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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 1 year

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In the Bleak Midwinter

By: FloreatCastellum

Prompt: In the Bleak Midwinter

Summary: ‘Twas the week before Christmas and in grand TTB tradition @floreatcastellumposts was serving up some heartbreaking, festive angst. Don’t forget your cloak as we journey into the forest with Dean.

Read it below or on AO3 here.

The snow is not settling on the ground. Each snowflake has a brief life of falling from the grey sky onto the scrubby grass and then vanishing at once. Dean supposes that in other weather it might be beautiful here; perhaps the sun would reflect gloriously off the small trout lake, perhaps the rushes of the river just over the bank would sway pleasantly in a warm summer breeze, perhaps the short, muddy grass would bloom with wildflowers.

But at the moment, all is washed grey with sleet, and he has that heavy coldness that comes from clothes that are always just a little bit wet. Shivering has become an unremarkable constant.

‘Accio trout,’ says Dirk, and three fish have a bewildering end to their lives as they are magically hoisted out of the cold water to struggle and twist for breath in the damp air. The ripples from them spread and then settle once more into grey, stone-like stillness.

They are setting up camp on a little island in the lake, accessible by a thin, creaking footbridge. Small wooden platforms punctuate the shore, for anglers who pay for the privilege of fishing here, Dean guesses, and a thicket of forest provides some shelter from the bitter wind which moans around them.

‘Bleak, innit,’ grumbles Ted, clearing the ground. ‘Grab that guyline, would you, son?’

Dean does so; the rope stings and leaves red marks on his numb hands but he’s used to this routine now. He twists it around a peg as it magically hammers itself into the ground, and knots it the way Dirk showed him. Ted is cursing under his breath; the frost has left the ground as hard as iron, and even with magic it’s proving difficult to get the pegs in.

The goblins speak in their harsh, guttural way, and then Gornuk says, ‘you need to descale and clean it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ says Dirk irritably. ‘You tell me every time.’

There’s more gobbledegook, and then snickering laughter; Dirk throws a dark look to Ted, who replies with an exasperated little chuckle and a shake of the head.

Dean and Ted continue putting the tent up; the sleet-snow is falling thicker now, though still not settling on the ground, so it’s with great relief that they finally get it up and are able to sit in the entrance and light a fire.

It’s a burst of colour, and Dean is briefly hypnotised by the dancing orange and flickering yellow and the rough sound of Dirk and the goblins descaling the fish nearby.

He is sick of bloody fish. Sick to death of it. It’s not as though he was someone who didn’t like fish before. His mother would stew fish, or pan fry it and serve with a mango salsa, or add to a curry, or serve up ackee and saltfish. All spice and heat and colour. It makes Dean think of the way the sun bounces off the cracked pavements of East London and the throb of music and bright but skimpy clothes. It used to make him think of a childhood holiday to Jamaica, fried fish on Hellshire Beach, golden sands and azure waters.

But out here, in a different middle of nowhere each day, they choose fish because it is the only reliable source of food available. They stick to rivers and lakes and stretches of lonely coastline because Dirk has perfected magical fishing, and they can no longer find much from raiding peoples’ allotments, so they’re guaranteed a meal. But after just a few seconds away from the fire it feels cold again, and in dim winter light it always looks grey, and there is not a hint of spice to warm his tongue. He is sick of spitting out flimsy little bones, even when he pushes his knife away from the spine like Ted showed him, even when the fish are filetted by the goblins (which is rare, because they enjoy the crunch).

He doesn’t think it’s enough, either - there’s no fat on fish, and he finds it hard to ever feel full on it, even when they manage to scavenge a few potatoes or rice to have with it. He craves red meat, daydreams about it, his mouth salivates as he imagines biting into a thick, juicy burger, or the smell of bacon frying, or the richness of Mum’s mutton curry.

He watches for a little while, as Dirk pulls a knife roughly across the fish, from the tail towards the head, sending scales flying into the air like metallic snowflakes. He turns his attention back to the fire; just looking at it warms him a little.

The low winter sun has darkened swiftly; the water of the lake seems to go black quicker than the night sky. Dean has never been much of a landscape artist. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the beauty of nature and all that (though he has found that he appreciates it far less now he is forced to live in it), but he’s found his drawings have always felt a little empty without a person in them.

So instead of the dramatic view ahead of him, of the snow falling in a flurry over black water and windswept rushes, he pulls out his sketchbook and warms up his fingers by drawing a rough, unidentifiable shadow descaling a fish.

‘That Dirk?’ Ted says after a while. He’s rubbing his hands together and blowing on them between their chatter. Dean’s own fingers are numb with cold; it’s all he can do to loosely hold the pencil.

‘I s’pose - not specifically. Just - the action. The pose.’

Dirk was squatting on the ground to clean the fish; one shoulder against a tree trunk to keep him steady. Dean had been practising the lines and perspective of it.

‘I was going to say, you’ve drawn him far too attractive.’

Dean grinned, and Ted continued.

‘I hope when you draw me you do the same; take a few pounds off, iron out some wrinkles. Make my hair a bit thicker.’

‘Sure, mate, I can do that for you.’

Ted tutted. ‘I thought you’d argue - where’s your artistic integrity? Aren’t you meant to tell me those things make me more interesting?’

Dean laughs out loud. ‘I s’pose a proper artist would.’

‘And what stops you being a proper artist?’ asks Ted. His voice is a little like a friendly teacher, or beloved uncle. He’s taken Dean under his wing a bit, which Dean appreciates.

‘Being paid,’ says Dean flatly.

‘What’re your rates?’

‘You couldn’t afford ‘em, Ted.’

Ted hisses, his shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. ‘That’s cold, son. You know I can’t wander into Gringotts.’

Dirk and the goblins return and the fish are charmed to rotate slowly over the fire. The smell of them roasting fills the cold air, and Dean watches their eyes shrivel and blacken. He thinks about Hogwarts, and how the food magically appeared, hot and fresh and deliciously prepared. He thinks about how he and Seamus used to complain about it being boring.

He would love some boring food right now. A boring shepherds pie, a dull pasta bake, a dreary fish and chips. Something warming and comforting and plain.

‘Is Potterwatch on tonight?’ asks Ted.

‘Er… I’ll grab my diary, I wrote it down…’ says Dirk, and he squeezes awkwardly past Dean and Ted to vanish into the tent.

The snow has started to settle now, Dean notices. It’s collecting at the edges of things first. The roots of sleeping, bare trees, the grooves of the little wooden fishing platform.

‘Gringotts will be suffering without that man’s organisation’ says Ted, taking a long stick and prodding at the base of the fire. ‘Legendary. Bet he was like that at school too. Bet he was Head Boy.’

‘Eh?’ comes Dirk’s voice from the depths of the tent.

‘You were Head Boy, weren’t you? After I left.’

Dirk staggers clumsily out of the tent, sniffing in the biting cold, and settles back down by the fire. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he says absent-mindedly, opening his red planner and rifling through the pages. ‘School swot, I was.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Ted told Dean. ‘Too cool for that.’

Dean grinned. ‘Same. I mean - I didn’t get Prefect, so-’

‘Blimey,’ says Dirk suddenly, looking at his diary. He looks up. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’

A heavy silence falls on the three wizards; just the slight spit of the fire and crackle of the fish roasting. The goblins exchange glances that seem to Dean to be exasperated smirks, and start muttering quietly in gobbledegook.

‘Oh,’ says Dean.

‘Happy Christmas,’ says Ted hollowly.

The snow falls thicker, collecting easily now, resting on that which has already fallen.

It hits Dean very hard then. He tries to reason with himself; it is just a day, that is all. If he had not known the date, the sun would have risen and set and the night passed overhead with the same dreary monotony as any other at the moment, and he would have felt no stronger.

But he does know, and he feels suspended in it. He is left bereft, devastated, almost abandoned as he thinks about what this day should be, what it has always been to him – full of warmth and excitement and joy and love, and it is like being torn apart from his family all over again. He does not dare speak, because he knows his voice will crack.

‘Not how I’d like to be spending it, no offence to you lot,’ Ted says.

Dean swallows, and nods.

‘I’ve not got any of you anything,’ says Dirk.

