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dont-f-with-moogles · 1 year

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Terra Darling 💖

What about 50 with Armin ? [The other character(s) involved is/are up to you]

Tysm 😘

Drunk Drabbles 50: "This is girl talk, so leave.” Here you are, Val! Avec Armin as you requested.

Girl Talk Characters: Levi, Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Sasha, Jean, Connie, Historia Word Count: 686 words

Levi stood in the shadow of the old storehouse. Peering from beneath his cloak, he surveyed the empty streets of Trost. The sky was hung heavily with grey; the promise of an impending storm.

He lowered his hood and retreated back inside the building where he had left the younger recruits. All were crowded under one of the brick arches which ran abreast of the long, dimly lit room. As Levi approached, the clamour of their voices grew even louder.

“You can’t apply foundation that thickly,” Mikasa was scolding Historia, “look, you’ve left a tidemark on his neck. You need to blend it further down, like this.” She leaned down to rub the skin of Armin’s neck with two outstretched fingers.

“This isn’t a fucking makeup tutorial!” Eren exploded, his voice echoing around the storehouse’s lofty ceiling. “If we don’t split up now the anti-personnels will just ambush us!”

“Hate to admit it but Jaeger’s right,” Jean sighed, “can’t he just go like that? I can’t even see a tidemark.”

Levi stood listening in quiet disbelief.

“You know, maybe you two should just go on ahead then,” Armin tried genially, despite the tremor in his voice, “after all this is girl talk, so leave, why don’t you?”

“I’ll hurry this up!” Eren dived upon the makeup bag which Historia was clutching. He withdrew a mascara wand and brandished it at Armin’s face.

“Tell me how to do it!” he demanded.

As Mikasa stepped aside, Levi could see Armin seated upon a wooden chair, his hands clutching his knees. He was dressed in a white blouse which clashed horribly with the clownish shade of orange coating his face. A long, cotton peasant skirt fell from his waist past his ankles. He was eyeing Sasha who had been clicking an eyelash curler experimentally at him whilst Eren advanced upon him with the mascara.

“Sasha, I’m begging you… let me do my eyes myself. It’s standard procedure when applying makeup, I believe. I- I’ve read books…”

“But I’ll try my best!” Sasha assured him with a particularly emphatic click of the curler, “um, how many eyelashes do you not need?”

“Don’t pull too many,” Mikasa warned her. “He still needs to be able to blink.”

“Uncanny…” Levi breathed, thinking back to the long night he and Hange had spent extracting various parts of Sannes’ face. He shook the memory from his mind with a quiet grunt of disapproval.

“Oi.”

All heads turned towards him.

“I told you to never congregate in a group! It’s not safe.” Levi swept out an arm, sending the group scattering like a flock of birds. “Get out of here now!”

As Connie stumbled last out of the door, Levi glared once more at Armin. To the boy’s surprise, he lifted the makeup bag and inspected its contents carefully. Then Levi withdrew an eyeliner pen.

“Stay still.”

Armin could scarcely believe it as Captain Levi, Humanity’s Strongest, grasped him by the chin. He tilted Armin’s head upwards and, holding the eyeliner in his free hand, bit down and tore off the cap.

“Close your eyes,�� he slurred over the plastic cap held between his teeth. Trembling, Armin obliged. Gently, Levi drew a small black flick upon the boy’s eyelid. It was all Armin could do to suppress a flinch.

“You just want to sweep it across the lid,” Levi advised, gently adorning Armin’s other eye. The young scout made a small, nervous sound in reply.

“And if the others ask, I was not part of this girl talk shit. I have a reputation to uphold, Arlet. One word and I’ll force feed you the entire contents of this bag.”

Bonus: Outside, Jean was tugging a dark, brown wig over his sand-coloured hair. He ruffled the top of his head and then stood back to check the effect in a shop window. Swearing, he hurled the item to the dusty pavement.

“I’m not wearing this! I look nothing like you anyway!” he snarled. Eren, who was slouched by the adjoining wall, gave a shrug.

“Exactly. That’s cause I don’t look like a fucking farm animal.”

My askes are always open. So who you gonna call? 👉 Drabble challenge.

