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kristinamae093 · 11 months

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Ghosted

Ghosted- A Plan (Chapter 2)

Series Summary - Prince Liam fell for Riley Brooks hard and fast. A marriage filled with love and devotion was within his reach. But everything changed when she vanished just before the end of the social season. As everyone voices their concerns regarding her scandalous departure, a confession from an unlikely source turns Liam's world upside down and makes him question everything around him.

Book/Pairing - TRR- Liam x MC (Riley Brooks), hints of Liam x Madeleine

A/N1: This AU starts right before the beginning of the engagement tour. There is a two-month lapse between the coronation and where we pick up, but we will stray from canon.

A/N2: Please excuse all errors, I'm posting as I leave for work. No Liam this chapter, but I promise next is ALL Liam.

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

Soft music filled the ballroom of the Beaumont estate. White tablecloths adorned every table, all complete with centerpieces of white and navy flowers. Servants bustled through the room clearing tables from the dinner that had just concluded, and rounded the room with Ramsford’s own sparkling wine. Nobles circulated and chatted while they waited for the proper party to begin.

The air filled with tension only a select few could feel.

Maxwell sat at the head table alone and watched the crowd. This was the point in the evening he would usually become a one man dancing machine, but Maxwell didn’t feel like dancing.

Since Riley disappeared, Maxwell was completely desolate. He felt like he had lost his sister, his best friend. He couldn’t fathom why she would do this. Her departure had come at such a random time, completely out of the blue; nothing about it made sense. She seemed happy. She talked like she was genuinely excited about the future. There was never any sign she regretted her decision to come to Cordonia or wished to return home. His mind’s questions had to be pushed aside, however, as they had to continue forward with the social season.

As they left Applewood for their own estate, Bertrand’s sadness cleared, and an all-consuming cloud of anger, regret, and panic engulfed him; the realization that they were truly doomed dawned on him. With no suitor, they would face scrutiny and mockery; it was inevitable. The press would surely catch wind of their tanked finances, and now there was no end in sight.

Bertrand was incredibly upset with himself for allowing their reputation to be put in such a situation. But, he found the most fault to ultimately lie with Maxwell, for making such an irrational decision to begin with. He had only been a fool and went along with his ridiculous suggestion.

When they arrived and found that their cleaning crew had canceled, they had to scramble to get their estate in order for their upcoming doomsday. Drake stayed behind in Applewood with Liam, and nobody else could know their situation; there was no one to call. So Bertrand and Maxwell had to roll up their sleeves and scrub the entire structure from top to bottom. They worked all day and all night; even then, Bertrand still nit-picked the job they had done.

Bertrand had spent the entire time scolding Maxwell and continuously telling him he was at fault for their predicament. He lashed out and berated an already devastated Maxwell, but in his panicked stupor, Bertrand did not care one bit. Deep down he knew Maxwell did nothing wrong, but any rationality he had left him.

As Maxwell looked throughout the room, he spotted Liam in the corner with Drake, but twisted his gaze elsewhere. He figured if anyone had a right to be mad at him, it was Liam. He knew the turmoil he was experiencing, and couldn’t even imagine what Liam must have felt. Liam’s heartbroken face after he read her note permanently engraved itself in his mind, as well as the animalistic cry that escaped him soon after.

Maxwell had sat across from Liam at dinner, but avoided eye contact. The two didn’t speak; in fact, nobody really spoke. Regina asked about Riley’s whereabouts, but Bertrand quickly steered the conversation elsewhere. The King and Queen were the only two at the table who had even finished their meals; everyone else opted to pay more attention to the wine.

Maxwell was pulled from his daze by Bertrand, as he tapped on his glass to get the room’s attention. “If everyone would please enter the reception hall, we will proceed with the festivities.” He stated, very matter-of-factly.

Maxwell continued to sit in his seat and ignored Bertrand’s request. He knew it was time for their infamous toast, and his anxiety heightened the more he thought about it. Everyone expected to see three Beaumonts, and he didn’t know how Bertrand planned to spin things.

Maxwell caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Bertrand as he stomped towards him. He let out a breath and prepared himself for the tongue lashing he was about to receive.

“Maxwell! Get up! You have a toast to make!” Bertrand ordered.

Maxwell’s eyes widened. “What? Me? B-but… we’re supposed to do this together!” he stammered.

Bertrand scoffed, “Absolutely not! All night, I’ve had to avoid questions regarding Lady Riley’s whereabouts. Since this is your fault, you will set the record straight.”

“But-”

“But nothing! I will not take fault for the situation we’re in due to your poor choices! It’s time you owned up to your irresponsibilities! Our entire lives, I have continuously bent over backwards to fix the things that you’ve broken, but no more.” Bertrand shook his head. “I still can not believe this is happening! What would father say, Maxwell?!”

“Well, he pr-”

“He would disown you! Our reputation, our finances, it’s as good as gone! All of it! There is no solution! No one will want to do business with us! We’ll be lucky if we can stay afloat until Christmas!”

“I’m sorry, Bertrand! I didn’t mean to-”

Bertrand laughed sardonically. “Sorry won’t save you this time. You’re going to have to take responsibility for what you’ve done and deal with the repercussions. The Beaumont name will be tainted forever, but I will not allow you to bring me down with you. You, and you alone, will take responsibility for this monstrosity you've created.”

“Bertrand please! I didn’t do anything! I swear! I-I’m just as shocked as you are!” Maxwell pleaded.

“This is not a discussion! I am telling you what is going to happen, whether you agree or not. You can continue to sit here and cry about it, or you can get up and be a man for once in your life, and take accountability for your careless decisions.”

Maxwell continued to sit and stare wide eyed at Bertrand, as his last statement cut through his heart like a knife. He physically felt his entire soul hit the very pits of his stomach, and shatter even further. He wanted to believe Bertrand didn’t mean any of the crude things he had been saying, but the glare Bertrand gave said otherwise. Bertrand looked completely disgusted, enraged, and disappointed in Maxwell; all because he took a chance on a quirky American who had captured the heart of one of his dearest friends.

“MAXWELL. NOW.” Bertrand boomed.

Maxwell stood from his seat and looked at Bertrand with a broken expression. “Bertrand, please… Can’t we-”

Bertrand took a step further to stand in Maxwell’s personal space and growled, “No. NO. Get this ‘we’ notion out of your head this instant! You, and you alone, will take responsibility for this; do you understand?”

Maxwell held his intense gaze for a few brief moments before he finally relented and slightly nodded his head. He could give no other response, as his throat had constricted. He turned and made his way to the reception hall. Maxwell could feel his heart thump rapidly in his chest, as well as the wine from dinner doing somersaults in his abdomen. His hands trembled at his sides, and he felt incredibly dizzy as he slowly made his way to his destination.

As Maxwell approached the stairs, he stopped and looked back at Bertrand, who had followed closely behind him. Maxwell gave him a look of disdain, but Bertrand gave him a stern nod of the head and ignored Maxwell’s silent plea.

Maxwell reluctantly turned back around and trudged up the staircase. At halfway, he turned around to address the crowd.

“H-Hello everyone… Um… So… First off, I’d like to thank you all for coming. We really appreciate you being here.” He stopped to look at Bertrand, who shook his head. “I mean, I really appreciate you being here…” he trailed off.

Maxwell looked out into the crowd and squinted his eyes to blind his vision from the rays of chandelier lights on his face. As his eyesight re-centered, he saw every gaze in the room intently directed at him. He ran a visibly shaky hand through his hair, and attempted to continue, “Uh … Y-You’re probably wondering where Lady Riley is… And um, well… “ he tucked his chin down to his chest before he quietly and quickly spit out, “she left.”

Maxwell heard a throat clear and looked up to meet Bertrand’s steely gaze. Maxwell looked at him with sad eyes, silently begging Bertrand to end this nightmare. He held his gaze for what felt like a lifetime before Bertrand once again nodded his head in a silent order for him to continue.

Maxwell tried to swallow the prominent lump in his throat, but it would not budge. He shuffled his feet for a moment before he cleared his throat, and abruptly and loudly blurted out, “Lady Riley is no longer in the social season.”

Gasps and whispers filled the room. Everyone turned their heads to the person next to them to confirm they had heard him correctly. It was completely unprecedented for a house to lose their suitor, especially so close to the finish of the season. Rumors immediately started regarding why they had lost their suitor, and at such a crucial moment in time.

Maxwell gulped, and at another stern nod from Bertrand continued. “I’d like to take this opportunity formally to accept responsibility for this……oversight. My brother trusted me to make a wise decision, and I-I failed… I failed him, I failed our country, and I failed myself…”

Drake arrived at the bar shortly later. He exited his truck and leaned up against it as he waited for Olivia’s SUV to arrive. He had tried to get Olivia to ride with him, but Olivia said she ‘would rather enter the pits of hell barefoot’ than get into his truck with him.

As the SUV that carried Olivia pulled up, Drake crossed the parking lot to meet her as she exited the vehicle. He followed behind her as the two approached the doors.

Upon entering the establishment, Olivia scrunched her nose. “What is that smell?”

“A bar?”

“It smells like… you… Ugh... It’s repulsive.” Olivia shuddered.

Drake stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face her. “Can you not be a bitch for ten seconds?”

Olivia stopped as well. “Sure, when you can refrain from being a neanderthal for three.” she retorted with a smirk as she kept her gaze straight in front of her.

Drake sighed and ran a hand down his face. “This is gonna be a long night…”

A bark of laughter escaped Olivia. “HA! You’re telling me!”

Drake put his hands up in surrender. “Look, I don’t like you. You don’t like me. That’s fine. But we have a common goal here. For the sake of whatever is going on, we need a truce.”

“Not a chance.”

“Olivia.” Drake growled.

Olivia let out a huff before she relented. “Fine. Until we figure out this maze of an ordeal, I suppose we can have a truce.”

The two shared an intense glare before Drake extended his hand for a handshake. Olivia glanced at it momentarily before she caved and lightly returned the gesture.

As she released Drake’s hand, Olivia promptly reached into her bag and pulled out a small container of hand sanitizer. She squeezed a generous amount onto the hand Drake had just shook and rubbed her palms together.

“Seriously?!“

“What? I don’t know where your hands have been.” Olivia retorted with another shudder. She put her head up and walked further into the crowded bar.

Drake shook his head and muttered a few obscenities under his breath, but followed her path. He scanned the crowd and noticed Maxwell sitting at a secluded table in the corner. He wore a hat and sunglasses, but was anything but subtle. The hat he wore was bright blue, with what looked to be peacock feathers etched in the design.

Drake pointed out Maxwell to Olivia, who rolled her eyes at his ensemble; the two of them made their way over to Maxwell.

As Drake approached the table, he asked, “Maxwell, what the hell are you wearing?”

“A disguise! Duh!”

“Yeah, I get what you were going for. But for the record, dark colors help hide you better.”

“This is the only hat I have!” Maxwell said as he quickly pulled the cap from his head. He tucked it into the seat next to him and took his sunglasses off before he looked back up at Drake. “It’s been a long time, Buddy! I’m so glad to see you!”

“Don’t call me Buddy.”

“But it’s been so long! Cuuummmmmmoooooon Drake, you know you missed me!” Maxwell sang at him.

“Don’t push it.” Drake grumbled. He took a seat at the table next to Maxwell, which then revealed Olivia as she stood behind him.

Maxwell gasped and grabbed Drake by the arm. “Drake, are you alright?! Are you sick? Do you have a fever?!” He tried to put his hand on Drake’s forehead, but Drake quickly slapped his hand away.

“I wish…”

“Ha. Ha.” Olivia said as she rolled her eyes and took the seat across from Maxwell.

Drake turned to Maxwell. “So, how are you? And yes, it has been a long time, but you still can’t call me Buddy.”

Maxwell sighed as his peppy demeanor faded, and an air of melancholy overcame his entire being. “I mean, I’ve spent the last two months hiding from the world in spreadsheets and graphs, so…”

“Why do you think you need to hide, Max? What happened wasn’t your fault!”

“Isn’t it, though? I’m the one who invited her here…” Maxwell trailed off as he picked at his napkin on the table in front of him.

“But you are not responsible for what happened!”

“Try telling that to Bertrand…”

“He still bad?”

Maxwell cringed before responding in a quiet voice. “Yeah… I don’t think we’ll ever be the way we were before. Even with the scandal, he still blames me... Except then it changed to ‘you brought an American harlot here to represent House Beaumont'." He looked down and shook his head. “He’s told me multiple times he doesn’t want me trying to help him salvage our house’s finances. It’s only so I stay in his sight, and don’t ruin our reputation further…” He cleared his throat and looked away.

House Beaumont had been in a tumultuous time, to say the least. Rumors spread immediately regarding their suitor’s sudden departure, each with their own theory as to why. Before they were given a chance to issue a formal statement, Ana De Luca ran her story about their broken financial situation and tied the two together. That rumor ran through the mill until the Coronation, when the new conclusion for Riley’s departure came to light. But the damage had already been done to House Beaumont.

Deals started falling through and donors retracted donations. Nobody wanted to be associated with the sullied brothers; the ones who had sponsored the disgraced suitor to begin with. Stories would still occasionally run, and they were always regarding their continuous downward spiral. They had enough secured transactions to stay afloat this long, but found themselves quickly drowning in a sea of ‘no’s and denial.

Bertrand continued to berate and blame Maxwell, but Maxwell never said a word, nor challenged him; because he truly believed what he was saying to be true. He placed all blame on himself, and could only take his scoldings for his error in judgement like the ‘man’ he thought he needed to be. Maxwell had given up hope a long time ago that Bertrand would forgive him, instead he just did whatever was requested of him without hesitation or question. He did the best he could, but Bertrand always found an issue with the work Maxwell would present.

“Damn, I’m sorry, man….” Drake responded and gave him a pat on the back, unsure of what else to say.

Maxwell shook his head in acknowledgement before an awkward silence overtook the group. Olivia sat and eyed the patrons critically and questioned why she even agreed to come. Drake took a menu and browsed the drink selection to decide what to order. Maxwell sat and stole quick glances between Olivia and Drake as he tried to decipher why the two of them had arrived together.

“So……” Maxwell started, attempting to break the silence.

“Something to say, Beaumont?” Olivia quipped.

“Well… I was just kind of wondering why you’re here. This definitely doesn’t seem like it’s your style.”

Olivia laughed. “It’s not. Unfortunately, we have business to conduct.”

Maxwell’s eyes grew wide. “Um… We? Like… with me?”

“Yes, you. But before we begin, I need you to understand that this is a delicate situation, and your utmost discretion is necessary. Can you agree to that?”

“Yes?” Maxwell responded with uncertainty.

Olivia glared daggers at Maxwell. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat. “I mean, yes. Of course. How may I be of service, Duchess?”

Olivia rolled her eyes, but quietly told Maxwell about everything that she knew and her suspicions, but didn’t show him the pictures due to the capacity in the bar. Maxwell sat and listened intently to every word she said. He hung on every word she said, trying his hardest to process and keep up.

When Olivia finished, Maxwell sat and stared into his drink for a long while. Long enough that Drake grew worried.

“Uh, Max?” Drake asked as he tapped his arm to get his attention.

“I knew it,” Maxwell whispered as he wiped a tear from his eye, “I didn’t know what happened exactly, but I knew something wasn’t right…” he trailed off and shook his head.

“I know, man. I kinda think we all did. But nobody had anything to back it up…” Drake ran a hand through his hair and fixed his gaze on the table in front of him.

Both men let a wave of guilt wash over them for not acting sooner. Drake and Maxwell each had their doubts with the country, and Liam’s conclusion that Riley had run off to be with Tariq. But Drake knew that with Liam as enraged as he was, bringing up the idea could have gotten him exiled, especially with no proof.

Maxwell was put to work under Bertrand’s watchful eye, cut off from the outside world. He spent every moment he was awake with Bertrand. The only reason he managed to escape for a night was because Bertrand had a meeting and left the estate. He wouldn’t dare utter a word about his suspicions to Bertrand, as he probably wouldn’t have listened to him, even if Maxwell had said something.

Olivia sat and watched both men get lost in their thoughts. She let them wallow for only a minute or two, before she slammed her palm down on the table; causing Drake to nearly flip over in his chair, and Maxwell to almost knock his drink off the table.

“What the hell, Olivia?!” Drake shouted.

“You two have to stop sulking! What’s happened, happened. There is nothing we can do to change that. We can, however, try to get some answers for everyone involved.”

Olivia placed her hands on the table in front of her before she continued. “Now, Beaumont. You were the last person to physically see Riley in Cordonia, that we know of. Does anything stand out from your last conversation with her?”

Maxwell shook his head. “No. Not at all. She said she was tired and was going to head to bed. She even said she would see me in the morning!”

“Do you recall what time that was?”

“Not really. I know it was shortly after the toasts concluded, though.”

Drake’s eyes widened. “Seriously?! That was super early! I stayed down there for at least another hour, possibly two!“

“Was it? I didn’t think much of it. We had been traveling for days on end and any second of down time she had was spent being lectured by Bertrand.” Maxwell responded with a shrug.