‘You got us some fish,’ says Ted. ‘Cheers, mate.’ It’s a weak attempt at bravado, but Dean appreciates it. He tries to salvage something of it himself, and returns to the rough sketch that was supposed to be him practising form. With fingers stinging from cold, he does what he can to improve it, to make it more recognisable, to make it look like he put some thought and care into it.

‘You’re welcome,’ Dirk says to Ted, a wobble in his voice.

It remains a rough looking sketch, but he signs it, tears it out from the pad, and leans over, holding it out to Dirk. He had nothing else to give him, in these circumstances. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he says, to Dirk’s surprised face.

‘Well - thanks, I - oh! Hah!’ He gives a spluttered, watery laugh as he looks fondly down at the drawing. ‘Thank you, Dean, really.’

Ted whistles, long and low and approving. ‘Signed and everything, Dirk, that’ll be worth a few bob in the years to come, trust me.’

‘I’ll get started on yours now, Ted,’ Dean assures him. ‘How do you want to be posed?’

‘Heroically.’

‘Lying in your camp bed snoring, got it.’

They try, they really do. They dance around it, they feign lightheartedness, they take the dark, terrible, lonely thoughts that are screaming in their brains and try to pretend that they do not in fact feel them, that they can shrug it off.

The snow falls thicker and thicker as they eat their fish (instantly cold), and retreat into the tent for scant warmth. They force laughter. Even the goblins seem to take pity and offer up a flask of something goblin made that Dean cannot pronounce but tastes, to him, like vodka.

‘You lot don’t celebrate Christmas then?’ Ted asks them.

‘No,’ says Gornuk flatly, ‘but we understand the traditions for you.’

Dean finishes the drawing of Ted, and offers it as a Christmas gift with a great flourish. He offers to repay the gift of alcohol with drawings of the goblins. They do not seem impressed. With that, they retire to their camp beds, leaving the three wizards to carry on drinking.

The alcohol liberates the unspoken words. It is Ted who raises the subject of their longing loneliness first. ‘Who’re you missing this year, Dean?’ he asks. ‘Who’s the family waiting for you to come home?’

‘My mum,’ admits Dean. ‘Sisters.’

‘Older or younger?’

‘Younger - we’re all so close, they were furious when I went away to school. I’ve never had a Christmas without them though. I wonder how it’s going for them.’

‘I wonder how my daughter’s Christmas is going,’ Ted says vaguely. ‘She’ll be… a few months along now, I suppose.’

‘You going to be a grandad, Ted?’ Dean asks.

He hums and nods slowly. ‘Apparently so.’

‘Next Christmas will be fantastic,’ Dirk tells him. ‘With a little one running round. Or, well, crawling.’

‘You’re going to be a great Grandad,’ Dean says. ‘The favourite one, I bet.’

‘Do you know, I don’t even know if there is another grandad, I don’t know much about my son-in-law, considering,’ says Ted. ‘Everything moved pretty quickly, then I had to leg it.’ He looks at Dirk. ‘Who are you missing this Christmas?’

Dirk thinks for a long time, staring at the flickering paraffin lamp on the table. When he speaks, Dean can hear the heavy regret in every long pause between words. ‘You know, I… I spent so many years thinking there was time for… all that… later. I was so…’ He took a great shuddering breath and turned to Dean. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, you know.’

Dean doesn’t feel lucky, but he also knows these men well enough by now to wait, and listen.

‘This is awful, obviously, but you had some good school years. When we were at school, muggleborns had to prove themselves a hundred times over to be in with a shot of getting a decent job. Didn’t we, Ted?’

Ted sniffed, and nodded, his eyes fixed on the lamp too. ‘Yeah - bloody hard if you were average like me, but I tried to keep a good sense of humour and that helped more than you’d expect, just about. Wasn’t easy though. Got into my fair share of scraps.’

Dean could not imagine Ted as a fighter, but Dirk swiftly clarified the confusion. ‘They used to target us, didn’t they, Ted? Horrific, what some of them used to get away with - then they all became Death Eaters later, didn’t they? You just tried to keep your head down.’

‘Well,’ said Ted fairly, ‘or you started scandalous relationships with Slytherin pureblood girls, but you know, we all had different tactics for survival.’

Dirk laughed. ‘You were a braver man than me - I just studied hard, tried to prove I deserved my place. Got there in the end. I don’t suppose you remember Lily Evans, Ted? Later became Lily Potter?’

‘No, she was too many years below me, never really crossed paths, from what I recall.’

‘She was the year above me; her tactic was to bloody try and kill ‘em with kindness, she was friends with some of them, for a bit anyway. Obviously didn’t work for her. But she was similar to me, talented enough to get into the Slug Club, but bloody hell did she have to work for it.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And I was the same, and anyway - I got myself a decent job, and worked hard and just kept working hard… Never really accepted that I was safe from any of that, never focused on anything but work.’

‘You regret it?’ Ted asks quietly.

‘I never did before,’ says Dirk. ‘I was proud. I still am, really. And I suppose I should count myself lucky there’s no wife or kiddies at home missing me. But… it would be nice to be missed.’ He turns to Dean, and fixes him with the sort of stern stare Professor McGonagall so often gave, in what feels like a lifetime ago. ‘Don’t become a cynic like me,’ he implores. ‘Don’t let them rob you of joy too. When all this is over, make sure you actually live - really live.’

He seems to realise what he says, and for some reason this embarrasses him. He flushes, and seizes the flask of vodka-like drink, and takes a swift gulp.

Dean nods, but then lets the silence awkwardly rest over them. He knows the cause - knows what all of them are thinking. When will this be over, really? Will it ever be over? Will they see the end of it? Or will they freeze out here in this bleak and barren landscape?

He tries to think of something else to say. ‘I didn’t realise Harry’s mother was muggleborn,’ he says at last.

‘He never mentioned it? I thought you said you were in the same dorm,’ says Ted.

‘We were. He doesn’t talk about his parents. Not to me, at least. Never really mentions them.’

‘That’s a shame,’ says Dirk. ‘They were decent people. Well, Lily definitely. James Potter could be a bit of a prat to be honest.’

A moment for the words to sink in, and then they splutter with shocked laughter.

Dirk’s words swirl around Dean’s head as he tries to sleep that night. They leave a lamp on low for the scant warmth, so he stares at the warm, flickering yellow glow as he thinks about them. After the war is over, he must live. Truly live.

He should, he knows, be thinking about his family. And it’s not to say that he hasn’t been thinking about them, because of course he has. He misses them so much it is sheer agony. He wants to risk it all and apparate right back to them, just to feel them in his arms even for a brief few seconds. He yearns to hear his mother’s voice. Perhaps he will find a payphone soon, and call. Maybe that would be safe.

But in truth, it is not them that he is fixating on as he gazes into the dim lamplight.

He thinks instead of the most lively person he knows. The person that has him roaring with laughter. The person who always finds the fun in something. The person that seems to be synonymous to happiness.

Silently, without waking the others, he gets out of bed. His pencil once again glides over the page, the guidelines soft, the tone layered up, careful detail. It’s as though his hand moves of its own accord, he doesn’t really register what he’s doing except for the fact that a hundred, a thousand, a million different fragments of memory were pummelling through his brain, each one as though painted by watercolour, soft and clouded and drowning in colour and light.

How long it takes him to draw in that dim light he isn’t sure, but he eventually puts down his pencil and looks upon perhaps the best piece he has ever created. If only he had watercolours, to add to it, to bring it away from that black and white and into something truly reflective of the person he was trying to capture. He was beautiful, Dean realises. He has never considered it before.

Still as though in a daze, he pulls on his boots, swings his coat over his shoulders, and slips out of the tent. The snow is thick now, it crunches underfoot, but otherwise muffles the world so that he stepped into a strange, close silence. The branches of the trees are covered in frost and ice, a strange tinsel, glittering in his wand light.

He goes down to the wooden platform that perches just over the water edge. It has not frozen over but it is uncommonly still, and in the snow and the dark it is black looking, as though the depths of it continue forever. His fingers are numb and prickling in the chill already, but he takes out the drawing and holds it before him. It is cast in faint blue from the light of his wand.

Seamus stares back at him, with the slight upturn of his mouth and hooded eyes that Dean fiercely knows to be the pale blue of a morning sky but are here cast, by circumstance alone, in the grey lead of his pencil.