#drunk drabbles #who wants an AoT AU makeover show?#Erwin Levi and Hange on the judges panel perhaps?#levi ackerman #eren jaeger #mikasa ackerman #armin arlert #sasha braus #jean kirschstein #connie springer #historia reiss #attack on titan #attack on titan drabble #writing asks #my writing

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nymika-arts · 9 months

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hii *twirling my hair* I am your #1 fan ilysm. may I please have 🥸 + lighthouse for a weird little guy? also maybe ✨ for my #fic tag (yes I have a boring tag system I know lmao)

and this one wasn't on your list but can I have your hand in marriage too ?

well... marriage wasn't one of the choices, but for you i'll make an exception. beach wedding at a lighthouse <3

here's your little guy, he's a lighthouse keeper! his name is ernest

now idk HOW i'm supposed to choose just a few of your fics to rec bc u are so amazing 😭 but i'll try:

this one is ur pinned post so i saw it first lol but a wound to close is SO lovely and just wonderful to read, the way they care for each other 🥺

OH OF COURSE THIS TINY ONE U SURPRISED ME WITH ILY its so sweet

your kingdoms fic tidemarks i am EATING IT

this oneeee oh the buck angst <3

7k celebration ask game

#me waiting patiently to be able to rec the u know what fic :)#ren 🐸#nyms asks #7k celebration #LOVE U SO MUCH

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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 1 year

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Chapter 26- Ziva

***

She drew the skiff onto the beach and left it at tidemark. The sandbar spread before her, a stretch of blinding white sand and hissing surf. Bellana's Arm was blue as Buyani porcelain, an expanse of choppy waves and whitecaps, the sky cloudless. Lapide was visible in the distance, hazy green and blinding white, sea-stacks rising from the waves. This sand was neutral and sacred to no one. Ritual ground.

She remembered her last ritual, the driving rain, the standing stones, the prisoner's blood turning the pool of rainwater red.

You don't have to do this, Lapin, Isabella Valere had urged at Valeris's docks. Ziva had snorted and shouldered her aside. Valere stayed behind, her gaze hard on Ziva's back, but Ziva had put her from her mind as she boarded the ship, as Valeris fell away in their wake, as Ziva retreated belowdecks to ready herself and her weapons. She might be a queen, might be a descendant of witches and warlords alike, but she didn't understand a damn thing about this.

If Ziva was to die today, this was a fair place to do it.

Past the far end of the sandbar loomed the sleek Lapidaean warship that had brought her here, silhouetted black against the vivid blue water. Closer, no more than twenty yards off, a single rowboat cut toward shore.

Ziva drew a breath and reached for the sword sheathed at her hip, for her plain knife. Her fingers curled around its hilt. Sweat slicked her palms. Her pulse hammered inside her.

The dinghy reached the surf, and a single lean silhouette vaulted over the side, into the shallows. He approached, ragged mantle fluttering behind him as he climbed onto the sand. He stood, watching her, and Ziva felt his gaze like a physical weight.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to stand her ground, to not turn and run.

Hot wind skated across the sandbar as she and Severin Azare faced one another. Ziva's hand shook on her sword hilt.

"Lapin," Azare called at last.

"Captain."

"You know as well as I do how this works." He hadn't reached for his weapons yet, hadn't moved from the surf's edge. "We can fight, or you can stand down. It's your choice to make."

"I have no choice. You called bata razir. It's this or-"

"-Dishonor? Disgrace?"

"I'm not the only honorless one here," Ziva snarled.

"Then we're on equal ground with the gods, Lapin." He lowered his head. "There's no need for this. You can still walk away."

"About to forgive me, sir?" Ziva said, cutting him off. Her heart pulsed harder; her hands shook. Traitor hands, traitor heart. "I'd rather get to fighting."

"I'm not going to give you another chance."

"I don't want another chance." Ziva flung off her long coat, casting it aside. "I'm ready. I've always been ready."

He let out his breath. "Then you'd best be quick."

Ziva drew steel. Her blade sprang into the sunlight, a flash of blinding silver, and she lunged. Sand hissed under her feet; Azare didn't move as she sprinted for him, sword raised to strike.

Azare twisted aside. Ziva slashed, spinning with him, into the surf. It sucked at her ankles, a spray of warm seawater soaking her to mid-calf. Azare's blow came down hard; blades rang, echoing long across the water. He wasn't holding back. Another strike, and Ziva danced back, out of the water and whirling past his third blow.

He advanced. Ziva's heart gave a pang. His stare was black, blank as a shark's seeking blood. He didn't strike again.

"Scared, Azare?" Ziva cried. "Missed the taste of my knife?"