“That would make her one of the first to retire. If she had already packed, she could have easily made an escape in that time frame. Especially with everyone else still at the party downstairs.” Olivia interjected.

Maxwell shook his head. “Her stuff wasn’t packed, not before the party anyway. I know that for a fact. I was with her before the Jamboree started while she got dressed and what not.”

Drake’s mind started running overtime. He knew he did not hear Riley at all that night. Drake had found her gone at the same time as Liam and Maxwell. He started pondering about her retiring early. If she moved fast enough, she could have packed and left before he had made it back to his room for the night.

But would she do that?

Olivia sighed, “Well, I’m not sure if that will be relevant, but it is worth noting.”

“We gotta take all this to Liam!” Maxwell exclaimed.

“That’s where I started. He doesn’t think the pictures are enough proof, and her retiring early doesn’t prove much at this point either.”

“How?! I haven’t even seen the pictures, but I believe you!”

Drake answered. “I saw it in his eyes when Olivia showed ‘em to us. I know he’s thinking about it. But he’s hurt and has been since she left. He’s channeling all that humiliation and sadness into anger. And a part of me thinks he doesn’t want to admit he was wrong and didn’t jump on investigating sooner.”

“I’d agree that would be a safe assumption. We have to find more evidence to prove to him that something did happen that night.” Olivia responded with a determined expression.

“But what do we do? Where do we even start? It’s been two months, Olivia! I want to believe that there’s something out there, but what if we’re just chasing a dead end?” Maxwell asked as he dejectedly looked into his drink.

“To start, we need to locate Tariq. I did some searching, and it seems there’s no trace of him. The last time he was seen was at the Country Jamboree.”

“How do we do that?” Drake asked.

“I’ll look into it. Thus far, I haven't had any luck. But, I have a contact in intelligence. Maybe I can work out a deal for Tariq’s location.”

“What about Riley?” Maxwell asked quietly, with his gaze still fixated on his drink.

“We will get to that. But if what Liam said was correct, Bastien already couldn’t locate her. So we may have easier luck getting to Tariq and making him talk first.”

“What can we do in the meantime? While you try to find him?” Drake asked.

“Since the engagement tour is starting in a couple of days, we can use that as a cover for our investigation. I take it we will all be in attendance?”

“Yep.”

“I mean yeah, but… I don’t know how much help I can be... Bertrand has already made it very clear that the only reason I’m being allowed to go with him is because the invitation was formally addressed to Bertrand and Maxwell Beaumont.”

“That’s fine. We need to bide our time for the first couple of events until the court reaches Applewood. I’m not sure what we can find, given how much time has passed, but we at least need to rule it out. We must investigate any and every lead, no matter how small, and that was the last place either of them was seen in Cordonia.”

“I agree. I’ll see if I can get Liam to tell me where they put her phone.” Drake suggested.

Olivia raised her brows in surprise. “Wow. Good thinking, Walker. Maybe this won’t be as horrendous as I feared.”

“You’re not the only smart one here, thank you very much.” Drake scoffed.

“Looks can be deceiving, I suppose,” Olivia smirked.

“I always wondered about that. Why did she leave her phone? What was the purpose of that? Wouldn’t she need it?” Maxwell asked.

“You’re right. That’s just the start of things that don’t add up, of the things Liam’s turning a blind eye to.”

Drake nodded. “We gotta get past this wall he’s built up. I know he doesn’t believe that shit for a second.”

Olivia laughed. “Trust me, Walker. It won’t take much. He can try all he wants, but I am better than him at his own game. I can read right through him. In his heart, he knows the truth. He’s only denying because he feels like he has to.”

“But why? Why does he have to? He loves her! He shouldn’t be fighting us on this!” Maxwell exclaimed.

“I know. He shouldn’t be, but he’s been through a lot. He thinks he’s protecting himself. But we will make him see the truth.” Olivia replied with utmost confidence.

Drake gave her a determined look. “Yeah, we will. You know what? I’m gonna go see him, invite him to Applewood with us. I’ll give it my best shot and hopefully make him see reason.” He turned to Maxwell. “You can come too. Maybe if we leave the intimidating red dragon at home, he’ll actually listen.”

“Awwwww, you think I’m intimidating, Walker? How sweet of you.”

Drake ignored Olivia as he awaited Maxwell’s answer. “I… Uh… I guess I could go…” Maxwell responded in an unsure tone.

Drake patted Maxwell on the back. “Relax. It’ll be fine. Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

“... Okay, but... promise me if we decide to form an official alliance, we will be the Cordonian Power Rangers, and I get to be the blue one.” Maxwell stated with a completely firm expression. He held it for only a few moments before a small smile crept across his face.

Drake and Olivia both rolled their eyes, but Drake subtly grinned. It was nice to see bits of the old Maxwell poke through, despite everything he had been through.

Drake retrieved his forgotten menu, and finally selected a seasonal skull cracker ale; the regular skull cracker, but with a slight spice flavor added. He put his menu back in the holder before he turned his attention to Olivia. “You gonna order something?”

Olivia rose from the table and scoffed, “God no. My business here is done. I suppose I’ll see you two on the engagement tour.”

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calliemity · 8 months

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HEY!!!!! this post is outdated!!!! check out this post here for an updated post on orin scrivello's head!

content warning: very very mild special effects gore(?) i have no idea if this could be upsetting to some, the stuff shown is 99% free of blood, not super high quality, and also very clearly fake. im putting this warning here just in case!

hi! so my full set of the little shop of horrors topps bubblegum cards just got here (long name i know). i bought them partially as an early birthday present for myself, but also because the cards include a very interesting piece of info/trivia that ive become completely obsessed with. take a look at this:

this is a picture of the card that i took! its the scene where seymour is feeding pieces of orin to twoey, but as you can see, he's holding his head. hes Holding Orin's Severed Head. hoooooly shit, right??? you can see his face is frozen with that goofy grin and everything, its so cool!!!!! im gonna go into more detail about it under the cut, its a big ol ramble so fair warning

so, if youve seen the movie you probably know that (unfortunately) there isn't any part where you see this head. thats because it was a prop that ended up being totally scrapped from the scene! im still actively gathering information, but from what i can piece together from older drafts of the script along with the workprint, the original plan was to show orin's head (big, stupid grin and all) being fed to audrey II

source

this concept was, at the very least, held onto long enough for a prop replica of steve martin's/orin scrivello's head and face to be fully created. however, as seen in the workprint of the movie, all footage of the head shows only the back of it, with zero glimpse of its face.

source

(Video description: a low quality, slightly green tinted video depicting a deleted scene from Little Shop of Horrors (1986) where Seymour is feeding the decapitated head of the dentist, Orin Scrivello, to the plant. The video starts with a man in glasses reaching into a garbage can and pulling out a black-haired decapitated head, holding it upside-down by the fabric on its neck. The head is faced away from the camera, so only the back of its hair is visible. There are vines flailing in the foreground of the shot. The video cuts to a shot of the plant puppet laughing silently. The video cuts again to a shot of the man slowly shuffling forward while holding the head in front and away from himself. The plant is seen on the left side, still laughing and flailing its vines. Throughout the video, there are brief flashes of light that resemble lightning. There is also a time counter in the bottom left corner of the video, which shows minutes-seconds-milliseconds. The counter starts at 06:10:09, and the video ends with it at 06:18:10. The video's audio only consists of thunder noises and an unidentifiable sound that resembles chewing noises.)

and as we know, in the final version of the movie there arent any severed head props to be seen, meaning it got entirely left on the cutting room floor. i havent been able to find any written info about it so far, so i cant tell you the exact reason why it ended up being scrapped. my personal guesses are that it was considered too scary or dark, test audiences reacted badly to it, and/or the head wasnt considered convincing enough to be included.

in a previous version of this post, i stated that i believed there was only 1 existing photo of the head's face, that being the one on the trading card. im happy to report that i was incorrect, as ive now found a Second Image!!!! this one is from a slightly different angle, and its much higher quality than the previous image, allowing us to see more detail on the prop itself!! here, take a look:

source

for one, i gotta express how EXCITED i was to find this!!!! this new photo allows us to see that the prop itself has quite a bit of detail to it! you can see the creases in its face, not just around the mouth but the eyes and forehead as well! the whole face is impressively realistic, i would say the eyes (or at least the eye thats visible) is a bit uncanny, but every else looks so so good!! there also appears to be some blood stains on the shirt collar and neck, and even more blood stains on the fabric that seymour is holding. something like this was definitely made with a lot of attention to detail and a lot of skill, which makes it even more gutwrenching that it got left completely cut out. im really happy that we have another photo of it, though!!

i'll update this post as needed, once/if i find anything else that relates to this (admittedly very very niche) topic. if youve read the whole thing, thank you!! i really really appreciate it, i hope you found all this as interesting as i did!!!

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charmedtodeath · 1 year

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One Long Night | Graves/gn reader

Words: ~1.4k

TW/CW: mentions of death/violence, blood/injury

Summary: You survive a surprise ambush in the middle of winter and need to find a way to survive the night alone.

Read on AO3

a/n: y’all i am new to formatting posts on here so i’m sorry if anything is messed up!

As night falls and your extremities slowly begin to freeze, time is running out to find a way out of this that doesn't end with you turning into a popsicle.

With your rifle gone and only three rounds left in your sidearm, you've got to make this count. Winter in Russia is unforgiving, and you curse yourself for volunteering for this mission. The comms systems have for sure been compromised at this point so there isn't any use in calling for help on your radio. It's just you, the snow, and your survival skills left.

This village looks like it's been abandoned for some time. The lights aren't on, and there's definitely nobody home. This will have to do for tonight. Either you can take your chances trying to find a place to hunker down until dawn, or surely freeze to death outside in the negative temperatures. Deciding on the former, you stick to stepping in the footprints someone else has already left behind to avoid being discovered in case whoever made them is still lurking around.

Your alarm bells go off when you spot dark stains in the snow. Even in the dim moonlight, it's clear that this mysterious someone has been through here recently and they're hurt. Following the trail of blood, it leads to the door of a house that is just as dark as the others. Maybe this person has moved on to somewhere else, or they're still inside. No way to know unless you check it out. Peeking in through the windows to make sure it's safe to enter, you slowly push open the door and inspect the area for booby traps, just in case they had time to be creative. It's what you'd do if you had the time and supplies.

After clearing all the rooms which you've found to be completely empty, you decide to check the last closed door in the house and discover it leads to a basement. Light washes over the bottom steps and you listen closely to figure out if the injured person you followed is dead or alive. You can hear a voice talking to itself- they're speaking English with an American accent, meaning someone from Shadow Company could have survived the ambush. Either that, or this is an elaborate trap to lure survivors from the attack. Readying your weapon, you open the door all the way to listen more easily.

You'd know that voice anywhere. Commander Graves. He somehow made it out alive, even though you'd sworn you saw him be killed back at the warehouse.

"Commander Graves, you're alive!" you whisper-shout into the space below you. He recognizes your voice immediately.

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah, it's only me. I don't know if anyone else made it out. I'm coming down the stairs," you warn him, taking each step slowly on your nearly frozen feet.

Stooping in the low-ceilinged basement, you make your way over to Graves in the corner who's propped himself against the wall and has wrapped up a leg wound. There wasn't a significant amount of blood outside, so he should be okay for now.

"Soldier, you're covered in blood. You been hit?" Looking down, you explain yourself.

"It's not mine. They were double tapping us but I managed to get underneath enough bod-"

"I understand, you don't have to go any further. I'm sorry things turned out this way. The intel said there hadn't been any patrols there in weeks. I should've seen this coming."

"It's not your fault, Commander. You did your best to try and save us. There's no such thing as a risk-free mission, sir."

"I'm still responsible for all of you. Here, sit down. Save your energy." You join Graves on the floor and look around the small basement lit up by a battery powered lantern. There's not much here that could help and no heat sources. Well, maybe one source other than yourself.

"How the hell are we going to get out of here, sir?"

"I'm still working on that. We'll have to sit tight until daylight or we'll freeze to death outside. You see anything in here that we could use?"

Taking the lantern, you crawl around the basement and swipe cobwebs out of the way to search for useful items. Other than some empty dust covered shelves, the only items in the room are a tarp rolled up with a bungee cord and a wooden box of folded up burlap sacks. They were probably filled with potatoes or other stored vegetables at some point, but it's been a while since they've last been used. The old owners probably won't mind if you and the Commander borrow them tonight.

"Commander, I think I just found our beds for tonight. Would you like the queen or deluxe king?"

"Glad to see you've still got your sense of humor despite this mess we're in." He sounds so down and defeated. You don't really see him like this very often unless something horrible has happened.

The tarp turns out to be huge, so you refold it a few times and spread it on the floor. It won't do much in the way of softness or keeping the cold from seeping up from the floor, but it's better than sleeping on bare concrete. A layer of burlap sacks is added next, and you divide the rest between yourself and Graves to use as makeshift blankets. Your odds of survival have gone up drastically now that you've found shelter and scraps of warmth.

According to Graves' watch that survived while yours got busted, there's still about seven hours until dawn. This is going to be one long night. You briefly take off your gloves and boots to check your fingers and toes for frostbite, but they look okay for now. A couple more hours in the snow and you might have been looking at an amputation or two. Graves seems to be in decent condition, too, except for his leg wound and some major bruising. At least your leader has survived with you and you're not alone. Together, you quietly mourn your lost teammates and vow to figure out exactly what went wrong with the mission.

Trying to get to sleep in freezing temperatures with only a gun to hold on to like a teddy bear is difficult, in a word. The Commander is almost completely silent on his side of the tarp and you can only hear the soft sounds of his breathing. After about two hours of tossing and turning, Graves has had enough of your rustling and finally says something.

"Soldier, I'm having a hard time staying asleep with all the ruckus and teeth chattering. What's the matter? I thought we trained you to fall asleep in all conditions."

"I'm sorry, sir. I think I'm afraid to fall asleep for fear of dying of hypothermia."

Graves sighs. "Get over here," he orders.

"What?"

"You heard me. There's no need to be shy in a life or death situation. Scoot on over, then." Well, if he's offering, you might as well take him up on the prospect of more warmth.

Wrapping up in the burlap sacks so you're rolled like a burrito, you slide along the tarp until you feel Graves' solid body behind you. Even in the chilled room, the man still manages to throw off more heat than you expected. It's deliciously warm and starts to sink all the way into your frozen bones.

"That better?" He throws one arm across your body and pulls you as close as he can manage until you're both pressed together in the corner. Your shivering gradually stops and soon, you're no longer shuddering from the cold. As awkward as it is to be cuddled up with your boss, it just might be keeping you alive through the night.

"Much better. Beats being frozen solid outside, I guess. Thank you, Commander."

"You don't have to call me that while we're stuck here, you know. It can wait until we're able to get out of here and regroup. You won't be reprimanded or anything like that."

"Okay, um, Phillip. Thank you." It feels strange for you to address your Commander by his first name. You'd always had the utmost respect for him and admired his steadfast leadership skills, but it's nice to see him soften a little. Who knew it would take almost dying for the big, bad Commander Graves to show this side of him?

As you finally relax enough to be able to get some rest, you feel Graves snuggle against you and it warms your heart just as much as it warms your body. Getting out of the basement and trying to find a way back home? That's a problem for you to figure out in the morning.

#phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #graves mw2 #phillip graves oneshot

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strange-dreams-are-made-of-these · 2 years

Text

Can You Hear The Silence?

Pairing: Stephen Strange x F!Reader (Established relationship - Married)

Word Count: 2,913

Warnings: canon-typical violence, post-battle shock, fluff

Summary: A trip to the deli turns into one of Stephen’s worst nightmares. Will he act quickly to save the girl?

A/N: This is based on an Imagine I posted last week. I hope you enjoy the result!

Stephen had walked down the grand staircase of the Sanctum, wearing a pair of tennis shoes, jeans, a plain grey t-shirt that fit him loosely, and a black cardigan. It wasn't a cold day, but certainly cool enough to warrant a second layer of clothing. Wong had been following next to him, pulling some cash out of his pockets. "A tuna melt, if you will." He spoke, handing it over to Stephen.

Stephen stopped, taking a hold of the cash. "I'm sorry, weren't you the one who said something about the need to separate yourself from the material things in life like money?"

Wong nodded, "Yes."

Strange titled his head to the side, confused. "Then where did you get the money?"

A voice chimed in from the bottom of the stairs. "I gave it to him." A woman had been standing at the bottom of the stairs, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. She was dressed reasonably warm like Stephen was. Her tennis shoes were different from his, sporting a three-inch heel in them. Her jeans were dark, sporting a yellow tank top under her jacket. The jacket was made out of a polyester mix, a gym wear jacket she often wore when working out.

Stephen and Wong continued down the staircase, meeting the woman on the ground floor. "You gave him money?" Stephen asked her.