Dean wonders if it is normal to feel suspended like this when thinking about someone. He wonders if it’s normal to think this strongly about a friend. He wonders if it is normal to miss a living person so strongly it feels like grief, like the gently increasing pain of being out here in bleak weather is nothing compared to his warm absence.

He wonders why he does not want to risk anyone seeing this drawing, this outpouring of… He cannot admit the word to himself.

Instead, he crouches, and gently places the drawing on the surface of the still water. For a moment, it seems as though it hasn’t even made a ripple, but then he sees it, reaching out into the night. The drawing of Seamus floats for a while, and he watches it, hoping desperately, praying, even, that all of this will end. That spring will eventually soften this iron hard earth, that they will see one another again at last.

Gradually, the drawing sinks into the safety of the black water, unseen by anyone but Dean. He watches it vanish, and feels oddly freed.

He will see him again, he decides. And this time, as Dirk suggests, they will live. Really live.

#submission #ttb yule bash 22 #dean thomas #seamus finnigan #hp fanfic

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haywire-cebus · 1 year

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A Week

We Could Have Been Anywhere 5/9

Hyrule takes a break from the festivities of Hateno Village.

Hyrule lands with a solid thud, right on top of something sharp, red, and loudly swearing. He pieces together what he landed on rather quickly and scrambles off, giving a small smile as he looks down at Legend. After offering him a hand up, he looks around.

Thick trees, cloudy sky, what may be a mountain or a close-by hill through the thicket.

This could be literally any of their Hyrules. Except maybe Wind’s; he’s seen some bigger islands in his Hyrule but there is no tell-tale smell of salt. He only knows it’s not his own. The air is too clean, with the forest too full of birds chirping and squirrels running around.

A moment of silence as everyone else processes the same thoughts, before Wild speaks up. “This is my Hyrule-”

And before he can even finish the sentence, Wind is already groaning. “Hylia above I thought we were done with this endless walking when we got out of Four’s tiny world.”

The taste of malice and smell of deep-rooted corruption fills his nose. It’s infinitesimally weaker than the last time they arrived; the ever-increasing signs of a land fighting back against extinction.

“Hey, my whole world isn’t tiny, we were literally normal for the last couple of days there-”

“Nope, it’s all as short as you.”

“Also, wouldn’t my world being ‘tiny’ mean that there wasn’t a lot of walking?”

Wild steps forwards, blocking the two from each other's view and speaking up. “We’re actually close to a town, I think.” He pulls out his slate and clicks around, processing words and images Hyrule could never comprehend, no matter how many times Wild tries to teach them. Wild nods, right as Hyrule notices a small bird land in a tree above. It’s small, blue, and staring at them.

Not maliciously, just with the simple curiosity of a bird that doesn’t know better than to get too close to humans.

Time’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Let’s go.”

Everyone else begins walking, following Wild as he glances at his slate as they begin picking their way through the thick trees. Trying to not make it obvious he wasn’t paying attention and now has no idea where they’re going, Hyrule follows.

Legend takes pace next to him, face impassive as it has been since he managed to shift out of his rabbit-form. Which is still a very confusing thing to say, though he can’t judge much considering he has a fairy-form. One that everyone is taking very well. As much as he doesn’t agree with all the teasing of Legend (only a little of it), it is nice that it somehow managed to usurp the attention from his fairy-form. He barely had to explain before Wind was back to making fun of Legend.

Time is next to them, eyes scanning their group and the forest around them for threats. As safe as Wild’s towns can be, the areas surrounding them are anything but. Hyrule is keeping an eye out as well, but he keeps getting distracted by running through the previous conversation to figure out where they’re going. He knows it’s unnecessary, as he will find out soon; he could always ask Legend or Time, but he worries about the disappointment he could face. He knows he struggles with paying attention, and he knows they know about his struggle but-

It all gets twisted up in his head sometimes, is all. Instead he wants to just walk and enjoy the forest. Wild’s forests especially have the heady feeling of nature, life, and gracious death deep in their roots. The magic of his Hyrule is always so interesting, and it only makes him more confused at his love of his slate and its “technology.”

It’s a surprisingly nice day out and the forest is alive with animals and the rustling of the leaves in the wind and-

And it’s a nice walk until there is the crack of a branch just a little too close for comfort. His hand is unsheathing his sword with the same motion as Time, and the two of them track the movement in the trees. The scrape of the metal catches the others attention, and everyone else is still and waiting.

Movement bursts through the bushes as a lizalfos almost tackles Four, but he rolls out of the way. Hyrule can barely even step forwards before Four has his sword through it’s back and Wild is next to him, guarding the younger hero as he gets to his feet.

Four more lizalfos step onto the path, all without black blood if the first set a president. Again, Hyrule can’t even take a step before they’re all dispatched. Legend stands beside him and snorts out a laugh, “everyone is on it today, aren’t they?”

Time takes his place next to them once the coast is clear and the group continues moving, this time a little faster and with more side-eyes to the tree. “Better that,” he says as he glances down at them, “then not.”

Hyrule tries not to let his hurt show at the comment, but it’s clear Legend noticed as he straightens, “no reason to rush in and get in the way if everyone else has it handled.”

“Of course?” Time’s inflection pitches up, something Hyrule knows means a question. The response is strange if he was reprimanding them.

Hyrule decides to not think about it anymore- or to try not to, at least- and focus on the forest again. He thinks Legend is making idle conversation with Time, maybe continuing the previous topic or maybe about something else. He’s focused on the birdsong in the trees. It sounds a little like the bird from earlier did, but something about it is off. There’s a fox dodging through a bush deeper into the forest true, so perhaps this call is a warning to other birds? He wants to listen a little longer, but they’re walking past where the bird is all too soon.

The rest of the walk is uneventful, the forest thinning out to reveal an incline up to two small stone pillars with a wooden archway on top. Hyrule assumes the buildings behind the archway are terracotta, but they could just as easily be another tan, sturdy stone. He’s not really familiar with architecture.

There’s a man with a spear standing guard, who tenses up as their group approaches. Hyrule can’t blame him, but it does cause his anxiety to rise. He’s more than used to this type of response from his own Hyrule and-

Wild waves to the man, who quickly relaxes and stands to the side. He speaks as Wild begins to pass. “We haven’t seen you for a bit, Link. Glad you’re just in time for the Solstice!”

Wild pauses, looking at the man before taking in the town again. Hyrule picks up on whatever Wild likely sees; the paper lanterns strung between buildings, the flower garlands dangling around, and the people bustling about with food and brightly colored outfits. He had assumed, at first, that this was just how the town looked. Upon second thoughts, they must be celebrating.

Hyrule continues to look as Wild continues talking to the guard. He’s only been to a few celebrations. Once a town was celebrating a good harvest after a particularly rough year, and he was able to purchase a good amount of food he normally wouldn’t indulge in as he kept his hood up. Once more, when Ganon had been defeated. His Zeldas had thrown a celebration in the castle and insisted he come, though he snuck off pretty early.

This town, though, looked peaceful despite its bustle. When he snuck off, it was from the stifling expectations he felt placed upon him in that palace. Those don’t exist here- he doesn’t have to be anyone except a friend of Link, the hero. He’s not a hero here. He lets his shoulders drop.

Tuning back into the conversation, he picks a few things up. They’re staying for the festival. Wild’s Zelda is coming. Wild has a house.

Hyrule blinks. “You have a home?”

Wild smiles and waves a goodbye to the guard. Everyone follows as he begins walking, away from where the festival is being set up and towards a small bridge connecting to a simple looking house. “It was going to be destroyed, and I had enough rupees to buy it. It’s a nice place to store my things when I’m away.”

Time steps forwards to place a hand on Wild’s shoulder, “I’m glad you have a place to return to.”

A snort is stifled by Hyrule's ear, “the old man knows the rest of us have houses too, right?”

Hyrule watches as Twilight slaps Legend on the arm for the comment, but it seems like no one else heard.

If they did, they ignored it.

Hyrule doesn’t have a home.

He doesn’t bring this up. He thinks he doesn’t need one.

Inside Wild’s house is simple. A table, what looks like a sleeping area up some stairs, a kitchen tucked under those stairs, and a door under the lofted sleeping area. There’s not enough chairs for everyone, which isn’t surprising.

He thinks he may like one, if it’s like this.

