at the black velvety box, then back at you, a gentle smile on her face, tears brimming in her brilliant green eyes.

"Yes. God, Yes."

#nat #natasha romanoff #Natsha Romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #nat x reader #natasha romanoff fluff