She nodded. "Yes, I did. Now, the next part of the journey is convincing him to walk to the deli to get his own tuna melts." She spoke, smiling brightly at the two men.

"The Sorcerer Supreme has higher duties to uphold," Wong spoke, holding his hands behind his back as he looked between Stephen and the woman. "As I recall, you two enjoy your walks to the deli."

Stephen turned to look at Wong. "Higher duties?"

"Come on, Hunny," the woman spoke, reaching her hands out to gently grip his arm. "Let's leave the great Sorcerer Supreme to his duties. I can walk around with the Guardian of the New York Sanctum... Who looks like he just walked off the set of a Taylor Swift music video."

Stephen turned to the woman, his jaw-dropping slightly. 'You have a lot of room to talk. Did you do stunt work on Bad Blood?" He asked her.

One of her eyebrows arched up, "You listened to Bad Blood?"

Stephen winked at the woman, using one hand to move hers, securing her hands between his chest and elbow. "I've listened to 1989." Stephen led the two out of the Sanctum, taking a left after leaving the stoop of the Sanctum.

The woman looked at her lover, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "I just never pinned you as a Taylor Swift fan."

Stephen looked over at her, finding her amusement funny. "I never said I was a fan."

The woman hummed before looking forward again, walking down the sidewalk of Bleecker. She had her loving husband by her side, the most cherished relationship she has had in her entire life, and nothing but the whole world before them. Everything was still in the city. It was peaceful. In fact, it was a little too peaceful.

The couple rounded the corner just as a car was thrown down the street. People began to run in several directions while a deafening growl could be heard. She shook her head before pulling her hands away from Stephen, unzipping her jacket to unveil two pieces of what appeared to be ordinary wood. Y/n was not a user of the mystic arts, but thanks to Stephen, she was actively learning the martial arts they studied. "Ah, damn. I should have stayed in my tennis shoes."

Stephen had changed his clothes with the help of his magic, the cloak of levitation securing itself on his collar. "Looks like Wong's sandwich is gonna have to wait."

Stephen began walking forward, not seeing an immediate source for the growl. The woman followed behind him, twisting the sticks in her hands before extending her arms out to the side, revealing the sticks to be staffs. There had been etchings on it glowing in orange. Stephen had used the Eye of Agamotto, pulling his hands to the side as he unveiled a group of people dressed in dark garments. They made themselves invisible to everybody. "How do we do this, babe?" The woman asked him, carefully watching the people that were attacking innocent people.

Stephen looked at the group. There had been at least seven of them. "I'm going to try to get as many of them as I can. Go left, let's try to keep them in the middle of the street."

The woman nodded before running to his left. She was regretting changing her shoes, but there was nothing she could do about them now. She needed to get the ones who were attacking the civilians away from the innocent people. Her first target was a man who was twice her size. He had seen her running towards him. He brought his hands together, cracking his knuckles and grinning at her. Y/n was a master at identifying weaknesses, noticing how the man had been very built in his arms and chest. She used this to her advantage.

He stepped forward, throwing his fist out towards her. She slid on her knees, avoiding his fist. She swung around, swinging her staff at him striking his upper back. She popped up quickly watching as the man took a few seconds to turn around to face her. He was durable, yet slow. "Aww, is the big bad man afraid to hit a girl?"

He did not like her taunts. He shook his arms out in front of him, balling his hands into fists. Y/n took off running, slowing her pace so he could chase her. She had her eyes set on another target in front of her. Two people had weapons, a type of sonic gun. One of them pointed at the woman running toward them. The man pointed his gun at her, firing the weapon. Y/n was barely able to avoid the initial blast, quickly ducking behind a car that was tossed in the middle of the road. The blast instead hit the taller man that was chasing her, knocking him backward with an audible thud, shaking the ground beneath him.

The woman looked up, seeing the pair again. She watched as the man with the gun ducked down, fumbling with the weapon. She guessed it had to have some type of charge in order to fire, as and weapon of its caliber would require. She darted out from the side, going towards the two individuals.

As she was running, she heard the cries of a young child. She was caught off guard as she spotted a young girl standing next to a trash can, a stuffed animal in her hands. She couldn't continue fighting while a helpless child was caught up in the middle. She veered off her path for the two people dressed in dark garments, heading for the child. She put her staffs away, tucking them into her jacket again. She held her arms out, scooping the child up. 'Come on, let's get you back to where you belong." Y/n was careful to shield the child from any debris that was falling from the sky. She spotted two men standing at the corner of the street where she and Stephen had been earlier. They were frantic, looking at the chaos, and the girl pointed at them, calling for them.

Y/n ran towards the men, slowing down once meeting them. She held the girl out to them as one of them reached for the girl. The woman didn't stay around for long, heading back towards the fight. She was stopped by another one of the opposing figures. He stood his ground as he stared at her. The woman stopped before him, keeping her distance. She knew he meant business. "How does this go? Do you talk first? Do I talk first?"

The man's fingers flexed, pointing towards her. Her arms were forced to rest at her sides, her legs pulled together. She was then pulled towards him, stopping a foot before him. It felt as if all of her muscles were forced to flex, feeling her back and neck strain. He chuckled under his breath before beginning to float, heading to the top of the building next to them, overlooking the battle below.

Wong had joined the fight, making quick use of his eldritch whip and sword. The man rested peacefully on the side of the building, Y/n still encased in his hold but floating in the air. Below her feet was nothing except for space and the road. They must have been at least six stories high, observing the fight. "Your friends have made many enemies, Miss. It's a shame really, we could all have what we want without having to make things so messy."

He turned her around to face him. She tried flexing her fingers and toes but to no avail. It was almost as if she was in a total paralytic state. Her jaw clenched, trying to speak to him. He had made sure she was silent, his hold controlling her vocal cords.

The man smirked, looking down at the road below them. "Do you have a fear of heights? I find them dizzying myself, actually." He kicked his boot out slightly, a rock falling from the roof to the street below. He looked up at her, pointing his finger. "It's simple, really. What my employer wants is down there." He moved his hand to point toward Wong. "Give us the Sorcerer Supreme, and all of this goes away. We leave your city, and you go back to going on your lovely jogs and whatever it is you do for this place."

The woman had struggled to make even a little bit of sound, but her attempts had all failed. The man shook his head looking at her. "I can't seem to help but feel this conversation is all one-sided. So, let's make this easier. You get one word, one word only. Just say yes. Say yes, and you get to live. Any other word, and it's the concrete floor for your final resting place. I know you'll cooperate."

She could feel a slight pressure leave her chest and throat. She knew she could speak again. She looked below her, seeing Wong and Stephen fighting the others, not too many were left standing. There was no way she was going to let them think they could take Wong away. She wasn't talented like they were. She wasn't an Avenger, she wasn't a mystic arts user. She had been employed by Stark Industries years ago, working in the Avengers tower. That was where she had met Stephen, how they got to where they were today. She looked from the street to the man, taking in a deep breath.

He eyed her, holding his hand out in front of him. "Come on, we don't have all day!"

She spoke the first thing that came to her mind, yelling it as loud as she could. "STRANGE!"

Stephen had knocked two of the people out, putting them under a bind using his magic. He spotted the big one that Y/n had managed to take out moments earlier. He saw Wong battling two more people, but he couldn't help but think something was off. There were three people knocked out, Wong was dueling two people, and the chaos was diminishing. But where was-

"STRANGE!"

His eyes widened. She never called him that. Of all the times they spoke before dating, she always called him Doctor. While they were dating, it was Stephen or Hunny. Since being married, it was Hunny, Babe, Stephen, or another soft pet name. She never called him Strange, never yelled it out. Something was wrong.

He looked up, seeing his wife begin to fall from the top of the building. IN a swift motion, he commanded the cloak of levitation to race towards her. The woman was falling faster and faster, thinking that she was going to meet her end. She took in a deep breath before feeling a light sensation again. The cloak wrapped itself around her, beginning to take her towards Stephen. Once within arms reach, Stephen grabbed the woman, holding her close to him. The embrace was a desperate one, seeing how quickly his happiness was almost shattered. Y/n wrapped her arms around him, not knowing how to feel. She wanted to cry, run, scream, throw up, and hide. She almost felt numb, more than likely shock setting in.

She pulled away from him, his hands searching her face for any injuries. "They... They are here for Wong." She told him, her eyes meeting his.

Wong had finished battling the two others. He raced over, looking at the two Stranges. Stephen looked from his wife to Wong. After seeing he was fine, he looked back tot he woman, feeling terrible that she had to go through such an event. Police sirens could be heard, people were screaming and chattering, some recording on their phones. Stephen looked at the top of the building, seeing a man peering over the edge before disappearing into thin air. Wong followed his gaze, watching the man in black disappear.

Stephen looked back to Y/n, his hands holding her face as her hands reached up to hold his wrists. She looked pale, her gaze falling from his face. Stephen knew she was in shock, and she needed away from the scene quickly.

Stephen returned the two of them to the Sanctum. He made sure Y/n was comfortable, sitting in the sitting area at the top of the stairs. She was silent, something he never knew her to be. "Y/n? Sweetheart?" His hand reached out to cover one of her hands.

She looked over at him, her eyes focusing on him. She had felt time passing her by so slowly. "Babe?" She asked him, wondering what was going on. He was out of his casual clothes, wearing his blue garment set.

Stephen grew concerned over Y/n. He knew that his wife was an incredible woman, but she wasn't a superhero. She was selfless, and she was willing to fight by his side if it meant being with him. He knew he should have had her run back to get Wong or hide. He trusted her too much in battle, something that could have gone wrong easily. It almost did.

She watched the way he was acting, and it bothered her. She placed one hand over the top of his, being careful of his scars knowing how light sensations could cause him pain. "I'll be fine. Nobody got hurt, did they?" She asked him.

Stephen looked at her, relief flushing his face. It was normal for her to be more concerned about others before herself. "Nobody got hurt. Except for the ones who deserved it." She nodded, a thin smile painted on her face. Stephen observed her as she let go of his hand, reaching her arms around him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as close as he could.

He always smelled so good. It almost grounded her, and in times like these, it really helped to settle her nerves. "That little girl was so scared, Stephen." She whispered, remembering saving the girl and returning her to her dad's.

Stephen caressed the back of her neck as she nuzzled her way into his neck. "I know, but you saved her. I'd say that makes you a hero."

She was silent for a minute or so before speaking again. "Do you get scared?"

Stephen nodded, licking his lips. "You gave me a good fright there for a moment." He replied. "But, that fear is a part of the job. If there is a part of you that isn't scared about the outcome, then you're not fighting for the right reasons."

She pulled away from him slowly, but only to be able to look at his face, her arms still wrapped around him. "the right reasons?"

Stephen brushed a piece of hair out of her face. He smiled at her question, pulling her closer to him before pressing a kiss on her forehead. "I used to do all of this because it is what I made out of myself. Now, I do it for you. You are what I focus on during my battles, being able to come home to you and seeing your face. How incredibly lucky I am to have you in my life."

She looked down the entire time, only looking up at him at the end of his sentence. She hated how he still made her blush, much like the first time they met, but she loved him more than what she thought she was capable of. He was her world, she would be lost without him. "I never call you Strange." She replied, her eyes searching his. "I was just..."

Stephen nodded. "I know. It's okay. You're home now." She felt comfortable again, having slipped out of her shocked state. She reached up, pressing a kiss to his lips before nuzzling between his neck and shoulder. Stephen held her in his arms, leaning back on the couch with Y/n laying on his chest. The cloak had laid itself down on top of the couple, covering them up for some well-deserved rest.

#stephen strange #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x y/n #doctor strange #doctor strange x reader #doctor strange x y/n #marvel

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tentatechnologies · 2 years

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i don’t normally do this type of post, i never have reason to, but i wanted to write down or go relatively in-depth with the process of that last piece so i can hopefully replicate the results (or if anyone was curious). and also because i think the initial sketch is hilarious:

before i put a cut on this monstrosity of a post, these are the lines and flats; there were a few details that got lost under the shading so now you can see the gradients on her tentacles, etc.

now let’s get crack a lackin’

composition-wise i had a vague idea that i wanted both her hands in the shot, a prominent feature of her smile, and the lettering in the bottom left-hand corner; of which the hardest part was placing both her hands until i had the idea of her leaning against her shoulder.

since i swapped to csp from sai, my sketches have gotten looser and simpler in style, which isn’t a bad thing but wasn’t what i wanted out of this pic. i especially wanted to evoke the way i used to draw marlo’s teeth and did my best to replicate the brush i used to sketch in sai, and then i drew the rest of the owl. (and refined the text.)

(on god, there are no layers in-between these two.)

i did not have to line this from here but i wanted to, so i did. i think that took the bulk of the time spent on this... somewhere around 7 to 9 hours?

i wasn’t thinking about line-weight all that much, really, apart from mimicking the heavier and thicker areas of the sketch—normally i would have a light-source in mind already, and thin the lines which would be under direct light and thicken the ones in the shadows, but i really didn’t think i was gonna render this yet. for as long as it takes lineart is the least-complicated step so... that’s that.

for clarity, i won’t include this version in the process, but for all my artfight attacks thus far i’ve duplicated the lineart layer and used some effect to add some soft red rim to it all. in this instance the duplicated layer is a soft vivid red on color burn and blurred a little; the main lineart is on hard light so it can show against the darker colors.

the flats have a few things going on; they’re a mix of my own color choices (for example, her main skin tone is the same color i used to sketch) and eyedropped, which i don’t normally do but you just can’t get better than dolly’s native colors imo. instead, the skin colors from her ref made up the highlights and flush points. i was gonna do the same thing on her tentacles but gave up because i couldn’t figure it out LOL. most everything was magic wand’d for ease of selection, though i like to color by hand.

oooookay, so now we get into shading. i wasn’t planning on doing anything extra beyond nab a few extra points with a rough excuse for ‘fully shaded’, but i started screwing around with layer modes and, well, that was all she wrote.

first step: saturated teal on 100% multiply. (i think it was a color i eyedropped from one of splatoon’s assets for my last zine piece, actually.) i blocked it in chunks and refined it with the g-pen and eraser, celshading everything like i normally do, and then stumbled face-first into blending instead. clip’s default gouache blender for that, at various sizes depending how broad or subtle i wanted the blend. i sort of kept the shadows crisp near where they were cast (i.e. her arm against her tentacle) and faded on wider planes like her arms & chest but mostly i did whatever i liked.

duplicated the layer and set it on top, a bright red on 100% saturation. i use the HSV sliders the most and the red was, itself, 100 saturation. i wanted extra vibrancy without having to literally paint with more saturated colors and this was the best solution i could come up with.

now the light source; a linear burn layer on 23% opacity, a rich gold color (i think one of the ones i’ve used for ness’ ink at some point); cool shadows mean a warm light source. normally i would magic wand the celshading and invert selection, but since i’d already painted everything, i ... did the same and expanded the selection significantly, overlapping with the saturation layer/‘subsurface scattering’, and softened the edges down. not recommended, will make sure to think ahead next time lmao.

now we start to get complicated and i started throwing things to find if they stick. this one’s a soft light layer with pink and blue airbushed on; the pink to add further vibrancy and depth to her skin, accentuate the flush points from above, and create color variation and vibrancy in her tentacles. the blue got used for a rough approximation of bounce light and to create a bit more depth in the shadows. i wasn’t super precise with the placement, but it isn’t obvious either way.

the top is a very pale tan on soft light, there’s not a lot to this; it’s very broad highlights and i just kinda did whatever in terms of the shapes.

the bottom is the addition of another vivid light layer, a similar if not the same pale tan airbrushed over and around the broader gloss. i layered it heavier where that gloss was more pronounced, especially closest to the light source, but bled it out farther to create the illusion of... i don’t know if you would call it refraction or subsurface scattering again, but some extra depth. there’s also a few speckles to dampen the impact of the shine on her nose and lips & accentuate the shine of her teeth.

and that’s all of it! i made this whole thing up as i went along but i am Definitely gonna attempt recreating and refining it. if you read this far, thank you so much, i am handing you a plate of homemade sugar cookies

#art ref #<for my sake #thou art mine

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mmorgsalsa · 2 years

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transistorsex · 2 years

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Modify a classic: BSS AR-133 DI Box! Power switch & Link Buffer (dealer options)

Below is the schematic of the AR-133 . . . if you look at the bottom left corner, you'll see "LK4", which represents the factory-equipped link directly paralleling the output jack to the input jack. Directly below the opamp IC2A you'll see "LK3", which is open from the factory. These points can be found as pairs of solder pads on the PC board, labelled as LK3 and LK4.

If you remove LK4 (cut the trace on the PC board with an X-Acto knife) and solder a jumper across LK3, the "thru" jack (actually labeled "link" on my AR-133s) takes its signal from the output of the buffer opamp IC2A, rather than directly from the input jack. The result is that the guitar's pickup is isolated from the effects of any cables or equipment connected to the "link" output jack . . . so if you use the DI directly off the guitar (and keep the guitar cable a reasonable length), you'll have as little capacitance as possible loading the guitar's pickup.