Pushing the table against the wall, Wild speaks. “You guys can spread out here or take my bed. There’s also an inn on the other side of town that’s nice if you don’t talk to the man by the stables.”

Wind looks away from the bow hung up on Wild’s wall, “what’s wrong with the man by the stables?”

Making his way over to the array of weapons decorating the walls, Hyrule zeros in on a beautiful trident. A tickle of magic rests in its metal, something old and fading. It feels like healing, stubbornness, and love. The style of the pointed edges and the red coloring on parts of it match his sword, he notices. It’s the strangest coincidence Hyrule has come across between everyone’s worlds, and he reaches a hand out to grab the trident-

“Don’t touch that.” Wild is at his side, grabbing his wrist before it can reach the weapon.

Hyrule pulls his hand away and steps back. “Sorry.” There is silence for a moment, “it’s a beautiful weapon.”

“Yes.”

The silence continues, with only the low muttering of Warriors, Wind, and Four making conversation on the other side of the room.

Hyrule is itching to say something, apologize for whatever unspoken rule he had broken, when there is a heavy knock at the door.

The room goes silent, before the door begins to open.

Hands are on weapons as light streams in, and a figure steps through.

“You asshole!” A sharp voice yells out, causing some of them to draw their swords.

Time steps forwards, likely to intervene, but with his sword still sheathed.

He stops though, as the light settles enough for the figure to be clear. A tall woman, with long blonde hair and a blue shirt stands in the doorway.

“Hey, Zelda.” Wild says, hand going up for a short wave.

“Where in Farore have you been? I get one message two months ago after another entire month of nothing-“ She stops herself as she takes in the group. Eyes flit from Time to Sky to Hyrule to the little group off to the side and she straightens up. Takes in their similar appearances, their visible scars, the wary look on most of their faces, the way they turn to protect and defend one another. “So you weren’t lying about people like you from other times.”

Cocking his head he asks, “you thought I was lying?”

“A little, yes.”

Time steps forwards once more, “it seems we are intruding. Wild, we will go explore the town while you finish this up.” He gives a bow to Wild’s Zelda, “Your Highness, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

At Time’s words, Hyrule puts a name to the shine that emanates from her; the Goddess’s blessing, blood, magic- whatever it is called in Wild’s time. He should have picked up on it sooner, but it’s not as strong as the feeling of it on his own Zelda’s, nor as on any of the other’s he has met on this journey. It’s like it’s been drained out of her. He wonders if anyone else’s aren’t as connected to their magic.

She brings her hand up. “Please, don’t call me that.”

“Of course.” Time steps around her and everyone else begins to follow.

Hyrule can only take one step before Wild’s hand is clutching his tunic sleeve and he is forced to stop. It’s a strange mirror of earlier, one that confuses Hyrule. Legend is almost out the door when he turns to see Hyrule still inside.

He pauses as well. “You coming?”

Wild speaks up, “Hyrule never got to put his things down.”

All the eyes in the room flicker to his bag. It’s a small thing, easy to carry and not something he tends to leave behind anyways.

Zelda huffs, “Hylia above, I’m not going to maim you, Link. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I know you can’t stand these types of talks, so if you want your companions to stay, they can.”

Hyrule very much does not want to stay, but Legend shrugs and moves to sit on the stairs, so Hyrule follows. Wild sighs and takes a seat at his table, kicking a chair out for his Zelda, who sits.

Immediately, she turns away from Wild and towards them. “You’re keeping him from being reckless?”

A snort echoes through the room and Hyrule elbows Legend as he speaks, “as much as he will let us, sure.”

Her eyes are piercing. Even if she didn’t want to be called “your highness,” she obviously commands the room much like his own Zeldas. It’s either a royalty thing or a Zelda thing, but Hyrule hasn’t been around any other royal families to know.

She stands, “Link-“

“Zelda.”

“Link,” she begins again, “just be safe. And please, contact me as much as possible so I know you’re not dead. The waiting was- it was rough.”

There is silence again, before Wild sighs. “I know. Sorry. It wasn’t something I could really control.”

“I know. Sorry. For getting mad.” Zelda steps forwards again, but stops short when Legend snorts again.

His hands come up and he corrects himself. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just funny- you two are a lot like me and my Zelda. It’s weird.”

Wild’s Zelda blinks- and they’ll need to figure out a name to keep them all straight, won’t they- and smiles. “Well, from the little bit I’ve seen of you all, I can tell you’re all just like my Link.”

There’s a moment where everyone smiles, before Legend’s face scrunches, “Wait-“

It’s close to sundown, and Hyrule is sitting on a fence at the edge of someone’s farmland. He avoided trampling the crops; he knows as well as anyone how important it is to keep whatever food you can grow safe, even if Wild’s time seems to grow things better than his own. Wild’s people have some fences around their crops, but they’re still very easily accessible to anyone with the slightest bit of determination to steal from them. The fields are large, too- more than enough for a small family and too wide to properly guard at night.

The air is clean, though. The malice is nearly gone- likely unnoticeable now to anyone not versed in sensing magic. The wind is cool, not burdened by carrying the heat of nearby fires or ash. His Hyrule and Wild’s have been compared before, but Hyrule knows there is one glaring difference.

Wild’s Hyrule is healing, his people love him, and there is peace to be found here.

Hyrule will never have that at home.

But the festival has been fun. He watched Four peruse the dye shop for nearly an hour, let Wind drag him off to a woman who was handing out sticky sweet pastries (he has a second one that Wind weaseled out of her tucked in his pocket), watched as Sky and Warriors danced, with Warriors getting roped in to dancing with an old woman- it was all fun.

It’s also a lot to take in. The people are so happy- and it’s not from relief. There was no big fight won, no end to a drought, just people celebrating a long summer day.

It’s absurd to Hyrule, and he hates that he can’t bring himself to take it in fully. He hates that he can’t just have fun with the others and be normal -

“Do you mind if I join you?” Wild's voice comes from behind. Hyrule jumps; he had missed the sound of footsteps crunching against the dry grass.

“Sure.” He keeps his voice steady. No reason to get upset over being weird.

“You know what’s weird?”

Wild needs to stop being so good at startling Hyrule- or maybe Hyrule needs to get out of his own head more. It’s an innocuous question with a simple response: “No?”

Wild huffs and hops up onto the fence beside Hyrule. He’s close enough that he can feel the heat from his body, a nice balm against the chill that is sure to come as the sun gets lower and lower and the land loses the summer’s warmth. “When I heard the festival was today, I almost wanted to turn us around and leave. Hylia, if I had been alone I probably would have snuck out hours ago.”

“What?” Hyrule turns to face Wild, but he’s staring out at the forest and fields below. His magic curls up against the two of them, soft and curious while fierce and protective; his magic has always confused Hyrule. It’s so disjointed and yet is more purposeful than most peoples. He is jealous of how natural it comes to him, how he doesn’t even seem to notice it most of the time.

“It’s too crowded, too busy. I feel like I’m supposed to do something more- like I’m missing something but I don’t know what, and- and. I don’t know.”

Throat tightening up, it’s all Hyrule can do to choke out, “that’s why I’m over here too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They don’t speak anymore. Wild shifts closer as their conversation comes to a natural close, and they both silently agree to enjoy the sunset.

For once, Hyrule thinks he may be understood. That maybe what he’s feeling is normal for heroes- for people.

And then Legend’s voice calls out, “why are you two hiding away? Warriors is about to-” He stops himself. Hyrule turns to see what it was that made him lose his words, but nothing seems wrong. Legend is just looking out at the sunset, the orange and purple glow as it contrasts with the greens and yellows of the land. Legend huffs and walks closer, nudging Hyrule’s shoulder before hopping on the fence next to them. “You’ve got a real pretty Hyrule, Wild.”

Wild doesn’t speak for a minute. He almost thinks he isn’t going to respond, before a soft, “thank you” fills the air. An owl hoots in response. “Aren’t you going to go back to the festival?”

Legend takes his hat off and shakes his hair out, “I could ask the same about you two. But, no, it’s nicer out here. Plus,” he digs into his pockets, jostling Hyrule as he does. He fishes out a small bag, opening the pull string to reveal small honey candies, something Hyrule had seen at one of the stands that a woman was giving out for winning a game she had set up. “I have these that I wasn’t going to finish but didn’t want to waste on the others. Here.” He holds his arm out and Hyrule takes one, barely flinching as his fingers brush his brisk magic rings, passing it to Wild before grabbing one for himself.