"Enough." His strike came, steel weeping its song as it parted the air. Ziva jerked aside; the sword got her anyway, a glancing gash across her cheekbone. Blood spattered the white sand. The pain shocked through her, enough to get her out of the way of the next blow, and the next. She barely deflected the last, and felt the warping clang as much as heard it, Azare's blade screeching off hers and echoing across the water. The sound bit into her back teeth.

Saints, Ziva thought. He means to kill me.

Mad to think otherwise. That's what they'd come here to do. One of them wouldn't leave this sandbar alive. It shook her anyway, like a kick to the guts. He'd survived deep magic and trials and his own death, and still he'd come back to her.

Tears twisted a knot in her throat. Her anguish became anger, transmuting to familiar black rage. This was who she was. This was who she'd always been.

She pressed her attack with a scream. Their blades didn't dance anymore, didn't flicker and dart so much as heave and grind. Azare rained his attack down on her, hammer blows so strong Ziva was surprised her sword didn't snap. She kept him off, kept him back, smacked away his swordpoint, graceless and inelegant.

An opening appeared: a clean strike to his back. Ziva drew her plain knife and brought it down, point aimed for a kidney.

Azare grabbed her arm and twisted it out of the way, deflecting her strike. Her knifepoint trembled, bright as a star.

"Again?" Azare said. "Really?"

She dropped her knife and smashed her elbow hard into his sternum. Azare stumbled back, skidding through the loose sand. Seabirds swirled over the sun. Ziva felt sweat slick the back of her neck. It burned in her eyes, and she blinked it away.

Azare stood, hand pressed to his sternum, sword up. He didn't attack.

"You done?" Ziva goaded. "Want to die again, Severin, die right this time?" She swished her sword through the air, advancing. "Should have fought like this a long time ago. Maybe I should have done the job years back, just to catch the look on Margaux's face."

He flinched. She grinned. "Oh, yeah, I'd like to see that. I'd like to hear her scream when she saw her lover stuck like a sow. Treasonous bitch. She got what she deserved. I only regret she's dead so I can't put her down myself."

"That's enough."

Tears slid down her face, salt stinging her lips. "Tell me, did you see her face when you kissed me? You did, didn't you? She might be dead, but you'll never be free of her, never."

"Ziva," Azare said, his voice tight.

"What?" Ziva's voice shook, but she pressed on. "Too painful? Maybe you should have thought of that while you were screwing her like she was your whore-"

Azare rushed her. This time, the onslaught was ferocious. Each clang drove spikes through Ziva's head, vibrating in her skull. She screamed, lashing out, all her training forgotten. She was back in Ibaris, using sticks and knives, not spellforged steel. She was standing by the well, she was standing by the courtyard, black blood spattering her mother's paintings. She was standing in the dust and the flies, and she was buried there too.

A raw scream burst from her, scraping over her throat. She tasted blood. Azare didn't stop. Ziva could barely deflect his strikes. One overbalanced her and she went down, Azare's knee in her guts. She crashed to her back in the sand. It billowed around them.

"Come on, Azare!" Ziva roared. "Come on! Finish the damn job. Kill me. Kill me!"

The next blow struck her sword and tore it from her grip. It spun away, embedding itself deep into the sand. Ziva's eyes sprang wide. The sun struck Azare's sword and turned it white. His black eyes were alight with killing cold as he drew the sword back, point angled to impale itself in Ziva's heart.

The blade fell.

Ziva closed her eyes.

No pain ever came. Her heartbeat pulsed on, overloud in her ears. She felt sweat on her palms, down the back of her neck, sticking her shirt to her body. Her cheek ached. Above, seabirds called and circled. The sand was fine and powdery in her hair.

She opened her eyes. Azare stood over her, his sword stuck point-first into the sand at her shoulder. His hand was outstretched, as if to help her up.

"No," Ziva murmured.

"Get up, Lapin."

"Hells with you, Azare."

He didn't lower his hand. "Shall I leave you here, then, to the mercy of the gulls?"

"Finish it."

"No."

Ziva pounded her fist into the sand. "Damn you, Severin, finish it now."

"Enough, Ziva," Azare said quietly. "Get up."

She paused, then grabbed his hand. He hauled her to her feet. Ziva staggered a little; her head swam, aching. He steadied her, still gripping her wrist.

"That's it," he murmured.