There are two tradeoffs - first, if you have a failure of the DI itself or its power source (either battery or P48), the link output goes dead as well . . . but I don't personally think this is any more of a liability than any one of hundreds of other points of failure in a typical live-sound signal chain. The second is that if you use the -20dB pad (for i.e. a hot keyboard output), the link output is also affected (lowered by 20dB), and you might have to raise the gain of an on-stage amp to compensate.

In the upper-right area of the schematic you'll also see "LK1" and "LK2" . . . these jumpers determine whether or not the power switch has any effect when running from phantom. As shipped, turning off the power switch ALWAYS turns off the DI . . . but if you cut LK2 and solder LK1, then the power switch only turns it off when running from the battery. With phantom power it'll remain on no matter the position of the power switch, and this is how I prefer to use them.

Source: Posted by kirkus on Gearspace.com, 7th April 2018 (link)

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mixedindy · 2 years

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#uploads #art #pastel #source in bottom left corner of post!!#not image!#post itself <3

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artfest · 3 years

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#uploads #art #quotes #words #typografie #ariana grande #rem #sweetner #excuse me i love you #artsy #digitalart #lyrics #music #curators of tumblr #source in bottom left corner of post!#not image! post itself <3

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george-fabian-weasley · 3 years

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if we had 5 more minutes — f. w.

Summary: You thought you could save Fred from the rumbles of falling stones; you did your best, only to be in the rumbles with him instead.

Words: 2,160 words

Warnings ⚠ : ANGST, TW: Death, TW: Battle of Hogwarts, TW: war, TW: injuries, Fred died, you died, big Pain™, I strongly suggest tissues and a dozen of comfort chocolates, I cried so you will too, Basically An Emotional Rollercoaster, Read At Your Own Risk

Disclaimer: inspired by Billie Eilish's cover of The End of The World, so... ya'll know this is going to be a painful ride. Buckle up your seatbelts and enjoy. Reblogs and Comments are Highly Appreciated! <3 p/s: reading this with the song at the background really helps with the tear pouring effect ;)

Disclaimer 2.0: i know what yall are thinking... what tf is syaf doing, posting a fic when she’s in a hiatus she just posted yesterday? Also where is mad hatter chap 5 and epilogue? well, my brain likes to conjure up ideas at very inappropriate times (like rn) so bare with me and uh i’ve been really physically and mentally exhausted from work (retail is bathshit crazy) to write the mad hatter series so idk when will i update the two chapters but i’m working on it! thank you for being patient, and im sorry for causing you guys to wait for so long, ilysm don’t kill me <3

masterlist! | general taglist! | buy me a coffee!

The end of the world.

The Battle of Hogwarts looked like the end of the world. Curses and spells thrown left to right, different kinds of bodies found at each corner and crook, walls here and there crumbling as down as hope for freedom. And blood.

At that point of time, the pools of blood on the floor look the same; pureblood or not. Because they bleed the same anguish red.

You didn't need to see the apocalypse of the world anymore. Screw the end of Mother Earth; this battle in front of your eyes was more than enough — sadly — to be your end of the world.

“Hey,” You called, causing Fred to turn his head around to your direction, his lips etched up a smile before replying with another hey. You sat next to him, the place where George had sat before he got up and left to speak with Professor Lupin.

Evil is winning, and good is losing. But then again, what difference would it make; if good kills as many as evil? At the end of the world, there is no good and evil alone. There are desperation, madness, and hunger for power, lust for victory brought along with them.

So, at the end of the world, you chose to be side by side with your lover, Fred Weasley. The red-headed dork you’ve taught yourself to pour your love into had become the very source of your life. He is your elixir, he is your soul, heart, and happiness.

It was silent for a while, none of you had anything to say. Yet the silence was comforting, with only the presence of each other as calming as it is. “Y/N,” Fred suddenly turned his head to you, biting his lower lip in contemplation. “Hm?” “Can you just stay at the Burrow?”

You blinked, “What?” Fred sighed, “Can you just stay at the Burrow right now and not join the war? I- I don’t want you to join in-” “Fred-” “I-It’s dangerous and it’s literally a war a-and I don’t want you to get hurt I would- I would rather die than have you hurt-”

“Fred!” You raised your voice, your hand clasping onto his securely, an effort to calm his frenzied thoughts. He stopped rambling and stared at you with those doe eyes you adored so much, “You know I can’t do that.”

“We need everyone on board for this war. I am no exception- bloody hell, even your parents are joining in, Freddie!” You tried to explain slowly, and Fred closed his eyes in denial of defeat.

“I love you,” he suddenly blurted out. He noticed the slight fluster you had, your eyebrows were raised for a millisecond before they furrowed upon a realization, “Wait, why are you saying this now? I-“ “I love you, Y/N,” he repeated himself and you shook your head, realizing what he was doing, “Wait, hold on a minute, no-“

He was saying it in case anything happens.

“Y/N, I love you-” “Don’t you dare say it one more time like you’re not gonna make it, Fred Weasley, I swear to Merlin,” You cut him off, your jaw clenching at his absurdness. “… Aren’t you gonna say it back?” Fred asked, his voice was small.

“I-” You sighed, “No, I won’t because I don’t want to say it right now, given the circumstances,” You paused, your voice quieting down, “It felt like a goodbye when you say it like that.” “Then when will you say it? We’ve been dating for almost a year and you'd never say it before,” He said.

“Really? This is the time to argue about this?” You gave him a pointed look, but your expression softened as you understood the meaning behind his actions. “Look, Freddie, I- You know how I feel about us,” You sighed, looking down at your hands on your lap, “You know I’m not that expressive with my words but- but I’m trying and- okay, let’s make a deal,” Fred’s ears perked up the mention of a deal. "I'm listening," he drawled.

“I’ll say the words when the war is over,” Fred gave you a sour look that clearly said ‘really?’ and it caused you to huff a smile, “Once everything is over, and everything is okay again, I’ll say them as many times as you want me to, okay?” Fred leaned into your touch as you cupped his cheek with your hand, kissing his forehead.

“Even if I made you say it a thousand times?” He asked and you chuckled, your heart warming at his childlike question, “I’ll say it for an hour if you asked me to.”

It happened so fast.

One second you were fighting off the Death Eaters with Percy and Fred, and then the other, you find your body aching at the major pressure from the rocks and debris that used to be Hogwarts’ protective wall from the outside world.

It was dark, and it was dusty, but you were too unconscious to notice. That was until you felt your cheek being patted a few times. As you gained consciousness with a cough or two, you also gained the pending pain spreading all across your whole body. You couldn’t feel your legs, or safe to say your whole lower body part.

Memories of you a few moments ago trying to push Fred away from the rumbles but ended up facing the falling stones head-on with him instead began to flow back into your mind. How foolish could you be to act like a hero, as if you could sacrifice yourself for him to live.

“… Y-Y/N…”

You turned your head with a silent grunt, and your eyes fixate at the body beside you, a few feet away, Fred.

He had blood leaking from his nose and ears, probably from the impact, and his face was dusty with debris from the stones. As he looked at you, he threw you a smile; a weak, hiding the fact that he’s in immense pain kind of smile.

“F-fancy seeing you here,” he grunted with a wince, a smile nevertheless rested on his lips. “Fred…” you could only mutter his name, closing your eyes for a brief second at the growing pain on your thighs. The pressure from the rumbles had slowly increased, and you felt yourself losing consciousness again. Only to be brought back to open your eyes as Fred poked your cheeks a few more times, “Hey, hey, s-stay with me, love.”

“We’ll… We’ll be okay.”

You winced at the trickling sensation on your skin as you tried to move your fingers towards him, “It’s… It’s impossible, Fred…” You voiced out, your voice cracking up. You saw Fred’s lips quivered before he threw you another comforting smile, “Don’t… Don’t say that. We’ll make it… I-I know we will.”

“We… We will?”

Groaning from the injuries on his body as he tried to move closer to you, he nodded, “We will.”

You felt his fingers trying to reach for yours, and you handed him assistance as you hooked your fingers with his. His hand was cold, trembling. But it was Fred’s. And Fred’s hand is always warm.

“It’s… It’s so heavy,” You whimpered in pain, looking at Fred for comfort. All Fred wished to do at the moment was to be strong enough. Strong enough to push off these rumbles pressing onto his body. Strong enough to pull you out from the pain. All he wished for was for you to not be in pain anymore. But he knew he couldn’t do anything. The rumbles were too big, too heavy, and it would take a while for anyone to find them at the bottom of everything.

Fred breathed out heavily through his mouth, slowly finding it difficult to breathe through his nose anymore, trying his best to look strong for you, “Stay with me, love. S-stay with me. Five more minutes. F-five more minutes and they’ll- they’ll save us…”

“Fred…”

“Five more minutes, I promise…”

You saw the desperation in his eyes, trying his best to somehow keep you afloat until you two are saved. You heard muffles from the other side, Percy screaming for Fred and you. His screams were sad and painful to hear; you would’ve cried for him if it wasn’t for the constant high-pitched ringing in your ears.

“Fred, h-hold my hand. P-please,” You whispered, finding no more strength to say anything louder than a whisper. He instantly intertwined your fingers with his, stretching as far as he could to reach you; no matter how screeching the pain in his lower body was.

“Fred,” You called him again. He chuckled a bit, “You’re… you’re saying my name a lot of times right now, darling.” You huffed a smile, the corner of your lips twitched, “… I want to ask you something.”

“… Anything.”

Your eyes met his, even in the darkness, his eyes still managed to look so beautiful. So earthly beautiful. “… Are you happy, Freddie?”

There was something about the way you say it, Fred couldn’t get a touch of what it was but… it felt like a goodbye. As much as Fred hated to admit, he wasn’t holding on much longer either. He was bleeding heavily from everywhere, his wand was out of his reach, and his body was starting to numb. His vision began to blur by itself, hence he blinked his eyes repeatedly. Trying his best to see your features clearly, one last time, if the worst happens.

This is it, he thought. This is the end of my line.

Finding an urge to cry, but didn’t have enough strength to sob, Fred let out a tear or two onto the dusty surface he laid his head on, his eyes closing after the content stare of your beautiful— though bloody and dusty— face. How ironic, he’s slipping away first even though he was the one who said five more minutes.

If only you had five more minutes.

“W-with… With you? Heh, always… “ The whisper coming out from his mouth caused you to narrow your eyes at him. It felt strange, it felt wrong. Was he saying goodbye? Watching Fred close his eyes was alarming, so you gained all your strength to pat his hand a few times, “H-hey, Freddie… Five more minutes. Hang… Hang on for five more minutes, please.”

You squeezed his hand, and he naturally squeezed back, only this time it was weaker than usual. His grip on your hand started to soften, but you tightened yours desperately. The pain all over your body was partially forgotten, your only focus was on keeping Fred breathing and alive, as well as yourself.

“I’m… I’m trying, my love… but I’m sleepy… and tired…” he mumbled, his words became slurred by time. He was on the edge, you realized that. Upon the sad realization, you bit your tongue, trying your best to prepare for the worst. “L-look at me, darling,” Your voice quivered, feeling the sandy surface on your temple as you tried to force your eyes open, to properly look at him, “Look at me.”

You knew it. He was slipping away from your fingers, and you were slipping too. It didn’t matter anymore even if Percy bulldozed his way to you now, it was too late. Simply too late. And that’s none of his faults. It’s none of his and none of yours.

Some things are just meant to be.

You took your other hand and placed it onto his cold, dirty cheek. Caressing his cheekbone gently, you gave him a comforting smile, “Fred.”

He looked at you, a faint smile on his lips. He’s at the end, you acknowledged. You widen your smile to assure him, although the tears escaping your eyes say otherwise, “… You make me happy. You make me so so happy. And I… I love you.”

“I love you, Freddie.”

With a big smile, Fred widened his eyes weakly, letting out a sigh of content as he looked at you with gentle eyes,“… Now that wasn’t so hard, now was it?“

Gentle eyes that soon hollowed empty.

“Yeah,” the dam of your tears broke down, “Took me a long time...” You squeezed his now lifeless hand, trying to find comfort and warmth from him for the last time. You smiled at Fred, whilst tears rolling down your temple slowly as if mourning the passing of your lover for you. You inched closer to him, careful not to graze your injuries, and met your nose with his.

You caressed his cheek, finally feeling yourself lose consciousness. This is it, you thought, I won’t wake up ever again. “You said we’ll be okay,” You whispered weakly, huffing a content smile on your lips. Staring into his eyes that had held so much love and pure unadulterated affection for you all these years, now empty with no trace of life, had sent you into pain more powerful than the injuries present on and in your body.

“I guess we will be, after this.”

“… You spent your last five minutes with me, huh?” You felt yourself going in and out of consciousness, and your vision blurring continuously, “Aren’t you a sappy git,” the mere whisper escaped your mouth with a sigh. The warm smile never left your lips, and the only thing in your mind was how peaceful he looked as of that moment, and you wondered if you’ll ever be in that state of peace, with him.

“No- no- no!” someone was shouting. “No! Fred! no!” And Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron was kneeling beside them with his hand on Y/N’s head, and the pair of lovers stared at each other without seeing, the ghost of their last smile still etched upon their faces.

On our last few drags of air, we agree

I was, and you were

Happy

TAGLIST:

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#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasley angst #fred weasley fic #fred weasley fanfiction #fredweasley #frederick gideon weasley

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shurisneakers · 3 years

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shut in [1]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Gender Neutral Reader)

Warnings: cursing, violence, guns, death

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: greetings. i have returned with a series that i have actually finished writing beforehand so i just have to post the chapters and yes this means i will not let this go incomplete shoutout to my bitch @midnightsunfae for putting up w me mwah lov u if i’ve completely butchered sam’s character, tell me so i can delete my entire account pls and thanks

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Shut In Masterlist || Main Masterlist

“Alexander Pierce.” The file fell on the table with a resounding thud.

“What about him?”

“I want him dead.”

The house stood tall; obnoxious, almost, with loud embellishments of gold. It screamed wealth spent lavishly and without any reasonable thought.

Also it was ugly.

You scaled the gate, landing on the gravel silently. There were no security measures that you could see beyond the automated entry and CCTV whose light wasn’t blinking. Must have been a power outage. An unlikely coincidence, but it just made your job easier.

You made a move towards the side of the house, staying close to the trees that lined the driveway, out of the direct line of sight of the house’s front door.

His car was parked outside; a swanky looking race car kept outside just for show. He was definitely at home.

A window at the side of the mansion was left slightly ajar. A quick sweep up the side of the house proved that the rest of them were shut.

Your eyebrow quirked up in suspicion, quickly taking a look around to see if you were being watched. For a few seconds the world didn’t seem to move, eerily silent other than the rustling of leaves.

Pierce was clearly the flagbearer of home security.

You stuffed your gun into the waistband of your pants, freeing both your hands to tug yourself into the room.

Your gun found its way into your hand once more as you scanned the room. He wasn’t on the bed. You deemed the silence as an indicator to safely to move ahead.

So far it seemed easy.

Too easy?

Ransone’s body was spread across his chair, leisurely stroking at his stubble. His other hand thrummed rhythmically at the timber in front of him. His eyes were glazed over; physically present but mind wandering elsewhere.

You waited for him to explain further, knowing better than to interrupt his train of thought.

He had the strangest penchant for drama and theatre. From what you could gather of the dim light in the room and his stance, he had just watched The Godfather. Again.

“Do you know how long it took me to build this business?” His words sounded like a musing, akin to a private thought he was letting you in on. “This empire, Y/N?”

“Twenty three years.” Your arms were crossed behind you, a sign of discipline he demanded from all members of the organisation.

“And I haven’t gotten there by being the neighbourhood church boy.” He gestured to one of the two men beside him, a rifle strung across their back at the ready. One of them-- Rumlow-- stepped forward, lighting a cigar and handing it to him.

He took a long drag, taking his time to exhale, flicking at the cigar to get rid of the loose ash. If he just got to the point, you could have left about twenty minutes ago.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he admitted, “but you know? I won’t be blamed for them. A bit of collateral damage was inevitable.”

His chair swayed from side to side as his feet thumped at the table. It annoyed you endlessly. You never told him.

“And you know how I feel about collateral damage, right?”

“Show no mercy.”

The house was silent, except for the faint sound of the television some distance away. You wouldn’t have been able to see if not for the moonlight that illuminated the space through the large windows.

Your gun pressed tightly to your side, you made your way down the open hallway. As you passed by the kitchen, the ticking of the timer on the oven made you pause. The oven itself wasn’t on but the clock was still ticking.

A bowl was kept on the marble island separating the rest of the hall from the kitchen. A pair of car keys lay mangled among a couple of dollar bills and loose change like he threw it in carelessly.

Continuing further down the hall, you came to the realisation that it culminated in a room that faced his backyard. Only a single glass sheet acted as a barrier between him and the outdoors.

You could hear the show getting louder, hidden from your line of sight by the couch in front of it.