It smells really, really good, and Hyrule thinks back to what Time had told him months ago about fairies enjoying honey. “Thank you, Legend.”

“Just don’t tell the others. I don’t want Wind whining that I’m picking favorites.” He eats one and closes the bag, slipping it back into his pocket. He hesitates, before adding, “I’m not, by the way. If I were, it’d be Four.”

Wild laughs and eats his own candy, not savoring it but instead biting down with the worst crunching sound Hyrule has ever heard. “Mine would be Four too.”

Hand reaching to his own pocket, Hyrule feels the sticky bun in his pocket, folded up into a napkin. He pulls it out and rips it as best he can into thirds. The biggest piece he keeps for himself and hands the second largest to Wild, “you get the bigger piece because Legend said I’m not his favorite.”

A glimmering hand shoots out in front of him, grabbing at the piece he handed Wild, “he also said Four is his favorite- now you’re playing favorites!”

Wild leans back, trying to eat it before Legend can take it from him.

Hyrule has to dodge as he savors his own piece, and when a particularly adventurous move from Legends sends him flailing backwards onto the ground, he can only laugh as his back thuds into the dirt. The sky above is dark, the first stars of the night winking into existence.

#linked universe #lu hyrule #lu legend #lu wild #lu #my fics

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karikarasuno · 2 years

Text

A Sliver of Eternity

Pairing: Pirate! Getou Suguru x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Reader is heavily inspired by Circe, Angsty Ending, Implied Violence (but nothing explicit), Smut (18+ only), Unprotected Sex, Slight Pussy Job, Implied Satosugu

Word Count: 8.7k

a/n: we’re ignoring that this was supposed to come out a month ago, and also that it was supposed to be 5k. we’re gonna be proud that I finished it because this was quite a journey through writer’s block. i want to thank @lady-lunaaa, @dabilove27, and @gixxie for hosting this fun af collab. i’m so happy to have been a part of it and love you all a whole lot. here’s the masterlist for your reading pleasure. please enjoy some pirate getou, with a side of love and heartbreak.

Breathe.

Once in. Once out.

The air that fills your lungs is staticy. A metallic taste coats your tongue and the storm rolling in doesn’t disappoint. You smelled it before you saw it, a shift in scent that went from salt and sea spray to a chemical earthy aroma. The wind is sharp, slicing through the island’s vegetation with ruthless intensity. And if it weren’t for the twisted possibility of someone crashing ashore, you would be seeking shelter in your small cottage. Hidden behind thickets of trees and newly blossoming flowers.

It's become a rare occurrence for someone to involuntarily visit you. A punishment, you assume. One as harsh and unforgiving as the one that got you here. But on the occasion, you were gifted with a companion, however willing they were. Every so often, you find a lover to mold and nurture and corrupt. The idea alone fuels your desire to stand below the roaring skies. To taste the electricity surging through the clouds and feel the cold, unrelenting force of the rain. In these scarce moments, you feel most alive. Like the magic dancing at your fingertips conducted humanity to your will. Like the fire burning in your veins set the world aflame and led an unsuspecting traveler straight to you.

It is what you have come to yearn for, since nothing else is really as eternal as hope.

Your thin white linens begin to soak through, sticking to your soft frame like a second skin. Goosebumps tighten your flesh, the air in your chest chilling with each gasp. You want to bottle it. This adrenaline coursing through you. To get high off whenever you so pleased. Instead of allowing fate to decide that for you. Isolation has you losing grip on reality. But you don't care anymore. This is what they want, isn’t it?

To watch your sanity slip through your fingers until you were nothing but a shell of brewing sorcery for them to unleash when they needed?

And maybe you would grant that to them. But not today. Not when someone is close enough to sink your teeth into. To tattoo their flesh with your name. To carve pleas onto their tongue.

So you wait. Hands braced on wrinkled bark amongst rows of tall grass that scratch at your ankles and calves. You sink your bare toes into the soaked sand beneath your feet, burying yourself into that spot. A predator searching for its next prey.

Hours pass. Or maybe they are merely seconds. But thunder shakes the earth and lightning cracks towards the ocean. A ship, dark and wooden and enormous, comes barrelling towards you. It’s delicious. The fruits that hope yields. Sweet and juicy– dripping from your being like the raindrops cascading down your face.

And from there, you see just a single man. White shirt weighed down by the torment of the storm, long black hair flinging around his shoulders and neck as he desperately tries to keep his ship from wrenching right down the middle. He’s hopeless to stop it though. His destiny is already placed into the palm of your hands for you to decide.

The ship crashes into your shore with a riotous boom, loud enough to rival the ones wreaking havoc from above. It tears– thin fabric ripping down the seams by the shears of your shore. Easy.

A nauseating joy rocks through you, your head spins with excitement. Hardly containable within your skeleton, your body’s construction on the verge of bursting. He tumbles out from between one of the cracks in the hull, somersaulting in the open air before he smacks the ground with a gruesome crunch. Your nails dig into the wet bark, lying in wait before you seek him out. The prey you’ve been waiting oh so patiently for.

The storm rages on, flying pieces of stray wood blowing off and into the ocean. He’s laying flat on his back, unmoving and red beginning to stain through his shirt. You fight your way towards him, braving the worst of the downpour to reach his still body. The chill of the rain aching your joints. You sweep chunks of hair from his face, gasping at how absolutely beautiful he is. Even with blood staining his hairline, the relaxation of his should be pained features are startingly gorgeous. Your heart leaps in your chest, thumping into your throat at the prospect of him being all yours. A treat not even immortality can rip from your greedy fingertips.

With great effort you manage to drag his unconscious, dead weight into your home. Flickerings of already burning candles guide you into your living room, where you lay him, nearly lifeless, on the fur rug in front of your fireplace. You remove his shirt, tattered and bloody, to inspect his injuries. He has a fairly large gash right down his oblique, deep but not bleeding as much as you expected. Other than that and the wound near his temple, his body is almost perfection. Sculpted in a way that should only be carved from marble, all hard lines and thick muscle. Scars decorate him. Some obviously older than others, the bumpy skin smooth to the touch.

Before getting too distracted by him, you begin to boil some water over your stovetop. There are herbs lining the shelves of your kitchen, many of them used to make medicinal pastes for moments just like these. You pluck a few from their places, resting them on the wooden countertop to start mixing.

The rain accompanies your movements, the thunder moving away from your island only to leave behind the patters of raindrops on your roof. It’s all so ritualistic, seemingly mundane, from the amount of times you have healed a lost soul. Only to be brought back down to earth by the same hands that took the care to heal them.

You grind the herbs down in your worn mortar, the greenery breaking down rather quickly once you add the freshly boiled water. No one knows of the unique properties your plants possess, a treasured secret despite your constant surveillance.

Once everything is in order you kneel beside him, knees digging into the plushness of your rug. There is a damp rag draped over your knee, the other supplies set down around you. You wipe away the blood first, cleaning him with rapt attention since it has been far too long that you’ve had another warm body so close. It’s simple enough to tend to his wounds after— the alcohol you bring over probably stinging his open cut. But you move on swiftly, scooping a thick clump of the paste onto two fingers. Your hands are thrumming with restrained power as you slather the opening with the grainy substance.

His body is still hot. A good sign, you think. Lucky for you he isn’t succumbing to his injuries, so his recovery time should be shorter than most. But with the damage on his head, it’s difficult to discern when exactly he would be waking up.

The process is routine after you stabilize him. He’s left on the ground in front of the fireplace as you begin to burn the dwindling wood settled there. You keep his shirt off, choosing to throw away the shredded material before leaving to find him some dry, clean clothing. You lay them folded beside his sleeping form, reclining against the base of your small sofa to wait. Again.

This one is much less entertaining, and maybe a touch too comfortable. You fight the exhaustion weighing down your eyelids, half-baked attempts at trying to get yourself up and moving were fruitless. Especially once you were curled against the lush fabric, the heat of the fire beating against your now damp clothes. You relax, deciding that you deserve some much needed rest after the work you put in dragging a man far larger than you across the beach. You allow your eyes to flutter shut, only illuminated by the fire gently pulsing across from you.