She wrenched from his grip and curled away from him, dropping to her knees in the sand. "Coward," she spat. "You didn't come here for this. You came back for Alois. Estara's savior." Her voice was bitter, mocking. "A bastard, a broken child-"

"He's not Estara's savior, Lapin," Azare said.

Ziva blinked and looked up. "You still have hope for Estara?"

"There has to be hope for Estara."

"Does there?" Ziva asked. "It's poisoned so many for so long. Not just in this war. Famines, and plagues. Centuries of dust. A broken nation training its people to hate as hard as it has, to be as brutal as it has been."

She dropped her head. "Sometimes I think it's broken me."

"You aren't broken, Lapin."

"Aren't I? I was so sure," she said, driving her fist into the sand. "Of my love, of my loyalty. For Estara, for Estara, always for Estara. But there was a Lapidaean, one of the Sparrows. He came for Isabella Valere. I helped him. I fought with him, bled with him. And I watched him die."

She pressed her hand to her face. "For his queen, for his country, for Saints-know-all. I watched dead men drive their knives into him, and for what? For Lapide, for Estara, does it matter? He's dead, and I'm left watching everything I loved tear itself apart."

Her eyes were hot with tears. "I'm left watching children burn in their cities. I'm always left with the dead."

"You're alive. You're here. You still have a chance."

"A chance." Ziva closed her eyes. "Did we ever have a chance to be different, Severin?"

She heard him approach, felt him kneel to her level. She opened her eyes to him. His gaze was on her, steady and dark.

"We're the both of us damned, Lapin," he said. "We've done the irredeemable. To the world, to those who trusted us..."

"Then why?"

"You can change," Azare said. He touched the wound on her cheek. "So can others. We'll save what we can, no matter what's come before. You're Estara's hope, Ziva. And mine, too."

"Damn you, Azare," Ziva whispered.

He pulled away, turning his back on her. He began toward the dinghy, yanking his sword from the sand.

Ziva waited until he was a few steps off, then took up her knife. She held it, watching the flash of sunlight off its blade. For a moment she contemplated flinging it into the sea, watching it flash for the last time before it sank.

The urge rose, then died. Ziva sheathed her knife again.

The wind over the sandbar changed- hot and dry, then at once icy, a blast like winter. Ziva looked up, frowning, but the sea looked the same, the sky clear as ever.

Azare stood in the surf, rigid, staring out to sea. Ziva followed his gaze.

At the horizon, lightning flickered.

Her heart hammered- the Leviathan- but this was wrong. She tasted something bitter on the back of her tongue, felt her pulse quicken as if in dread. Not just lightning, but clouds- a swell of dark clouds massing at the far edge of the sea. The surf hissed up the beach, the once-calm ocean rising in whitecaps.

"Azare," Ziva said, climbing to her feet. "What is that?"

He whirled back toward the dinghy. She caught a glimpse of his face as he brushed past her and felt a spike of cold lance her through.

"Is that a storm?" she said.

"No." He stopped and faced her, his eyes bright with raw, lucid terror. The look stung; it stopped her short. Saints, she'd never seen that look before, never in all their years together. "Get back to the ship. Get back to the ship now."

She steeled herself, straightened her spine. His fear couldn't mean the end of her. She was ever his counterpart. One of them had to be strong. "What's happening?"

"You've seen how many people are in Valeris, Lapin?"

She blinked. "Thousands."

"Yes. Thousands. And if that storm is what I think it is, come nightfall there will be none." He looked out again, another blast of ice wind ruffling his hair. "If that storm comes, everyone in Valeris is going to die."

#tales of the great leviathan #grave of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #chapter 26

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fiction-quotes · 2 years

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We admired them for a while, the flat barges, the tall houseboats with the corrugated roofs, the stovepipe chimneys, the frescoes, the multicoloured flags, slogans, painted devices to ward against accident and shipwreck, the small barques, fishing lines, pots for crayfish hoisted up against the tidemark for the night, tattered umbrellas sheltering decks, the beginnings of campfires in steel drums on the riverside. There was a smell of burning wood and petrol and frying fish, a distant sound of music from across the water as a saxophone began its eerily human melodious wail. Halfway across the Tannes I could just make out the figure of a redheaded man standing alone on the deck of a plain black houseboat. As I watched he lifted his arm. I waved back. It was almost dark when we made our way home. Back in Les Marauds a drummer had joined the saxophone, and the sounds of his drumming slapped flatly off the water.