Pierce’s head faced away from you and towards the only light source in the room. He hadn’t heard you come in.

From what you could see, he was asleep. Head slumped slightly, arm slinked over the backrest and no other movement.

It wasn’t actually a TV, just an iPad on its loudest setting with Netflix playing what looked like Horrible Bosses. A man with exquisite taste, obviously.

You took one step at a time, slowly making your way towards the couch until you were just a step or two behind him. You raised your arm, pressing your gun to the back of his head.

“Show no mercy,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth turning upward as he looked at you.

You wanted to shift under his stare. Your muscles were beginning to feel a dull burn, a sign that you had been standing still for too long.

“So tell me, after all my effort-” he stuck his bottom lip out mockingly- “should I let my fucking company get destroyed by one person?”

His hand harshly slammed down on the table as he lurched forward in his chair, eyes seething.

You nearly jumped at his sudden change in demeanour, knuckles tightening in anticipation.

“Tell me, boys, how far do I tolerate liars?” His stare didn’t waver, looking straight into your eyes.

“You don’t.” Their voices were eerily synchronised. You wondered if they ever rehearsed together. Probably did.

“Lovely.” Ransone smiled, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t.”

“Liars?” Your voice had risen by an octave or two, your surprise catching you off guard.

“Someone has been sneaking information to Serpentine for nearly two years.” A chill ran down your spine, the muscles in your jaw tightening. “They’ve been growing exponentially and someone’s been helpin’ them do it.”

Only someone didn’t fear death would turn their back on him. Someone who had nothing to lose.

“We have reason to believe it’s Pierce.”

A moment passed where you expected him to wake up, turn around and look at you so that you could deliver Ransone’s message to him, a quippy one liner about betrayal or something.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his head shifted under the pressure of your gun, falling over as if it was weightless.

Your face pulled into a frown as you made your way to the front of the couch swiftly, gun still held tightly in front of you.

Your shadow dimmed the light that fell on him from the iPad, but it was impossible to deny.

A single gunshot to the front of his head. Eyes wide open, red from the lack of moisture. The blood around him painted a gory scene that was impossible to notice from behind.

“What the-” you murmured, lowering your arm.

“I can tolerate one mistake. Everyone deserves that.” Ransone shrugged offhandedly. “But this isn’t the first one he’s made.”

“So you want him gone.”

“That would be lovely, yes.” He relaxed into his chair once again, taking another hit from his cigar.

“Why do you want me to do it?” you asked, eyebrows knitted together. Generally he would send you for something more high-profile. Raids, infiltrations. These kinds of hits were what you left behind years ago.

“A spy has security from the ones they’re working for. It’s possibly more dangerous.” His feet found its way onto the table, one over the other as he stretched back. “And I’m not sure my other agent can make it.”

“Thanks,” you spoke monotonously. “Glad to know I’m your first choice.”

“Don’t take it personally.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “He probably won’t show.”

His sleeve fell slightly to reveal a sliver of his tattoo. A spider, the symbol of his authority.

Each of his employees had a web inked on their skin that grew with each passing year of their service. It was how you identified each other in passing.

“You have an opening on Friday. His house help leaves at 8 sharp and he’s alone.”

You nodded, picking up the file in front of him, avoiding his fingers that had returned to thrumming on the tabletop. You acknowledged the two men beside him before making your way toward the door.

This house was all the way across the country. No wonder he gave you a bit more time as compared to usual to prepare.

“It’ll be done.”

The sound of a gun clicking away from you made the hair on your neck stand up.

You sprung up, arms extended in front of you instinctively towards the sound.

Even in the dim light of the room, you could see a man standing a few feet away from you. His hand held a glock, aimed towards you.

Neither of you said a word. Time stood still for all you cared. The only indication that it didn’t was that Horrible Bosses was still playing.

“Who the fuck are you?” you finally asked, voice surprisingly calm for the adrenaline that was spiking through your body.

“Who are you?” he questioned in retaliation, tone curt.

“I asked first.” You wondered if he could see you roll your eyes.

He didn’t reply, obviously.

A beat passed and you almost forgot the dead body that lay near your knees. Almost. It didn’t help that his fingers were nearly touching your leg like some kind of pervert; not that you could blame him for it this time.

“Did you kill him?” he finally relented, mentioning towards him quickly with a tug of his shoulder.

“What-” You recoiled, head slightly jerking back in disbelief. “No. Didn’t you?”

“He was like this when I got here.” He paused, and you let him speak. “And then you came in; thought you were comin’ back to check.”

“I just got here.”

“I can’t confirm that.�� His answer was instantaneous, almost cutting you off before you finished.

“And I can’t confirm you didn’t kill him.” You took a step away from Pierce, never breaking his gaze. “The odds are kinda against you here.”

“I didn’t kill him.” He only took a step toward you, making you stop where you were. He wasn’t going to let you get out of this.

“What a compelling argument,” you drawled sarcastically. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Cookin’ him dinner,” he snapped back quickly in a manner that would usually make you smile if it weren’t for the situation you were in presently. “What do you think?”

“Who sent you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why did they send you?”

“I can’t tell you that either.”

“Then give me a reason why I shouldn’t pull this trigger right now.”

“You first.”

It was a shame you had to kill him. You found his resilience fun.

“Well, it was pleasant-” You were cut off by the sound of a bullet whizzing past your head. It struck the vase next to the couch, instantly exploding into hundreds of shards.

“Did you just fucking shoot at me?” you yelled, swiftly raising your gun so that it was pointed at his forehead.

But he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at the large glass, too distracted to pay heed to what you were saying.

You slowly followed his line of sight to the window.

A large fracture in the glass surrounded a small hole, nearly invisible from your distance if you weren’t looking hard enough.

You looked back at him to find him staring at you.

A split second later the glass sheet shattered, sending the pieces all over the room. You launched yourself behind the couch heavily, avoiding the barrage of bullets being shot your way.

From the corner of your eye you could see the man dive to take cover behind the couch with you.

“What the fuck?” you asked loudly, back pressed against the backrest as various items shattered around you. “Who the hell are these guys?”

“The shittiest bodyguards ever.” He looked over his shoulder but slid back down again when a shot nearly missed his face.

You didn’t even know where to shoot; the bullets just seemed to be coming from the shadows of the trees.

Taking a moment to assess the man breathing hard next to you. He was tall and muscular, a tight fighting shirt stretching across his chest. His hair was cropped, eyes dark with what looked like irritation more than anger. Hot.

Your attention was drawn to a trail of blood left on his forehead as he wiped at it with his forearm, him seemingly unaware of it.

“Dude, I think you got grazed.”

He looked at you questioningly. You pointed at his arm with your shoulder. His eyes dropped to it, letting out a string of curses as he tugged his sleeve back to look at the wound.

He didn’t have to pull it back much before the sight of a familiar design greeted you.

A spider web. Drawn intricately with the lines stretching delicately across his skin like lace.

A tattoo.

“You work for Ransone?” None of this made sense. Why were there two of you on the same mission? Who was this guy? Was he supposed to be here?

You didn’t wait for his answer, pulling your sleeve back to reveal the same tattoo, smaller in size, but indicative enough.

He took a second to process. You could almost see the gears turning in his head.

“Great,” he finally said as a bullet lodged itself in the wall you were facing, bitterness lacing his words. “It’s a set up.”

“Oh, one more thing, Y/N.”

You spun on your heel to look at him. A devilish smile grew on his face.

“Remember- we don’t tolerate liars.”

You stared at him, not uttering a word, waiting for him to make his point.

“So make sure you let him know that.” His smile only grew as you turned around and walked out the door, letting it shut behind you.

The crunching of feet over glass made you look over your shoulder, only to quickly retract before your head was blown off.

They were wearing ski masks and all black tactical suits, leaving not even an inch of their skin uncovered.

“I count four or five. There may be more,” the man next to you said slowly.

“You take the ones on the left, I’ll take right,” you instructed, seeing him nod his head. You didn’t even know his name but apparently you were working together now.

You gave a small countdown before pivoting on your knee to face them, eyes already set on your target.

Firing off two shots, you saw the first one fall to the floor, soon accompanied by his teammate as you shot a round at his forehead.

Four were down, counting the bodies next to them on the floor, but the bullets didn’t stop firing at you. They clearly were in a much larger number than you anticipated.

You weren’t sure how many more bullets the couch could absorb. The both of you were basically sitting ducks; who knew how many more were out there. You had limited ammo because you didn’t expect a fucking SWAT team when you came to kill one man.

“We need to go,” he voiced your exact concern.

“Yep,” you grunted, shifting to reload your gun from the spare ammo in your pocket.

You didn’t know how to get out of here considering that you didn’t bring your own-

“I got a plan,” you said. He looked at you inquisitively. “You know the window in the west bedroom, hall dead-end?”

He nodded. Perhaps he was the one who left it open when he arrived.

“On the count of three, make a run for it.” You winced as a bullet tore through the fabric of the couch, right near where your shoulder was a second ago.

“We can’t outrun them,” he hissed, quickly shooting behind him before rejoining you on the floor.

“Trust me.” Bold ask. You wondered if he would.

“I don’t.”

“Do it anyway.”

You didn’t really care if he didn’t. At least you’d get out.

“One.” You shifted to sit on your knee. You could see him sit still, not joining you.

“Two.” Your gun was pressed to your side, at the ready.

“Three.” Like an athlete in a race you took off, not daring to look behind you even once as shots rode the air, narrowly missing your body.

You almost didn’t hear his groan and a small “Fuckin’ hell” before heavy footsteps ran behind you.

You smiled triumphantly, until you remembered the both of you were being followed, at least four more shooters hot on your heels.

You shot a single shot behind you, hearing someone wheeze before a loud thump of a body hitting the floor. Hopefully it wasn’t the guy you were with, but you couldn’t find it in your to care much if it was.

You raced past the numerous rooms you passed on the way here before it suddenly widened into the open kitchen.

Your body moved in autopilot, a detour in the form of a quick skip as you reached over and grabbed the contents of the bowl on the counter, fumbling to hold onto the car keys as loose change fell to the floor.

The oven timer went off, not for long before you heard its door splinter into pieces as someone shot at it in annoyance.

You took a sharp right into the room, followed by the man who took the time to kick the door shut behind him, buying you maybe a second or two of time.

You nearly flung yourself out of the window, the gravel not exactly providing the softest landing as you scrambled to open the door of the car.

“Get in!” you yelled at him as he obliged, yanking the door and jumping into the passenger seat. You threw the few dollars you had caught hold of by mistake on the floor of the car.

You could hear the door of the room being kicked open, and what seemed like angry shouting as the window cracked, leaving nothing in its wake.

You revved the engine, slamming the accelerator with as much power as you could. The car lurched backwards, and you cursed, switching gears to go forward.

The harsh sound of metal on metal followed you as they shot at whatever they could. You prayed they wouldn’t accidentally hit the wheel or gas tank. They didn’t exactly seem like the best in the business, having missed most of their shots.

“Go go go!” The guy beside you was holding on to his seat tightly for support.

The car broke through the rusty gates. You cringed at the dent on the hood, but didn’t slow down even for a second as you wove through trees of the estate, not losing speed even as you got onto the highway.

Silence befell the both of you for a good amount of time, but not enough time to process what had just happened. Your adrenaline was still high as you drove well above the speed limit.

Your next step was unclear.

You were in a car with a complete stranger. You weren’t sure if you were injured somewhere. You didn’t even know where you were driving to.

“Alright,” he cleared his throat. “What the hell was that?

Part 2

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter One: white daisies Words: 2.9k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies

Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

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(cw for mentions of knife violence, mild blood)

There are white daisies on the kitchen table.

They’re what Jon saw first when he opened his eyes, awake and gasping for air, sprawled on his back on the floor and staring up at a brown ceiling and a brown kitchen chair and the bottom of a brown table and, amidst it all, a splash of white that caught his eye. He stared at the flowers, a memory tickling at the back of his mind—Martin cutting the flowers from a patch just outside the cottage, tucking them into a vase on the center of the table, Jon running a finger along the waxy petals and whispering, Daisies for Daisy—and then, with a rush, the rest of the memories came flooding back and he sat up so quickly his head spun, his hand going almost instinctively to his chest where the knife was—

But there wasn’t a knife. He was in the safehouse and there were fresh-cut daisies in a vase on the table and there was no knife. There was, however, when he pulled his jumper up to look, a scar—thick and raised, like it had been there for years.

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, the door flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

There are still white daisies on the kitchen table less than two days later, when Jon has fallen apart and picked himself back up again and fallen apart and picked himself back up again, more times than he cares to count. He sits in the hard wooden chair, legs crossed and elbows resting atop the varnished wood, and stares at the flowers, still as vibrant as the day they were picked nearly… six months ago? He wishes he knew how long it’s been, but he can’t. He can’t Know, and the Eye is gone, and he can’t speak, and his tears are soundless as he buries his face in Martin’s chest and grapples with the fact that for the first time in years, he’s never felt quite so human.

Martin thinks they’ve gone back in time. Jon thinks that time has caught up to them. Like the world, stitched back together and made anew, has simply picked up where it left off, unaware of how deeply scarred its inhabitants have become. Though Jon really doesn’t think it matters much at all.

It’s not the first argument they have. And it certainly will not be the last.

For now, though, Jon stares at the daisies, one hand tap tap tapping the cheap ballpoint pen on the moleskine notebook Martin had given him and the other wandering down to his left calf, where bite marks as wide as dominoes sit in even rows across his skin, scarred up before they’d even reached the next domain.

He rubs a thumb over one of the raised scars—the second set that had been left on his body by the same hands, both born from violence yet so distinct and different in Jon’s mind—and thinks, with a twinge of something deeply longing, I miss Daisy.

He’d missed her in intervals after he’d collected the bite mark scars on his calf. There had been so much to think about, so much to focus on, but in the quieter moments, he would think about the fact that she was gone—really, truly gone, in a way he couldn’t explain away like he could their first time in the safehouse—and feel the loss as acutely as a knife in his side. (Though now that he has experience with that specific brand of pain, he knows that the feelings aren’t quite the same. A knife is sharp and cutting, radiating pain. That ache was deeper, and it settled next to his bones, preparing to make itself at home within him forever.) Now, there is sunlight streaming in through the lattice windows and Jon closes his eyes when he sleeps and fear is as dull as a butter knife, and there is no limit to the moments of quiet. He looks at the white daisies, and he aches.

“Jon?” Martin says quietly, and Jon startles, still unused to not Knowing when somebody is near to him before they announce themselves. “Is… is everything all right?”

Jon nods reflexively, then bites his lip and slowly shakes his head. He looks down at the table for a moment before flipping open the moleskine, uncapping the pen, and scratching words neatly on the next available line despite the way his hand shakes ever so slightly as he writes. I miss Daisy.

He holds up the notebook, and Martin steps closer until he can make out the cramped words on the page. His forehead furrows like he hadn’t been expecting it, but after a moment, he says softly, “Me too.”

Jon gives him a flat, disbelieving look, and Martin sighs. “Okay, maybe I don’t. At least, not- not like you do. But I… I know you cared about her, Jon. I know she was there for you when I- I wasn’t, and I… I wanted to meet the version of Daisy that you pulled out of that coffin. Really meet her, I mean, without all of the loneliness and fog and- and end-of-the-world drama.” A corner of Martin’s mouth turns up into a sort of unhappy smile. “I guess I miss what could have been, then.” Quieter: “I’m sorry. I know that she… she meant a lot to you.”

Jon nods once, folding his hands together on his lap and worrying them together. He opens his mouth, then closes it with a frustrated sigh and reaches back for the notebook. Hastily, he scrawls, I think she would have liked you. Then: I wish you could have met her too. Then, hesitantly: I told her about you. I talked about you a lot. She never understood why I left you alone with Lukas, but she respected my decision to do so.

He holds it up, and Martin’s eyes scan the page quickly. Jon can see the moment Martin reads the last line, the way his jaw tenses and his throat bobs as he swallows. “Only nice things, I hope,” he says after a moment with a bit of forced cheeriness.

Jon exhales loudly through his nose—a breathy laugh, the only kind he can manage anymore—and shrugs.

Martin’s lips twitch into a smile, but it quickly folds under the pressure of the troubled look upon the rest of his face. “I’m glad that you had her,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry you lost her.”

She had me as well, Jon scratches, holding it up for Martin to see. Then, his train of thought continues and he holds up a finger, pulling the moleskine back down to the table and inking a few more lines onto the page. It was hard to be human, but we helped each other. I wish I could have helped her during the apocalypse, and I wish I could help her now. It hurts to know that she could have had this, truly separated from the Hunt, but that she wasn’t given the chance.

He holds it up, trying to keep his hands steady as he gives Martin time to read through it. Then, Martin takes the moleskine from him and sets it carefully on the table before folding Jon’s hand in his and squeezing gently. He rubs his thumbs across the back of Jon’s knuckles as he says, “I know, love. I know.” He lifts Jon’s hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to it. His lips brush against the back of Jon’s hand as he says, “Would you… would you like to do something for her? A memorial, or- or something to remember her with? I know there wasn’t much of a chance to do so back when—back before, and it… it might help.”