He’s the first to awaken. A gasp and then a groan stirring you awake from where your head had fallen on your shoulder. You knead out the kink in your neck, yawning and stretching before peeking at him through half-lidded eyes. He’s clutching his side, body squirming with obvious discomfort as his other hand comes up to hold his head. He’s still disoriented from his fall, confusion furrowing his brow when he cautiously absorbs his surroundings. Foreign to him and you feel a bubble of excitement fill your chest.

You crawl towards him slowly, the sound muffled against the rug as you place a soothing hand on his shoulder. He flinches at first, eyes widening at the physical contact as he meets your gaze. Emotions play like scenes across his irises– confusion, fear, defense, and then nothing. A blank expression that should make you nervous, but you know this type. The quiet, defiant kind. The ones who believe masking their intent will eventually get them what they want.

So, you play along. Hand rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder, eyes softening as you stare at him with feigned concern. He raises onto an elbow. You adjust back and bow your head. Demure. He takes the bait, lowly grunting when he rises into a seated position. Breathing labored from the effort.

“Where am I?” He asks, maintaining his distance, tone leaving little room for refusal.

“My home,” you start, meeting his gaze through batting lashes. “I found you on the beach. There was a terrible storm and when I went out to gather my belongings from the garden I heard a horrible sound and rushed to the shore.”

He mulls your words over in his head, rolling his neck on his shoulders until there’s a satisfying pop. He resituates his position, sitting up taller, hand still holding his side to apply pressure to the pain.

“Your ship was nearly destroyed in the crash,” you say, almost apologetically. And you watch his shoulders sag. His only mode of travel deserting him here for who knows how long.

“How’d I get here?”

“Oh, I dragged you here,” you laugh, understanding how ridiculous that sounds to his ears, thoroughly enjoying the crease that appears between his eyebrows. He doesn’t believe you. Nor does he have to really. But he’s here either way, and doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

He doesn’t ask anything else, choosing instead to look at your home from over your head. He’s calculating, you can tell. You keep your home as unassuming as possible, for the likes of men like this. He’s searching for points of danger to which he will find none. Just herbs and cloth and handmade furniture. It’s evident that you live alone, the only clothing visible belonging to a person of your size and hanging off of a clothesline strung in your kitchen near the window. And even though he does not find the threats that he is searching for, he still does not relax. His shoulders remain tense, posture vigilant and prepared for any form of attack, even in his condition.

Not everyone can be the trusting kind, but you’ll crack him eventually.

What you were really hoping for was that he would carefully open up. But conversations with him remained minimal. After the first night, when the storm left behind the wreckage it delivered, he kept to himself. Any attempts at conversation you tried to make were only ever met with few words and thoughtfully guarded eye contact.

Still, you care for him. Every night he allows you to reapply the medicine. You wrap it in clean linen once you're done and he thanks you. That’s the extent of it.

He forages for wood, uses the tools that you offer to chop down trees and sand them down. He spends most of his days fixing his ship. Mending the broken pieces until they no longer look irreparable. It’s amazing what he has done in such little time. And you almost feel sorry for deceiving him. For allowing him to think that he will be leaving your island, let alone alive.

Once you’re here, you will never leave. That’s how you seek revenge.

“You never told me your name,” you say one evening as you serve him dinner on your doorsteps. You discover he would rather eat outside, with the breeze and ocean to keep him company. He accepts the bowl from your hands, mixing his food with the fork and staring off towards the horizon. Where the scorching sun was setting into the waves.

“Suguru,” he admits, stuffing a forkful of food into his mouth. Offering nothing else, but that. You chuckle because he only ever gives you just enough to satiate your curiosity. Choosing to flat out ignore your questions at times.

“Suguru,” you repeat, the name rolling off your tongue tenderly and disappearing into the evening. He hums in acknowledgment, nodding before taking another bite of his dinner. Suguru, you say in your mind, spelling it across your brain and making it stick. It’s a name unlike any you’ve heard before.

“And you?” He asks, glancing up at you. You fight the urge to smile because this is the first time he’s ever made an effort to know you. Even if it’s just as simple as your name. And you give it to him, whisper it into the brilliant sunset, hoping it sounds just as alluring to his ears as his did yours.

“Pretty,” he says, and you stare, mouth slightly ajar, ears prickling with heat. That was unexpected. And a weird swirly feeling began to make its way into your stomach. He catches your expression, chuckling lightly around another mouthful of dinner. This time it’s you who doesn’t say a word. It’s you who turns your head to the horizon and marinates in the aftershocks of his reply.

Pretty.

You bite away a smile.

Too soon, you’re wrapping his torso for one last time with spare cloth. He’s healed rather nicely, his skin sewing itself shut as if the gash was never there. Suguru compliments your herbs every day. His curiosity has been winning these past few days. Questions tumble from his lips without hesitation and it seems as if a bond is forming. He’s teasing when he opens up, taunting in that attractive kind of way when you do something he doesn’t particularly agree with. And all you seem to be doing nowadays is chewing away grins.

“That’s the worst way you could possibly do that,” he says, coming up behind you one late afternoon. You’re cleaning fish for dinner, preparing it to be cooked over the fire. He usually doesn’t wander in this early, the sun still high enough for him to be working on his ship. You toss a glance over your shoulder, fingers twitching with the desire to push his hair from his eyes.

“And how else should I do this?” You motion to the fish, nearly cut open on the chunk of wood you call an island. He likes to bait you, you have come to realize. Finds some twisted enjoyment in countering and fixing every little thing you do.

“Like this,” his voice slithers down your neck, his body closer than it has ever been as he slips the knife from your hands. He cuts a clean line up the underbelly of the fish, removing what’s inside before scraping any excess from the outside. He does all of this while only a few inches from your backside, repeating the process with the second one with swift ease.

There was nothing wrong with the way you were doing it before. Matter of fact, this was the only way you’ve ever prepped a fish for a meal. But he wants to frustrate you, a silly game you know all too well, but are still somehow hopeless against when it comes to him.

“Have you ever watched me prepare our dinner before?” You ask, spinning to face him, hands bracing on the edge of the island. His arm is still leaning against it too, bristling heat sneaking between your bodies and making goosebumps rise on your skin. Your tone is defensive, out of habit for the most part, but also to see his irises flicker with amusement.

“Don’t have to. I already know you’re doing it wrong,” he’s baiting you, and for what it’s worth, you’re letting him. You cross your arms over your chest, huffing out a mildly irritated sigh.

“Is that right?”

“Mhmm,” the vibration of his deep voice sends a shiver down your spine, one you try to suppress as subtly as possible. You refuse to let him win though, so you invade his space this time, laying a hand on his chest, and rising on your toes enough so that your lips barely reach his ear.

“Get out of my kitchen, Suguru” you whisper, voice dripping with sultry intent, and you shove him. Hard enough to where he takes two steps away from you, his face now clearly in your line of sight. Where you are pleased to find a dusting of pink on the tips of his ears and a spark of intrigue in his expression.

He raises his hands in defeat before walking backwards out of your home. The wind catches his hair, ripples the opening of his shirt to expose just enough of him to make you yearn. You stare as he disappears somewhere down the beach. This game is going on for far longer than it ever has with any of the other men that had been stranded on your shore.

Most are eager to accept the advancements of a lonely woman. Oftentimes feel entitled to it after what they had ‘been through’ to get here. But he is wholly different. He’s made no move to take advantage of this situation and that for some reason has you bending and molding to his will. Even when you convince yourself that’s not at all what is happening.

He shows up again right on time for dinner to be served. In his usual spot on the steps of your porch, elbows resting on the top one where he’s lounging in the first relaxed position you’ve seen from him. He looks good, enticing specifically. Not that he didn’t always. There was just something about this version of him. The near trusting kind, that has your heart rate pick up and your brain buzzes with excitement. You lean over to hand him his plate. He thanks you, a smile sent your way as he accepts it. He resituates himself into a better position for eating, leaning forward a bit to scrutinize the food. And just when you think he’s going to say something snarky again, he pats the space beside him with confidence.

“Sit with me,” he instructs, challenge in his gaze.

You bite the inside of your cheek, your own plate balanced in your palm as you eyed him suspiciously. “What makes you think I want to?”

He pats the empty space again, a little more firmly than before. “I don’t think, I know. Just come eat with me.”