— Chocolat (Joanne Harris)

#book quotes #fantasy fiction #magical realism #joanne harris #chocolat #france #lasquenet-sous-tannes #les marauds #gens du voyage #romani people #boats #houseboats #barges #music #sounds #saxophone #drums #fishing

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zoolgytalks · 1 month

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Classification of Leucosolenia

Classification of Leucosolenia Phylum :- Porifera (Pore bearing, cellular grade, asymmetrical or radially symmetrical). Class :- Calcarea (Calcareous spicules present). Order :- Homocoela (Canal system of ascon type). Genus :- Leucosolenia Colony of Leucosolenia Habit and habitat Marine colonial sponge found in shallow waters below tidemark on seashore rocks, having intense wave action of…

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hiccupologist · 4 months

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also a little bit of my original fiction with my OCs, why not. its short but it's the prelude to some supposedly unwilling stuffing with one of my science rival pairs, Shanko Sekonder amd Phraine Sturmthrom, high-ranking men in the Theoretical Biophysics Department and Underwater Exploratory Annex respectively

Professor Sturnthrom’s stomach clenched when he walked into his office and saw Dr. Sekonder standing there once again next to his desk, this time holding in one hand a seafoam green pastry box tied with a fuschia paper ribbon, and in the other an oblong package wrapped in kraft paper the color of milky coffee and sealed with bright red wax. The professor had no idea how he had gained entry, and somewhat suspected he had crawled in through the cracks like a spider. He looked like one, and was a surgical biophysicist besides that, which was a disgusting department that smelled like cooked blood.

Shanko turned to smile at him, his dark glasses briefly glinting light into Sturnthrom’s eyes. It was a motion that he thought required a horror movie sound effect, yet when their eyes met he almost felt himself blush. Indeed, the twist in his stomach was just as close to his loins as to his adrenal gland. “Hello, Phraine! I was just buying some fresh cow tongues at Tidemark Place and well, I saw this quaint little bakery, and we had such a nice lunch together a few days ago-“

“This is incredibly low.” Sturnthrom spat, aggressively pulling out his rolling high-back and dropping down into the heavily padded bucket seat. A few sandy colored horse hairs pulled free from the surly bonds of the upholstery.

Sekonder looked hurt, screwing up his thin, glossy black lips in a concerned frown. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” The doctor silently cocked his head to the side like a puzzled herding dog. Fuck, he’s going to make me say something out loud. Phraine swallowed, his throat dry, his almost emptied stomach somehow now becoming perceptible to his awareness. He furrowed his brow, glaring at Sekonder like he would someone beneath him, someone who answered to him. It clearly didn’t have the same effect on a colleague, one a level higher up the clearance ladder, no less. Finally, he managed; “Beef Wellington.”

“You didn’t like my roast?” Sekonder asked, crestfallen, the packages sagging slightly in his hands. “Really? You seemed to very much enjoy it at the time! And I find it hard to believe I unintentionally poisoned you when I cooked the meat in an industrial grade sous vide machine made for separating cadaver meat from bones.”

“Shanko!” He snapped, and the doctor only flinched a little. In fact, even as his expression recovered he looked satisfied. Phraine felt the mass of his torso filling the physical space he inhabited, the furthest point of his gut lightly touching the edge of the desk and spilling over. It once merely brushed the wood when his chair was in this position, and had gradually come to overtake it. This wasn’t all Sekonder’s doing, not by far, but he was conscious of it now. He felt it was emblematic of the weakness in his being driving their current conflict. “I don’t have time for your manipulative ambulations! I’ll be frank with you: you’re taking advantage of my… my.” He could barely say it, and as he struggled, he felt arcs of electricity jumping under his belly. “You’re taking advantage of a man with a… compulsive eating problem. For your personal gain. Whatever sick purpose it is that drives you.” Sekonder set his bounty aside atop a nearby cabinet, deftly relocating a transparent, topographic ocean globe to the carpet. He leaned forward, his frown broken into a warm, giddy smile, like a fresh and naive young kindergarten teacher. “Oh, Professor. Are you sure? Because, at the risk of sounding quaint, it seems like you’re using me for your ‘personal gain’.” As he said this, he patted Phraine’s stomach, not in the condescending manner a coach might use to shame his star player for not making weight, but in a loving, borderline erotic way more typical of a stranger invading the boundaries of a pregnant person. It was more of a playful caress, really. “And what sick purposes drive you, my dear friend?”

#kink ocs #spider's kink wips

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