Jon looks down at his lap, considering. He knows that Daisy is gone; he doesn’t know if this would make the ache in his chest lessen or grow tighter, and to do nothing and stay the same feels like the safer of the two options. Then, he catches a glimpse of white out of the corner of his eye—the daisies, sitting on the table, vibrant and alive and glowing slightly in the bright sunlight—and, eyes still locked on those waxy petals, he nods.

“Okay,” Martin says quietly. “All right.”

They stand atop one of the grassy hills close to the cottage, a thick scarf wrapped several times around Jon’s neck to keep away the cold and his mittened hands holding the bouquet of cut daisies, their petals fluttering and stems bowing in the wind. The moleskine is tucked away in his coat, but he hasn’t used it since they arrived out here. Martin’s arm is tucked around Jon, hand resting on his opposite hip as he pulls Jon close to his side, and they’re both silent as they stare out over the grassy knolls, peppered with orange and white cows and brown pickets with wire strung between them.

Jon takes a daisy from the bouquet, holding it carefully in his hand lest it blow away too early, and watches it wave back and forth in the wind, flimsier without the support of the rest of the flowers. He remembers calling Daisy’s name with dirt clustering at the corners of his mouth and filling his nostrils, feeling terror grip him as the soil around him began to shift and move, rivulets of water trickling into his eyes and stinging as he tried to blink them away. He recalls the relief, all-consuming and so potent he thought he would choke on it (if he hadn’t already been choking on dirt, so much dirt, soil and clay and sand and gravel all mixed as one), when she had called his name in return. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and releases the flower, watching it catch in the wind and be carried away, down the hill and out of sight.

He pulls another flower out of the bouquet and thinks of the way Daisy’s hand felt in his when he finally made contact, fingers calloused and rough and fingernails ragged and caked with dirt. Her grip was so weak, muscles unused to the trial of being made to grasp and cradle and hold, but she held on as the dirt pressed down on them and they struggled to breathe and, still, with their lungs compressed and weary, they used them to form words. He thinks about not alone, though, not alone, and lets the flower go, watching it tumble away on the breeze.

He pulls another flower and thinks of when Daisy said that she’d planned to kill him, and how he wasn’t even able to muster up the energy to care.

The petals on the next flower are wet. For a moment, Jon thinks that it’s started raining and he just hadn’t noticed. Then, he feels Martin’s hand brush against his cheek, wiping away the next few tears with his thumb, and his next breath rattles in his chest.

He remembers being with Daisy in his office, him sitting in the chair behind his desk and her standing in the corner, trying to remember what it felt like to be vertical. He remembers sitting across from her at a sticky pub table, his hands wrapped around an equally as sticky mug of beer as she pulled a surprising amount of laughter out of his mouth. (He suspected that the warmth running through him by the end of the night was only partially due to the flush of alcohol in his system.) He remembers sitting on a now-ratty cot in document storage, one earbud in his ear and the other in Daisy’s as they leaned against the wall, thighs pressed lightly together and hands clasped in a way that felt easy, his nose wrinkling as The Archers played tinnily through the earbuds. He remembers being slumped against the brick wall behind the Institute, cigarette held between two shaking fingers as he tried to pretend like the nicotine would satisfy the burning hunger growing within him, and the shoulder that had pressed firmly against his as Daisy had slid down to sit next to him, a similar sort of hunger clawing relentlessly within her as well. He remembers standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom in the Archives, staring at his own eyes and wondering if they looked just a bit greener today, just a bit less human, and finally walking back out to see Daisy leaning on the wall next to the door, her voice leaving no room for argument as she said that she’d bought a bottle of whiskey and they were going to share it between them. He remembers lying on one of the cots and staring at the darkened ceiling, hearing her breathing deep and even beside him, one thin arm slung over his chest, and thinking about how much stronger than him she was, that she would rather die than be who she was before. (She never thought he was a monster. He hadn’t quite believed it, but he had been grateful for it all the same.) And he remembers what it felt like, slipping into the tunnels beneath the Institute and leaving Daisy and Basira behind to deal with the chaos that lay above ground, unable to shake the horrible, sickening feeling that it was the last time he would ever see Daisy.

Their last night together had been spent listening to the historical podcast that Jon had managed to convince Daisy to try. He thinks she only put up with it as long as she did because she spent much less time listening to the hosts and much more time listening to him talk over them, supplementing their research with his own and going off on long, rambling tangents that more often than not ended up a few subjects away from history. She never minded when he rambled, and he never felt that choking, itching feeling at the back of his throat that caused the words to die halfway through a sentence that he so often got when he felt that he was boring those around him.

They hadn’t even gotten to finish the episode they were on.

Jon remembers it all, and he lets the flowers go one by one, watching them tumble away down the hill until his hands are empty, hanging uselessly in the air for a moment before he drops them limply to his sides. He knows he’s crying in earnest by now, and he hates it. It’s a terribly vulnerable feeling, to be mourning out in the open, and he hates it. His breath hitches in his throat—he would choke his words if he could form them—and he hates it.

He hates it, but he doesn’t stop Martin when he wraps his other arm around Jon and pulls him gently into his chest, whispering soft platitudes into Jon’s hair as Jon buries his face in Martin’s scarf to hide his tears. Martin’s hands rub circles across Jon’s back and his lips press against the crown of Jon’s head and he whispers, “It’s all right, love. It’s all right,” and Jon allows himself one abrupt, hiccuping sob before he pushes all remaining sounds deep within him where they cannot escape.

And down below, near the base of the hill, the daisies lie scattered amongst the grass and the bushes and the weeds, like the first flakes of winter snow.

There are daisies on the kitchen table again. These ones are yellow, collected from the garden in the back before the frost has a chance to set in and wither them. Sunlight makes dappled patterns across them as Jon sits at the table and drinks tea for the third morning since he found himself able to do so once again, made with no milk and two sugars just as he likes. He can hear the gentle rumble of water from the bathroom, his own hair already shower-damp and pulled back into a loose braid. The jumper is Martin’s, too large and draped over his hands where they wrap around his mug, and the kitchen smells of tea and daisies and home. If Jon closes his eyes and shuts off his mind and focuses only on the seep of heat into his palms and the brush of fabric against his arms, he can almost pretend like everything between before and now had been a dream.

Almost.

Jon takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, and takes a long sip of his tea. He’s halfway back to setting the mug on the kitchen table when there’s a creak, a rattle, and a burst of cold air as the front door of the cottage swings open.

The mug slips out of Jon’s hands and knocks sideways on the table, spilling tea across the varnished surface and rolling dangerously close to the edge before its handle strikes the table and brings it to a halt. He distantly registers that his jumper sleeves are stained with tea and that the puddle is seeping towards him, preparing to drip off the edge, but the thought is buried beneath an icy wave of shock as he stares, wide-eyed, at the open doorway. At the figure standing within it.

Daisy stares back, eyes wide with surprise, face streaked with mud and blood, one hand still on the door handle, and says, “Jon?”

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy-week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #martin blackwood #my writing #my fic #ehe here we go! jay's second iteration of a post canon fic #otherwise known as 'the miraculous ladybug au' ajdhjlgak #before tag

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emsvegetables · 3 years

Text

25th: usually rowdy atsumu is quiet around you.

- in which you wonder if you’ve done anything to offend him because he’s always quiet around you. because ever since you met him when you became the manager of the volleyball club, he’s done nothing but fall silent everytime you come around.

no. of words: 1.4k+

okay. so hi!!! this was another one of my pure word vomit works!!!!! but yeah!!! i hope you like this!!! i hope this was okay!!! feel free to kill me if it isn’t!!!!

atsumu obviously hates you.

maybe you’ve done something to offend him, you think when you make eye contact with atsumu during training, because he doesn’t even smile at you and instead looks away immediately. not that you deserve a smile from atsumu, of course, it’s just that he always smiles whenever he meets anyone’s eyes in the middle of training, so why does he not smile at you?

you’ve probably really done something to offend him, you think when you go forward to pass the filled waterbottles to the rest of the team, and kita thanks you with a smile, aran thanks you with a smile, suna thanks you with a small smile, osamu thanks you with a smile, but atsumu merely looks at you when you pass the waterbottle to him, and just nods at you when he receives it.

does he not like you? what did you do that made him so angry with you? did you do something wrong?

it doesn’t make it better when you’ve been harbouring a major crush on atsumu. for some weird reason, you’ve fallen for atsumu and his cocky words, his confident strides, and his funny personality. so it definitely hurts your feelings when the person you like doesn’t seem to like you back, even worse, he dislikes you.

then it becomes worse.

whenever osamu or suna called you over while the team was chatting casually by the benches, atsumu would immediately stop laughing when he saw you approaching, instead choosing to look down at his shoes.

if you saw him in the halls and went up to him to wave hello and greet him, he doesn’t even answer you, instead nodding slightly at you, and if you tried to have a conversation with him, he just gave you one-word answers and left as quickly as possible.

he looked like he was really uncomfortable with you. you really don’t know what you did to him that caused him to not like you. in fact, you were so, very confused.

so you decide to get to the bottom of it.

“hey, osamu,” you say, “you and atsumu are close, right?”

maybe you phrased it wrongly, judging by how osamu raises a singular eyebrow and takes a long sip from his waterbottle, before saying, “well, he’s my twin, and my brother. we live together, so i would say that yes, we are close. unless you’re talking about another atsumu. then that’s a different story.”

you laugh, and osamu shoots a smile at you, “what’s up, (Y/N)?”

“hey,” you say, nervously tugging at your shirt, “did i do something to offend atsumu or something? did he tell you anything?”

“what are you talking about?”

“oh, it’s just that he always runs away from me as quick as he can whenever i talk to him, and he always doesn’t laugh when i’m around and always looks at his shoes. it’s like i did something wrong to him. did i do something wrong to him?”

osamu blinks at you, and you’re about to crawl into a hole and die when he snorts and starts to laugh.

“are you serious?” he asks, wiping the tears out of the corner of his eye, “you really don’t know?”

you wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your eyebrows, “no, of course not, that’s why i’m asking you?”

osamu laughs, and pats you on the shoulders genially.

“you should go ask him yourself,” he suggests, grinning widely at you, “really, that’ll probably clear things up.”

you bite your lip, and osamu smiles at you.

when it becomes clear that osamu clearly isn’t going to tell you anything, you decide to confront the source itself.

you’ve been looking for an opportunity to confront atsumu in private for ages, and it was only now did you get the chance you’ve been looking for.

it was after practice one day, and you’ve been tasked to stay back to pick up the balls and close the gym, and you realise that atsumu was the only one left in the gym when you came out from the storeroom, still practicing his jump serves at the other end of the court.

you run up to him as quickly as you can, trying to make your footsteps as light as possible, so he won’t get the opportunity to run away, and you tap him on the shoulder just as he bends down to pick another ball up.

“atsumu?”

he startles, and straightens up so fast you would’ve been hit if you didn’t jump away, and his eyes widens when he realises that it’s you.

“can we have a talk?” you say, and you try to ignore the way he stares at you, and breathe a soft sigh of relief when he finally agrees.

he sinks down to the floor, and you plop down onto the floor as well, and you laugh nervously when you make eye contact with him.

“so,” you begin, “did i do something wrong and accidentally offended you?”

atsumu blinks in surprise when you say that, and raises an eyebrow, “what do you mean?”

you twiddle with your fingers nervously, and look back up at him again, “it’s just that you’ve always, like, run away from me when i try to talk to you. and you always stop talking and just look down at your feet whenever i’m near. did i do something wrong to offend you or anything? i asked osamu, but osamu just laughed and told me to ask you.”

you’re looking down on the floor to avoid his eyes, but then you hear atsumu swear under his breath, and say, “i’m going to kill him.”

you look up again, and atsumu brings up a hand to scratch his hair.

“so, did i do something wrong?” you ask again, and atsumu shakes his head vehemently, “no, no, no you didn’t.”

“then why are you avoiding me?” you ask sadly, and atsumu looks alarmed when he realises that you’re frowning.

“look, (Y/N), i’m not avoiding you,” he says firmly, and reaches forward to rest his hands on your shoulders, “it’s just—just—”

“just?” you say, and you’re pretty sure you’re blushing right now, judging by the burn you feel in your cheeks.

“it’s just,” atsumu pauses, and swears again quietly, “look, i like you, okay?”

you blink.

“what?” you manage to say, and look at him with a confused look on your face.

“i like you,” atsumu says, and your heart quickens just a little when you realise that a flush has made it’s way onto his face, “i’ve liked you for a while now, (Y/N).”

you blink again, “but then why are you avoiding me?”

atsumu looks at you and laughs, “i’m not.”

“you’re not?” now you’re really confused.

“look, (Y/N), i’ve been trying to not make a fool of myself in front of you. i’ve been trying to make sure that i don’t seem annoying in front of you, alright? people have told me that my laughter is annoying, so that’s why i always stop laughing when you come near. and i’ve not been talking a lot to you because half the time, the most stupidest shit comes out of my mouth, and i don’t want to scare you away. and the other half of the time, i’m too embarrassed to say anything in front of you, alright?” atsumu looks away from you, and he’s scratching his head again.

“oh,” you say, and you bite your lip.

“yeah,” atsumu says, “oh.”

atsumu shifts slightly, and pushes himself up from the floor, “it’s okay if you don’t like me back. this is a lot to take in. it’s just that you asked why i was avoiding you, and well, here’s the answer. sorry if i made you uncomfortable. i-i’ll just go.”

atsumu’s ready to walk away from you when he feels a slight yank on his shirt.

when he turns to look at you, he widens his eyes when you’re smiling at him.

“‘sumu, you dumbass,” you say, reaching forward to wrap your arms around his shoulder, “i like you too.”

“you do?” he sounds shocked now, but when you lean forward to press a kiss onto his lips, you can feel his smile against your lips.

guess atsumu doesn’t hate you after all.

back to my fluffvember masterlist!!!!

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#atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines

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powdermelonkeg · 3 years

Note

hi bee! i'm a relatively new follower & absolutely captivated by your zelda lore. the oracle games were my first zelda games ever and still hold a special place in my heart. can you tell me anything about Labrynna and Holodrum? especially how they tie to Hyrule? and as well of the Oracles themselves?

I've got a post on the oracles here!

Labrynna and Holodrum, though, are something of a mystery, at least as far as Hyrule is concerned. With the drastically different climates of these countries in comparison to Hyrule, along with the ocean bordering both of them, it's hard to place them geographically. But we do have a handful of clues.

For the sake of this post, I'm going to do Holodrum first, then revisit it later with a part 2 for Labrynna.

The placement of the Oracles games in the timeline has kind of flipped back and forth as far as Nintendo's been involved; in Hyrule Historia, they come directly after A Link to the Past, but in the Hyrule Encyclopedia, they come after Link's Awakening, as a separate Link to ALttP's hero. However, thanks to A Link Between Worlds, we know exactly what Oracles' Link's Hyrule looks like.

ALttP and ALBW have functionally identical maps, meant to only be a century apart as a remake. And regardless of Oracles' placement, it always falls after ALttP but before ALBW, which means it also has a Hyrule that looks like that.

In this post, I gave my best guess at how the various Zelda maps fit into BotW's huge map, including ALttP's.

All in all though, it's not TOO different, the biggest differences being the omission of the coastline, Faron, and Hebra due to size and angle.

But what does this mean for the Oracles games?

Well, for starters, it means that we know what immediately borders ALttP Hyrule on all sides, that being thre remainder of BotW Hyrule. So we can rule out Labrynna and Holodrum being its direct neighbors right from the get-go, since none of the terrain matches what we have available.

We also have something we rarely get in Hyrule: confirmation of the cardinal directions. While in the 3D games, we can figure out our orientation by the sun in the sky, in 2D, things aren't nearly so clear-cut. But in Labrynna, we have South Lynna, Northeast Lynna, and the South Shore, and in Holodrum, we have the Eastern Coast, the Eastern Suburbs, North Horon, the Northern Peak, and the Western Coast. That's direct confirmation that the maps we get are oriented properly, with north at the top and south at the bottom.

And then, we have Samasa Desert.

I went into depth in this post about how deserts surrounded by mountains form, in relation to Gerudo Desert and its highlands. Knowing which way the wind blows storms in can actually give us a rough latitude placement on the globe.

Gerudo was easier to figure out than Samasa, though, because it only has mountains on two sides. But Samasa has mountains on three sides (almost four, if not for a gap at the very south), making a sort of cup shape around its edge, and has the ocean carrying away any southward indication of the wind direction.

Except we have a clue.

This oasis is in the northeast corner of Samasa Desert, surrounded by grass and trees. And on top of this, to the direct north of it (behind the cracked wall) is a fairy fountain, which shows itself as a small pond rather than a spring.