You roll your eyes to hide your enthusiasm, but listen anyway, lifting the fabric of your ankle length dress to step down. He’s following the movement, gaze lagging on the reveal of your calf, sliding up with the fabric and dropping down just as quickly when you sit.

“Better?” He asks, looking you over with interest. You don’t answer, instead choosing to tear at the meat of your fish with your fingers, separating it from the bone. It’s cooked well through, tender enough to just pick off. You place it in your mouth, tasting salt and lemon on your tongue. And he’s watching you, a habit you noticed that he adopted recently. A habit you’re not sure if you are too keen on yet.

You throw him a sideways glance, shifting your eyes from his face to the food in his lap. Silently urging him to eat. He breathes out a laugh, finally averting his gaze and mimicking you.

The two of you eat in silence for a while, almost until you’re entirely done with your meal. The sky has erupted in brilliant shades of orange and pink, the sun kissing the ocean before it begins to sink right into it. He cleans off his plate before you, setting it down on the opposite side of him as he settles into that position once again, his eyes drifting closed this time as he allows his food to digest.

You slow your pace, partially because you’re distracted by him. A habit you have managed to pick up these last few days, alarmingly so. He catches your blatant staring, laughs again in the rumbling way he does from his chest. “What?”

Initially, you shrug, eating the last piece of meat from your plate before discarding it beside you just as he did. “Where did you come from?”

The question has been on your mind for some time, you never really take the time to get to know your victims. But he’s not like the others. You like this one.

“What do you mean?” He plays dumb, eyes still closed as his head falls further back between his shoulders.

“You must have a home, a story. Every pirate like you does,” you say, leaning your elbow on your knee to rest your head in your palm as you twist to face him. “So what is it?”

He considers his answer, the thought process present in the way he puckers and thins his lips.

“I was born on a large island north of here, but it’s not my home,” he corrects, a darker tone swimming around his answer. A warning maybe, but now you’re really curious.

“So then where is home for you?”

He points ahead, to the waters that are calm tonight, bluer than they have been in forever. What a typical answer for a man like him. Not surprised in the slightest. You give him a once over, the kind of look you know he feels, even if his eyes are closed. You wait for him to open them, and when he does you ask, “why?”

He smirks at you, running a hand through his hair before sitting up and leaning in your space. His head drops so that his lips hover over your ear, his breath warming your skin and you tense a little with expectation.

“Why not?” And he leaves. He gets up in one fluid motion, plate in hand as he saunters inside. Leaving you to sit, open mouthed and expectant in his wake.

Receiving answers from him is a lot like pulling teeth, something that you have never done, probably never will. But the resistance you’re faced with is tangible. And despite his attempts at redirection, you now spend dinners at his side, witnessing the sunset every evening. And with the disappearance of day, night reveals detail after detail.

You learn he’s from a small fishing town. That he no longer has family there, at least none tied to him by blood. He says he used to have a crew when he first left his island, a few of them who were just as ready to flee as he was. But he doesn’t mention where they have gone or what has happened to them. Just a distant flicker of resonating loss in his eyes as he swiftly changes the subject.

It’s early morning when you wake up and he’s not in his usual spot on the floor beside the fireplace. He sleeps on a makeshift bed there, made up of crisp sheets and a few feather pillows. Oddly empty now, given the sun has just risen and you’re usually up before him. You worry, fleeting thoughts of him having escaped coursing through you as you run out of your home and towards the beach. Your heart is pounding so densely in your chest, you fear you might actually throw it up. His ship is not in its usual spot either, and your thoughts cause a tornado in your mind.

You’re spiraling, your eyes search the remarkably empty terrain. It’s impossible for him to have already fixed his ship and set sail. Doesn’t make any sense. As soon as you begin to feel the last traces of hope dissipate from your body, you hear a chuckle ride the wind to your ears.

“Missed me?” He’s smirking when you whip your head in his direction. He’s standing a few yards away amidst some shrubs. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets and he’s eyeing you with such intense curiosity you feel yourself shrinking. Feeling uncharacteristically small.

You fidget, rolling your shoulders back and tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “You really shouldn’t tie your hair so tightly.”

You deflect instead, noticing the bun he messily tied his normally loose hair into. This earns you a smile— an annoyingly cheeky, stupidly endearing one.

He makes his way towards you, tugging on the elastic in his hair until it’s free flowing and cascading over his broad shoulders. He holds it out to you, patient as he arches an amused brow. “And what do you suggest I do?”

You pluck the hair tie from his fingers, rolling it onto your wrist as you think over his question. Primarily because he never ceases to surprise you, he takes every excuse and quip you throw at him and turns it on its head. The two of you are always sparring in this way, an endless battle that will inevitably end. And as of right now, you’re even unsure of who the victor will be.

You motion for him to turn around, back facing you. He looks skeptical at first, but eventually follows your silent instruction. There’s hesitation in your next few movements, your fingers twitching at your sides before you lift them to Suguru’s hair. You brush your fingers through his dark strands, the roots near the base of his neck are a bit damp from sweat.

It’s a little knotted from the bun he wrangled his hair into, but you comb it through, smirking to yourself when he visibly shivers. You end up braiding it loosely, tying it off before stepping away from him.

“That’s better,” you say, knocking his shoulder with your knuckles when you’re done. You expect his usual smirk when he turns to face you, but instead he looks kind of breathless. His cheeks are dusted with an uncharacteristic shade of pink. And when you lock gazes, your heart kick starts in your chest. There’s a tenderness there that you’re not sure what to do with.

“How do I look?” He asks, a hint of his typical playfulness dances just beneath the surface of his question. The wind chooses then to pick up— sand and fabric flowing between your bodies as you just stare at each other. He looks like he always does. And you swore to never admit it out loud but he looks…

“Pretty.”

After your slip up earlier, and the stunned smugness that rolled off of him in waves after your compliment, you’d avoided him for the rest of the day. Choosing to nurture your herbs in the heart of your island than face him and his unrelenting teasing. Normally, this whole back and forth never bothered you. You lived for it. It made the loneliest days purposeful. But you were starting to become conflicted in your own feelings.

Feelings that you shouldn’t even have in the first place. You could lie to yourself easily enough. Tell your mind that you bolted out of your home this morning because you were too prideful to lose a conquest. But it was useless against your heart. The one thing making your life more hell than it already is.

You dig deep, fingers burying themselves in the rich soil and searching for the roots that you have long committed to memory. It’s not weird for you to just close your eyes and feel. Not odd to grab the dirt in fistfuls until something sparked in your fingertips. The connection you have with this land is unlike any you have ever felt in the many years of your immortality. Except now.

Wretched feelings of things other than vengeance and lust are taking root inside of you and it is almost as if you are helpless against it. Because when you closed your eyes you saw him. When you slept you dreamt of him. And every waking moment was spent with him at the forefront of your mind. As if your own sorcery was working against you, to sabotage what you felt was your one true purpose in this existence.

Not even the magic brewing against your palm is enough to push him out of your mind. You could do what you always did. Dispose of him the same way you had done to all the others. But the thought alone had your stomach turning and your heart splintering into sharpened shards within your chest.

You punch the soil in a fit of frustration, crushing a few sprouts along the way. You should feel sorry for hurting the only thing you truly loved. But you could only feel sorry for yourself. And the absolute catastrophic mess you realize you’re now in.

Dinner is going to be late. The sun’s position in the sky notifies you that it is later than you thought, time slipping through your fingers just like everything else seemed to be doing. You wipe your hands down your thighs, smearing dirt across the white linen and rising to your full height. Sweat drips down your cheek and without thinking twice you wipe it away. Realizing too late that the wetness mirrored on the other cheek is not sweat, but tears. Raw, human emotion.

And you couldn’t be more disgusted by yourself.

When you arrive at your cottage, you smell spices wafting through the open door. A delightful scent curling around your limbs and beckoning you forward. You climb the steps tentatively, not wanting to break the illusion because surely you are hallucinating. Suguru is standing at your kitchen island, sleeves rolled up over his elbows as he cut something on the wooden surface. His lip is secure between his teeth and his face of unbroken concentration does something strange to you, your body reacting without permission and sending heat straight to your center. You shake off the feeling, physically snapping yourself out of it and continuing your walk into your own home. One that he looks so comfortable in, a natural figment you can no longer imagine this space without.