The reason deserts form behind mountains is because when wind collides with a mountain range, the mountains trap the majority of water before it can reach the land beyond it (Artifexian has a good video on worldbuilding that here). If the wind gathers what little water is available in the desert and deposits it when it collides with the mountains again, it would have to hit the mountain from a southwest angle. And if we look at a full map of Holodrum...

We see that a LOT of the country follows this wind pattern. Greenery in the south, with some of the biggest water sources and plantlife appearing in northeastern corners against cliff faces (represented by the red circles).

So what does that mean for us?

Well, if the Hyrulean day is identical to ours, it means that Holodrum can be confined to only one section of latitude, being between 30° and 60° in the Northern Hemisphere of Hyrule's planet, a good deal north of Hyrule.

But Holodrum also borders an ocean to its south; that rules out it being beyond the chasm at Hyrule's left or top border, because as we can see—

—there's only flat land that way. That confines us to going to the right, instead, to Hyrule's northeast.

Holodrum ALSO lacks a western shore, though, which means there's a landmass between it and the water, ruling out a Europe-like placement.

So with all of that information—its latitude, its apparent distance from Hyrule, and its ocean borders, on top of the fact that the Triforce had to teleport Link there instead of send him traveling (and we know how far he's willing to travel), I'll place Holodrum in the Northern and Eastern Hemispheres, about where Mongolia is on our world.

Please keep in mind that the topography of Hyrule's world is VASTLY different from ours, with different oceans, landmasses, tropical ranges, etc.

#loz #zelda #ask bee #holodrum #labrynna #oracle of ages #oracle of seasons #ooa #oos #science!#honestly the desert should be smaller but nintedoes what nintenwants #theory #worldbuilding #climate

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someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

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Yo, saw your post about levihan prompts:

How about Hange discovering Levi’s secret hobby (of your choice)

Feel free to do whatever you feel like

And I love your work! 💕 have a good day

Hello! So sorry for the delay in this one, but thank you so much for your patience 🙏 I got stuck for such a long time in the middle of this ksksks but it is finally done! I also played around a little bit with the whole...discovering a secret aspect, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! And I hope you're ready for some sweet sweet childhood friends levihan~

Levi likes photography.

This, in itself, is no great secret. Hange can barely remember a time he wasn't following after her with a camera strapped around his neck, or packed into his bag—always within reach, should something striking catch his eye. A little neon plastic toy, at first; each click of the shutter cycled through preloaded images, expert shots of famous landscapes, places they could only dream of seeing. And then, a polaroid—still a toy, in essence, still plastic, still gaudy, but this one took real pictures in real time, and spit them out into their eager, shaking fingers within seconds.

Hange remembers them ruthlessly wafting the little laminate squares and watching with bated breath as black mottled into foggy grey, as the blurred silhouette of the park bench faded slowly into being. It was a fascinating thing, at the time. Magic at their fingertips. The picture turned out fuzzy and overexposed in places, where the sun had glared in over the corner of the park bench, but Levi had settled the little square on his little palms and looked at it like he held the whole world in his hands.

There were innumerable disposable cameras, too. Light little things with reels of film, never enough for Levi's insatiable desire to snap pictures of every single thing he saw. They spent half their childhood in the chemist, sitting in the hard plastic chairs, wriggling anxiously as they waited for the film to develop. Kuchel always handed them the envelope, fat with prints, with a small smile curling the corner of her mouth and a fond twinkle in her eye, and Levi always took it politely, while Hange gave a boisterous thanks, and the pair of them delved greedily into their spoils.

He was older, in his early teens, when he was gifted his first real camera. It was heavy, compared to all the others, a case made of metal with buttons and gadgets and a fancy screen on the back, to preview each picture he took. Levi was wholly enamoured with it. He spent hours adjusting it, figuring out what each button and knob did, how they affected each picture; took countless shots of the same rock in the park until he'd tested every combination of settings he could think of.

He had cycled through more cameras since then. Grown a small collection, each one a little different, a little more suited to particular shots. Hange understood the concept in theory, but the particulars were lost on her, and Levi never took the time to explain. Not that she minded—Levi's pictures were beautiful, breathtaking in the way he could capture even the most mundane details and make them something wondrous. Perhaps for the first and only time in her life, Hange had no desire for the magician to reveal his tricks.

He has an eye for things that Hange simply cannot see. She is observant—to a fault, at times, intensely analytical and endlessly curious. Everything is a question, an opportunity to research, to learn, but she doesn't see the way Levi does.

Wild daffodil. Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Hange sees a perennial flowering plant, native to Western Europe, classified by its pale yellow petals and elongated central trumpet. She sees phylogeny with a rich taxonomic history; subspecies originating all over the globe, some larger, some smaller, some more vibrant and some more muted. She sees anatomy, science.

Levi sees the way the evening sun rusts the buttery petals until they blush; sees the way dew drops hang like pearls from the tips of the leaves in the early morning, when the light is still smoky and thin. He sees a moment to be captured.

It should be impossible for a picture to hold so much detail. Hange can look at Levi's daffodil and feel the way the spring wind blows gently on her skin, the sun warm but the breeze a little biting, a remnant of the fading winter. She can smell the pollen heavy in the air, feel the tickle of short grass on her ankles, hear the trill of songbirds in the branches of distant trees.

His proclivity for photography grows with them. Hange's interests spear out in a thousand different directions, from physics and chemistry to botany, to engineering, to literature and mathematics, to history, languages and landscapes—life is a limitless source of information and Hange chases it every which way, insatiable.

And wherever she goes, Levi dutifully follows, with his camera in hand.

Until now.

Now, they are eighteen. The summer is lazily drawing to a close, and tomorrow, at 8:45am, Hange will be boarding a plane that will take her to the other side of the world to attend the university of her dreams.

And Levi will be staying here.

Despite Levi's perpetual scowling and indiscriminate grunting, their last evening together had overall been a pleasant one. Levi and Kuchel had worked hard on their meal, and it had been nice in a warm, filling kind of way, to spend her last night at home with the two of them.

Now, she and Levi are holed up in his bedroom, while Kuchel had insisted on doing the clean up herself. Hange's mind has been churning non-stop for weeks now, ramping up with each passing day, and tonight, her thoughts are unstoppable, and they spill from her with giddy, jittery excitement.

"The university is huge, but my course is pretty small—only like, 30 places. It'll be easy to get to know everybody."

"Nn."

"And did I tell you? There's a museum right on campus? They've got a huge collection, and I heard students can access it after the first semester."

"Hm."

"And there's a flower garden, too—they've got species from all over the world, Levi. They'll have plants I've never even heard of."

"You said."

"Oh! And—my accommodation isn't all that far from the coast. The water looks beautiful in all the pictures I've seen—look, see?"

"I know. You showed me already."

Hange looks up from her phone, where the screen is lit with a bright, sunny beach, tan sand and a stark blue ocean. Levi flicks his gaze over it and offers a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder. Hange frowns at him.

"You could at least pretend to be excited, you know."

Levi gives her a deadpan stare.

"It looks...warm."

Hange sits back with a thump, and kicks weakly at Levi's shin. She pouts over at him. "Better than nothing, I guess."

They sit at opposite ends of the window bench in Levi's bedroom, legs tangled haphazardly together in the space between them. The window was thrown open in some vain hope of tempting in a breeze, but the air is thick, and the soft wind that does blow is still stiflingly warm. It sways Levi's fringe against his brow, but does little to stave off the oppressive heat.

The sky outside is dark, but it is alive with stars. They cast bright sparks on an inky black canvas, and there is no moon in sight. Already, Levi has snapped pictures of it, twisted dials and pushed buttons and switched lenses until he was satisfied.

It is a beautiful sight. Infinite.

Hange lets one leg dangle out the open window. Levi gives her a sour look and wordlessly closes one hand around her other ankle. She has a long history of behaving carelessly—Levi has borne witness to one too many slips and stumbles to trust her entirely. It would be just like Hange, to miss her flight in favour of a trip to the emergency room.

His thumb strokes back and forth absently. There is a callus there, rough and catching, that scratches against her sensitive skin.

Her predominant feeling is one of excitement. Studying abroad had been a dream of hers for almost as long as Levi had owned a camera—to travel beyond the bounds of their small rural town, to see more, learn more, fuel the relentless hunger in her. But there is an undercurrent of something else, some squirming discomfort that refuses to settle. It intensifies with every sweep of Levi's thumb against her skin until it sits heavy in her gut.

She looks over at him. His gaze is trained out the window, a small frown furrowing the skin between his brows, but his eyes are glassy, with none of their usual sharp, unwavering focus. Whatever he is looking at, he is not really seeing it.

It would be a lie to say that his silence had not troubled her. He had been quiet throughout dinner, opting instead to listen to Hange and Kuchel's companionable chatter as he pushed his food around his plate, and he had barely said a word since they had cleared the table and retreated to his room. He had hardly even looked her way.

Irritation bubbles within her. Levi is always more subdued than she is, content to sit quietly while Hange babbles endlessly, about anything and everything. But he usually has something to say. His silence, today of all days, makes her angry. They have one night left like this—one more night to talk, face to face, before they will be separated for who knows how long, and Levi is offering her nothing.

"Levi," she says, before she can think. Something in her tone must startle him, for he blinks rapidly, as though pulled out of a daydream, and rolls his eyes to look in her direction. His gaze settles somewhere near her shoulder. She bristles. "Can you at least—"

"Levi?" Kuchel's voice is distant, floating up from the bottom of the stairs. Levi looks at the door instead. "Can you come give me a hand for a minute?"

Hange clamps her jaw shut. Levi casts her another sidelong glance, and ticks his tongue against the back of his teeth. He squeezes her ankle once, then pushes himself to his feet. "Don't fall, idiot. I won't be long."

Hange feels distinctly like a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. It's immature, and perhaps it's unfair of her, but she had assumed that Levi's invitation for dinner might, at the very least, come with a little conversation.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. They never fight, not really—they bicker endlessly, poke each other's cheeks and pull each other's hair, childish rough housing that they never grew out of. But they don't fight and as grumpy as Hange feels about Levi's near silence, she doesn't want to start now. She runs a hand back through her hair and sweeps her eyes about the room, counting long, even breaths as she does.

Levi's room is immaculately neat and tidy. Everything has its place, on clean, dusted shelves, or stacked in straight, neat piles atop his desk. It is a level of organisation Hange has little energy for; she herself is a hurricane, picking up and dropping off detritus everywhere she goes.

But Levi's borderline obsessive cleanliness makes it easy to spot something that is out of place.

Hange's gaze falls on a drawer in the desk. The drawer itself is as immaculate as everything else, gleaming wood and a reflectively polished brass handle. What catches her eye is the corner of a glossy piece of paper, caught when the drawer had been closed.

Hange is a curious creature. Rarely can she hold herself back from exploring an unknown, and now is no different. She unfolds herself from the bench and stretches to stand, then crosses the room on light, tip-toed feet.

Levi is, by and large, a rather private person. He does not share much of himself openly, hides behind an impassive mask, guards what is dear to him close to his chest. Hange is an exception to this rule, whether Levi wanted her to be or not.

As such, she has no real issue prying the drawer open, and is unsurprised by the predictable contents within.

Photographs.

Of course it was photographs.

Her lips tug up in a fond smile and her eyes roll, but it is as she is reaching in to flatten out the rumpled picture that had been poking out of the drawer, that she notices what they are photographs of.

Her.

Hange picks out a stack and sits cross-legged in the desk chair. She flips through them, eyes growing wider with each new picture she uncovers. Every single one is of her. Some recent, some not so recent—some must be from the very first real camera, for she is still in her braces, all thin, gangly limbs and scruffy hair and taped up glasses.

There are pictures of her in the winter, mitten-clad hands wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate, blowing steam into the chill air. She can see in stark clarity, the red tip of her nose and the chill bitten over her cheeks; she can almost feel the cold, taste the cocoa on her tongue.

She finds a picture of her from an autumn years gone by. She remembers it as though it were yesterday—they had spent the whole afternoon raking fallen leaves in the courtyard behind Kuchel's cafe, scooping them into a terribly tempting mound beneath the shedding tree. Hange had been unable to resist. Levi had captured her moments after her dive into the pile, sitting up with her weight propped back on her hands, dry leaves clinging to her messy hair and sticking to the fibres of her cardigan. The sun was low, and it cast her in a golden glow, highlighting the vibrant red and orange of the fall foliage around her, drawing out the auburn undertone in her hair and the amber of her eyes. Her smile is almost blinding.

Another shows her in the spring, laying on her belly in the long grass beside a row of blooming daffodils. There is a book spread open before her and she is, as expected, engrossed in it; Levi has snapped the shutter as she was turning the page, the thin edge of the paper caught between the delicate tips of her fingers.

Hange has never considered herself to be particularly pretty. She is just...Hange, a little bit of wild, a little bit of manic, a lot of clumsy and dirty. Being attractive has never been of much concern.

But there is something in the way Levi has photographed her, time and time again, in the way the light catches her, the candid ease of each new picture, that looks....beautiful, in its own way. Somehow, he has made her mess into a masterpiece.

Levi likes taking pictures of things. Plants, rocks, rivers, landscapes and skylines—he likes capturing the mundanity of everyday life and turning it into something spectacular, but he has never done the same thing with people. As far as Hange was aware, Levi had taken very few pictures of anybody at all.

And yet, she holds this pile in her hands, and there are plenty more pictures littering the drawer before her.

There is a strange feeling brewing on her as she stares at them. She had been so excited about moving away to study, so eager to explore the world beyond their quiet countryside home, that the reality of leaving had never truly sunk in. She feels it now though, acutely; a hollow ache in her chest that grows with each picture she flicks through.

Levi has been her shadow for as long as she can remember. There are few memories that he is not a part of, few moments that she can recall in which Levi was not by her side—he has been a constant for her. Something certain and dependable.

And from tomorrow, he will no longer be there.

Hange had known this. She had known it from the moment she had accepted her offer, and she had known it as they looked through her options for accommodation together, as they explored the local area through pictures and videos and maps online. She had known it as they had prepared her visa, organised her finances. Booked her flights. Every step of the way she had understood, logically, rationally, that studying abroad meant leaving Levi behind.

But the weight of it is only hitting her now. The reality of it is like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut—it leaves her shaken and breathless in the worst way.

From tomorrow, Levi won't be with her at all.

Her grip tightens on the photographs hard enough to wrinkle the glossy paper.

She had done a pretty good job of not getting too emotional about the whole thing. For the most part, Hange had been overwhelmed by her own excitement—there had been no time for sadness between all the loose ends she’d had to tie up in order to make the move a possibility. Now though, all that is left is to head to the airport and board her plane. No more distractions.

Hange doesn’t realise she is crying until the bedroom door opens again, and Levi steps into the room, coming to a sudden halt halfway over the threshold.

Hange can't tell if Levi's look of shock is because of the open drawer and the pictures still clutched in her hands, or the tear tracks on her cheeks. He stops dead in the open doorway, fingers still curled around the handle, and for a moment he stares at her with eyes wider than Hange has ever seen them, but then his brow dips low and his lip curls, and his grip tightens around the door handle. Hange holds the pile of photographs close to her chest.

She is expecting anger. She doesn't suppose she could blame him if he lost his temper with her, then. She has a terrible habit of bulldozing into everything, after all, and perhaps this was the one thing Levi had longed to keep secret from her. Her snooping, on top of his already sullen mood—perhaps this is the final straw.

But instead, he turns his face away, staring resolutely into the corner of the room. Starlight spills through the open window. Even in the thin, muted light, Hange can see a vibrant flush colouring the skin high on Levi's cheeks.

Hange sniffles, and wipes clumsily at her cheeks.

"I didn't have you pegged as a closet pervert, Levi," she says, waving the handful of pictures at him. Her voice comes cracked, and weaker than she'd hoped. Levi's knuckles turn white.

It's a funny thing, seeing Levi embarrassed. His emotional expression is usually limited to small twitches, here and there—a slight furrow of his brow, a wrinkle of his nose, a soft twitch of his lip. Hange can count on one hand the number of times she has seen his feelings show so completely. It's almost painful to witness.

"I don't mind," she says. Levi doesn't look at her. Hange looks down at the pile again. "They're nice."

Levi finally releases his death grip on the handle and pushes the door closed. His eyes are still downcast and his cheek is still cherry red, but he hasn't run away and he hasn't snapped at her (yet). Hange takes these things as good signs.

"I didn't know you took pictures of people," Hange says.

"I don't."

"Are you saying I'm not people, Levi?"

Levi lets out a disgruntled sigh. He crosses the room, and plucks the pile of pictures from Hange's hands. His cheeks are still pink, and his brows are still furrowed, but he has composed himself some.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re a creature. You’ve got snot all over your face.”

Hange laughs wetly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and rubbing the mess on her pants. Levi gives her a look of pure disgust, parking his hip against the edge of the desk beside her and skimming through a few of the pictures. There’s a curious expression on his face, a softness in his eyes that Hange isn’t used to seeing.

“Stalker,” she says. Levi kicks at the desk chair without looking up. “If you wanted a photoshoot, you could have asked.”

Levi scowls. He straightens the edges of the pictures with care, and sets them carefully on the desk. “If I wanted to take pictures of you posing, I would have asked.”

“Wanted to capture me in all my natural glory, huh?” Hange braces her elbows on the desk and rests her chin in both hands, grinning cheekily up at Levi. It must look ridiculous, with her watery eyes and the red point of her nose, but Levi isn't even looking at her to notice.

Levi says nothing. His gaze lingers on the pictures for a little longer, and the colour in his cheeks deepens. Hange nudges him with her elbow, smiling. The pictures are...sweet, in a way. There's something flattering about it. She slumps back in the chair, her smile wavering where a fresh wave of melancholy tugs at the edges of her lips.

“I’ll miss you, you know.” Hange’s voice cracks humiliatingly as she speaks. Levi looks over at her. Hange curses the wobble of her bottom lip and wipes at her eyes beneath her glasses. She isn’t expecting much; Levi is terrible at expressing feelings at the best of times, and so it’s more than surprising when, after a moment of consideration, he nods at her.

“Same.”

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. Hange presses her fingers into her eyes, trying to stem the flow, ease the sting there. She doesn’t want to spend their last evening together crying, but now that the tears have begun, Hange can’t seem to stop them. A lump builds in her throat, aching beneath her tongue and she can feel her chin wobbling, lips pulling down at the corners. She sniffles pitifully, draws a shuddering breath.

“Oi…” Levi says, though he doesn’t sound angry, or even uncomfortable like she had expected. His tone is gentle. It rips a sob from her.

Hange feels him move closer. He jostles the front of the chair, and when she opens her eyes to look at him she finds him standing right in front of her, between chair and desk, looking at her with a furrowed brow. It’s different to his usual scowl—his brows are a little upturned in the middle, exposing some kinder emotion; something like worry, or concern.

Hange tilts forward until her forehead presses into his chest. Levi’s hand comes up quickly to the back of her head. His touch is familiar, comforting, and Hange cries a little harder when his fingers tunnel into her messy hair, cradling her against him.

She cries until she feels spent, sniffling and gulping empty air. Her fingers twist into the hem of Levi’s shirt as she composes herself, mumbling, “you’ll keep in touch, right? You won’t forget about me?”

Levi clicks his tongue at her. “Stupid,” he says. “As if you’d let me.”

“I’m serious.” She sits back and looks up at her. Her eyes are burning, raw and wet, and the skin of her cheeks stings from crying, but she looks at him with as much determination as ever and says, “call me. Every day.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not! Just once, every day. Even if it’s only five minutes.”

Levi flicks her between her brows. “You won’t have the time, dumbass.”

“I’ll make time.”

Levi scrutinizes her for a moment, then says, “I’ll text.”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

Levi curls his lip and pulls at a lock of her fringe, muttering, “brat. Why don’t you call me?”

“I will,” Hange says plainly. Levi’s eyes widen a fraction. “I’ll call as much as I can. But you need to call me too, okay? I wanna hear from you a lot.”

There is a long pause, and then Levi turns his eyes away. The light in the room is pale and muted, but it is just enough to highlight the pale flush gathering anew on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. It’s almost cute.

“Fine. I’ll call. Happy?”

Hange grins at him. “Very. And I’ll send you photos of everything, all the time.”

Levi leans down towards her, pinching her nose between his thumb and forefinger and giving her head a little shake. “On your shitty phone camera?”

Hange nods. She bats his hand away and cranes herself up into his space, smiling something wicked. “You’ll hate it. They’ll be all blurry and I’ll have my thumb in the corner of every picture.”

“Pest.”

“Lots of selfies, too. So you won’t forget what I look like.” Hange blindly swipes up a picture from the desk, holding it up between them in front of her mouth and nose. Between Levi dipping down into her space and Hange stretching up into his, they are so close that Levi has to cross his eyes to get a look at it. “Not that I think it’ll be a problem.”

He rolls his gaze up to look at her over the top of the photograph. Up close, Hange can see just how bright the blue of his eyes is, how dark his lashes are; she can see the shadows they cast on his cheeks, the deepening flush bruising the skin red. Levi has always been a pale thing, but now, Hange can see the smattering of light freckles across his nose, barely visible in the low light. He looks pretty. Her heart stutters in her chest at the sight.

Hange has never fully understood Levi’s drive to photograph everything. To preserve any given moment, bottle up every minute detail. She sort of understands it, then—it’d be nice, she thinks absently, to save this particular view for forever. The thought makes her face grow warm.

“I won’t forget.” Levi’s voice is quiet, caught somewhere between embarrassment and uncertainty. He sways closer, rocks back, hesitates. And then he leans down and lets his forehead drop against hers. Hange can feel the press of his nose against her own, separated only by the picture between them.

Hange is used to being close to him. She’s a clingy person by nature, always grabbing him and hugging him, smooshing her cheek against his or shoving her face into his hair, but she is always the one to initiate such contact. Levi is tactile, in his own way—small, non-invasive touches, his fingers on her wrist or his palm at her back, always delicate, understated.

To have Levi enter so wholly into her space like this is new. It’s nice. Hange finds herself feeling very, very thankful for the paper between them, for the urge to lean forward and kiss him comes unbidden, so suddenly she isn’t sure she’d be able to resist the impulse if there hadn’t been a barrier in her way.

“Is it my dazzling good looks?” she says, acutely embarrassed by how breathless she sounds. Levi makes a small, noncommittal noise. His fingers find hers where she’s holding the picture, gripping it and pulling it until it slips out from between them. For the smallest moment, Hange feels the skin of Levi’s nose against hers, and the warm puff of breath on her lips, and then Levi straightens up, flipping the picture for her to see it.

“I’ve looked at your ugly mug every day for long enough. Don’t think I’d forget it so easily.”

It’s a truly unflattering photograph. Hange has her head tipped back, laughing boisterously at some thing or another, with her eyes pinched closed and chocolate sauce smeared over her lips, a drop of cream stuck to the end of her nose. Hange is sure she has looked better, but the thing is—despite her state, the picture still isn’t bad. Hange can hear the lilt of her own laughter and feel the tacky syrup, savour the sweetness of the cream on her tongue. There’s something so...animated about it, about the way the light dances over her skin and in her hair, and the way the background blurs around her, drawing her into sharp focus.

It’s nice, in a strange, unreserved kind of way.

But she’s still a mess. Hange snatches it and slams it down on the desk, glowering up at Levi.

“Why would you take that,” she whines, petulant. “You’re supposed to take pictures of nice things!”

“Because it’s very...you,” He says, neatly slotting the pictures back into the drawer, and moving back to sit on the window. Hange follows, drops herself onto the ledge opposite him with a pout.

“What, disgusting?”

Levi shrugs. “Messy. But...not bad.”

“I’m supposed to take that as a compliment, I guess? That’s almost sweet coming from you, Levi.”

Levi scowls over at her. She dangles one leg back out the open window, dropping the other heavily into Levi’s lap. He adjusts it until he is more comfortable, his hand wrapping again around her ankle, but does not let go once he has settled. He keeps a hold of her, his fingers tracing thoughtless patterns on her skin. The space between them is warm, comfortable. Hange leans her head back and breathes it in—the peace, the quiet, the simple pleasure of spending a tender evening with her favourite person in the whole world.

It’s nice. A small, frightened part of her doesn’t want it to ever end.

Hange has been set up in her student apartment for three weeks when the package arrives.

Moving had been harder than she had anticipated. She’d accounted for common issues—problems with her visa, her plane tickets, and had checked multiple transport options from the airport to her accommodation in case problems arose—but she hadn’t put all that much thought into what would happen once she settled at her apartment.

Unpacking had been boring. Her roommates were nice enough, the studious, bookworm-y type, but unlike Hange they weren’t overly sociable. They kept mostly to themselves in their rooms, perfectly content with brief conversations in the kitchen before retiring again, and with classes still two weeks away, Hange was finding the lack of social interaction difficult. She had explored some, but the city was vast in a cluttered, claustrophobic way. Hange had always enjoyed travelling, and had talked relentlessly of every adventure she could take herself on in a whole new country and all the new places she could explore, so much so that it was almost embarrassing, the way she had found herself so unwilling to stray too far from her accommodation without a companion by her side.

She’d felt a little homesick in the first couple of days, lonely and isolated. She missed the small comforts of the country, things she hadn’t even realised she had taken for granted. Quiet nights. Star studded skies. Long grass and trees and the fresh, earthy smell on the breeze. The city was unbearably loud at times, and even when the wail of sirens or the beep of car horns quieted, there was an unidentifiable hum beneath it all that never ceased even for a moment.

She felt Levi’s absence most acutely. Hange had known she would, but she hadn’t been prepared for how much it would hurt to be apart. She felt silly for it—it was ridiculous, to miss her friend more than she missed her own family, even. But Levi’s presence had been more constant than anything else, back home, and without him, she felt like a small part of herself was missing.

He called, as promised. Once a day, though oftentimes it was very late in the night for him, and he sounded tired. If Hange were less selfish, she might tell him to get some sleep instead—but she missed him. Hearing from him was the best part of her day.

It was about an hour before their designated call time when the post came. Hange answers the bell with a frown, which only deepens when the delivery driver hands her the package.

She takes it into her room, settling cross legged on the bed and inspecting the mystery item. It's a decent size, like a large shoe box, wrapped neatly in brown paper with her address lettered in tidy, familiar handwriting in one corner. Hange’s stomach lurches—she’d have recognised the writing anywhere, but her suspicions are confirmed by the return address. Levi’s.

She rips into the paper quickly, snatching up her keys to tear through the tape on the top of the box. It is stuffed full with packing paper, an envelope with her name on it sitting on the top. Hange picks it up and with trembling fingers, she opens it and unfolds the short note inside.

Hange,

Sorry things have been kind of shitty. This stuff might help or it might make things worse, but I figure you can just throw it out if it’s no good. Or give it away. Whatever. I don’t even know if all of this shit will make it through customs, so if you get an empty box it’s not my fault.

I don’t get how you eat half this junk, but I hope it makes you feel better, anyway.

Look after yourself. Eat real food.

Levi

Hange presses the note to her chest, grinning. Her heart aches, but having Levi go to this much trouble for her...it feels nice. Knowing he is still thinking of her. She’d never have admitted it out loud, but Hange had been concerned that perhaps Levi would forget about her after all, without her there to pester him all the time.

She pulls out some of the packing paper, and smiles widely at the rest of the contents.

Levi had put together what Hange can only call a care package. There are packs of her favourite snacks and sweets, things she’d complained she hadn’t been able to find in stores here; crisps, chocolate, hard candy, little mini boxes of sickeningly sugary cereal. There are tea bags with blends Levi knows she likes, each neatly labelled with instructions on what temperature to brew at and how long for. Levi had also packed some of the soaps Hange likes, the ones he uses but she refuses to buy for herself. The lavender scent drifts up out of the box and Hange’s heart squeezes tight in her chest. There’s a shirt in there, too—Hange recognises it at once, as one of Levi’s old, worn tees, thin grey cotton that feels impossibly soft in her hands. It’s far too big for either of them, and had always been the go-to item Levi would chuck at her when she decided she was staying over for the night and had nothing to wear to bed. Hange pulls it on quickly, savouring the soft feel and the smell of it.

In the bottom of the box, there is another envelope. This one is thicker than the first, and Hange knows what it contains before she even opens it.

Photographs. A small pile of them, depicting places she and Levi had frequented from when they were children right up until this last year—her favourite part of the forest, where the trees thin out and the river pools at the foot of a small waterfall. The great, open fields, sometimes full of long grass, sometimes clipped short and striped with windrows. Kuchel’s cafe, with umbrellas raised to block the sun on the tables outside, or else warm and low-lit and cosy in the cold winter. Hange settles back on her pillows as she flicks through each picture, a soft smile on her face. Looking at the images of home hurts, but it isn’t a terrible pain—she longs for these old times and these familiar places, but each recovered memory makes her happy.

In Levi’s pictures she can vividly recall moments in each and every location. He works some kind of magic with a camera, to trigger so many sensory memories—the scent of freshly cut grass, the feel of hay, dry and sharp, poking into her back through her clothing, and the gentle trickle of the river water, the splash of it as it runs over the falls, the feel of it cool on her skin. The tangy zest of fresh-pressed orange juice in the cafe, peach fuzz on her lips and the soft flesh of ripe fruit bursting between her teeth, sticky nectar coating her fingers.

Hange looks at each picture in turn, until she reaches the bottom of the pile, and there she stops abruptly, eyes widening at the last photograph Levi has packed for her.

It is one of Hange, taken in the window of Levi’s bedroom. She was looking out at the night sky, her elbow braced on her bent knee, chin in her palm, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. The starlight haloed her, shining from her hair and illuminating the jut of her chin, the curve of her nose and the slope of her brow. Behind her, Levi had captured the bright glow of the stars like jewels on a deep velvet canvas. She looked peaceful. Happy. For lack of a better word, beautiful.

Hange grins widely. Her eyes sting and her throat aches, but the picture—the whole box, really—makes her happier than she's felt in weeks. She brews her favourite cup of tea from the blends Levi had sent her and settles into the corner of her bed, lifting her phone to snap a quick selfie. She sends it to Levi, complete with a caption: thank you for my presents 😊 all ready for your call!

Levi responds almost immediately, first with a simple you're welcome. And then, after a minute, you look good. Speak to you soon.

Hange sinks deeper into the cushions, cradling her tea close to her face, masking the pleased flush on her cheeks with the heat from the steam.

Hange keeps him longer than usual, today.

There is a simmering warmth in her stomach as she listens to Levi's voice over the line. It comes tinny through the speakers, low and rough in the late hour, and his dark, grainy image looks tired, lamp light casting him half in shadow. They talk of everything and nothing, same as always—Levi tells her about his day, about the cafe and Kuchel, and Hange pouts as she tells him how little progress she is making in befriending her new housemates. Levi never voices any concern for her aloud, but Hange can sense it in the dip of his brows as she talks. She gives him a genuine smile when she reassures him that classes will start soon, and she's confident she will settle better after that.

Levi seems reluctant to leave, but after a little over an hour of aimless, comfortable chatter, he is yawning and blinking heavily, the lower half of his face nuzzled into his pillow. In the end, Hange makes up some watery excuse about visiting the coast while the sun is still high, if only to let him get some sleep.

"Sure. Have fun."

"I will! Sleep well, Levi."

Levi hums. The view shifts, blurry and indistinct, the mic muffled by the rustle of sheets, and when everything settles he is laying on his side, fringe mussed and falling over his eyes. He covers another long yawn with his fist. "I will."

"You'll call tomorrow?"

Levi rolls his tired eyes, but the corner of his mouth pulls up in a fraction of a smile. "Sure."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Hange grins. Levi watches her for a long moment, eyes scanning over her face. Then he holds up a hand in a tired wave. "Night, Hange."

"Night."

Hange stares at the screen for too long when the call ends. That terribly selfish part of her would have loved to keep his company for the rest of the day. Maybe, with a little travel sized Levi in the palm of her hand, she'd have been brave enough to explore some more, enthused about all the new things to see with somebody to share them with.

Sighing, Hange drops her phone to the desk and stands from the bed, stretching. There are still things she can do—she has plenty of recommended reading to get through, a small mountain of books at her disposal, and she has mapped the route to her campus often enough that she isn't feeling too overwhelmed by the prospect of the journey.

As she heads for the door, Hange notices something on the floor beside the bed. A neat, rectangular piece of paper; one of the photographs Levi had sent her, laying face down on the ground.

She picks it up again and brings the paper close to her face. Levi had written something on the back of it in small, quick letters, less tidy than his usual practiced script, as though he’d scribbled it as an afterthought, or else that he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to read it.

There is a date, the same night she had found Levi’s secret photo stash, followed by Hange’s name, and the location of the shot. And beneath that Levi had scrawled a few words. Hange squints to read them, and then her eyes grow wide, blinking owlishly down at the note. Her heart swells almost painfully and something solid balloons within her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her lips tremble into a smile as she props the picture carefully on the bedside table.

The day is still young. Hange brews herself another cup of Levi’s tea and settles on the bed with one of her books, content to spend the next few hours reading—though she finds it strangely difficult to focus, with the words Levi had written on the back of the photograph swirling round and round in her head. Hange doubts they will leave her any time soon. They left her feeling more homesick than ever, but there is a soft, giddy kind of comfort in them all the same. It's a feeling that Hange will savour for as long as she possibly can.

It's weird here without you. Come home again soon x

#ask #levihan #my writing #snk #the way this has kicked my ass for hjkjhg MONTHS #I'm so sorry for the delay but thank you so much for the prompt!!! I was so excited to work on it #and I'm glad I finally got it finished :)#sorry it once again got incredibly out of hand length-wise #drabble my ass

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