“Hungry?” He asks, finally acknowledging your presence standing just outside the threshold. He smiles at you over his shoulder as he scoops whatever he was cutting into a large pot over the gas stove. You missed that entirely. The bubbling contents are loud enough that you should’ve noticed but didn’t. His biceps flex and pull as he stirs what you assume to be a stew. And saliva pools in your mouth– unsure if it's from the magnificent smell filling the house or him, just the sight of him.

Which means you are officially losing it. Whatever shred of sanity you had left.

“I finished earlier than usual today and when I couldn’t find you I figured I could cook dinner for once,” he says when you don’t reply to his initial question. “Least I could do since you’re always taking such good care of me.”

This gets a smile from you, however small it may be. He’s magnetic. And you are beginning to question if he’s the one with the magic here because no mortal should have this amount of power over you. Not when your center of gravity has begun to shift to where you revolve around him. Your whole world is on its own axis and you have never felt more disoriented.

“I’m starving,” you say, taking the one step you needed to be inside. You make your way towards him, leaning over the boiling pot to glimpse what he decided to cook. “Smells amazing.”

You inhale deep, eyelids closing wistfully and you relax. He’s warm, and the steam dewing over your face feels nice enough to fall asleep into. Which is when you clock how cold it is. The temperature dropped suddenly, the turn of season sneaking up on you.

When you open your eyes you flick them up to glance at him, and his stare is already set on you. Something foreign simmers within his gaze and your chest tightens. A tense fear locking your limbs when you recognize that same look is reflected on your own face. Foreign, but familiar enough to have warning bells ringing chaotically against your eardrums.

You clean off your bowl. Twice. He’s cocky about that too, eyeing you amusedly when you got up from your place before the fire to serve yourself seconds. You’re full and content when you’re all done. Sleep calling to you alongside the crackling fire and chirping crickets.

“I think it’s bedtime,” you say, pulling your knees to your chest, resting your chin on one as you blink at him. He’s leaning a shoulder against the fireplace, head lolled to the side and you conclude that he agrees with you, the lazy grin and drooping eyelids giving him away entirely.

“I think so too,” he nods, situating his body into an upright position and readjusting his pillow behind him. You take that as your cue to leave, and as you push yourself to your feet your foot catches on one of his blankets and you lose balance. You wobble sideways, the suddenness of the fall forcing your reaction to delay and you land in a kneel with Suguru’s hands holding your biceps and straddling his thigh. Your hands are steady on his shoulders, his shirt pinched between reactive fingers.

He chuckles, the warm breath hitting your already heated cheeks. You’re close enough that the tips of your noses brush each other and when you shift to remove yourself from him, his thigh tenses between your legs.

“Sorry,” you whisper, words escaping you as you fixate on his lips and the way his tongue darts across his plump bottom one.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, moving a centimeter closer to you. His hair tickles your cheek, his fingers tightening their grip on you as anticipation floods your senses.

“Don’t ever apologize to me,” he repeats, lips pressing to yours, wet and soft and scorching you to your core. Your hands fist the material of his shirt as you plaster yourself against his solid body. The warning bells that were sounding earlier are nothing but a distant vibration. The only thing you could possibly focus on now are his lips and the sinful way they are parting yours.

He wraps strong arms around your waist, molding your soft curves to the firm lines of his torso. It’s as if your body knows exactly what it wants but your brain has stuttered and buffered into a useless mess. Your hands found the braid he still had his hair in, and in a feat to regain some control you focused on unraveling it— your fingers getting lost in each thick strand and tugging.

You throw your leg over his other hip in an effort to stabilize your position, but you only succeed in reclining him. His loose hair now splayed out on the pillow beneath him as the kiss breaks and you're left panting against his lips. There’s a brief moment of hesitancy, where your body just hovers over him while you think this through. The act of indulging your deepest desires is too tempting to refuse. Especially when his hands find your hips and he squeezes them. It’s barely encouragement, but it’s enough to have you relaxing in his lap, feeling his hardening cock just through the thinnest layers of fabric.

He sighs, it’s deep and heavy, and sends sweet heat straight through you. And in a traitorous moment of tenderness, you glide your lips over his own and place a gentle kiss to his cheeks that are already warm to the touch. He tenses beneath you at the action and self doubt immediately floods your system. Until his hand finds the back of your neck, through the tresses of your hair, he wraps sure fingers around the back of your throat and guides you back into a kiss.

This one is desperate and hard. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, effortlessly pulling a wispy moan from you before he swallows it with his tongue. You reach beneath his shirt, eager to feel more of his skin against your palms and there’s a sharp inhale from him at the contact.

“Your hands are cold,” he murmurs across your mouth, a smile tugging the corners of his lips and you laugh breathlessly. Instead of responding, you push your hands further up his abdomen, leaving sloppy kisses across his jaw and down his neck. You stop when your fingertips meet his nipples, toying with them until he groans and bucks his hips in search of friction. You grind down, sighing at the relief before you sit up, hands firmly planted on his chest.

“What do you want?” You ask, stilling above his body, aching with need, but you also need to hear him say it. His hands hover over your thighs now, hesitance and something else reflecting in his dark irises as he stares at you. At the deep rise and fall of your chest, the strap of your dress hangs limply off of your shoulder.

“We don’t have t-,”

“Tell me what you want,” you cut him off, digging your fingertips a little harder into his chest, thighs shaking slightly from holding yourself over his hips.

He smiles, close lipped and lopsided, up at you. And instead of answering he slips his hands beneath the bunched up hem of your dress, slowly sliding them up your bare thighs, sending flurries of goosebumps across your skin.

“I can’t give you much,” he starts, fingers now grasping your bare hips and seating you in his lap again. “But I can give you this,” he rolls his hips, using his grip on you to grind you in the opposite direction. His cock rubbing directly against your clit and causing you to shudder. “And this is what I want. You’re what I want.”

“I better be,” you tease with a touch of too much sincerity lacing your tone. His smile widens and he drags you down once more before pulling the layers of fabric over your head.

“Fuck,” he whispers, hands hot and trailing over your now naked body. He caresses and presses his fingers into every soft curve until he’s folding you over his body again. One of his arms wrap around your waist while the other holds the back of your neck. You tilt your head to kiss him, but instead of his lips meeting yours, they bypass them altogether and suddenly there's a wet warmth around your nipple. His tongue flicks over it before biting down. Your fingers, still tangled beneath his shirt, scratch down his chest, a stuttered gasp falling from your lips and against his hair.

You're desperate to feel him, irritated by the clothing keeping that from you. And as he spends a distracting amount of time dragging his tongue across your breast, sucking and licking them until you're dripping onto his pants, you snake a hand between your bodies to palm at his dick. He groans at the contact, head falling back and eyes closing as you stroke him through them. You tug him up by the open collar of his shirt, a few buttons popping open from the force.

“Take this off,” you say, hand still working his cock as he stares at you with half-lidded eyes and blown out pupils. He reaches a hand behind his neck and tears it over his head in an instant. You rise, leaving just enough space for you to loosen the drawstring at his waist. When the fabric uncinches, he slips them down his thighs and kicks them off with practiced ease.

The layers are gone and you are left gasping in anticipation. You hold his cock in your hand now, gripping firmly before pumping it. He groans and when you look at him he’s watching your hand, face rosy from pleasure, the arms holding him up tensing. You line him up, but instead of placing him at your entrance you slip his length between your folds, the wetness making a sticky sound upon contact. He shudders, one arm giving out as he drops to an elbow while the other comes up to pinch at your nipple.

He lets you toy with him, lets you drag your clit down his shaft until you build yourself up. The first ripples of an orgasm muddle your brain and you slow your motions, refusing to come if it’s not when he’s fully seated inside of you. You swirl his head around your entrance, rocking down and back so that it pops inside.

He’s lying down on his back again, hands gripping your ass and he watches you use him. And when you slam down, a moan tearing from your lungs, his back bows and his fingers bruise your flesh.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, lips wet and parted, swollen from the blood sucked into them. His whole body a blossoming red.

You bounce in his lap, indulging in the smacks of skin against skin. The heat from the fire now feels like it's burning your skin, but you don’t care. Not even in the slightest, especially when a firm slap meets your ass, the sting jolting you forward until you’re bent over his frame again. A hand fists the pillow beneath his head as he angles his thrusts to meet yours halfway. You’re unraveling quite rapidly in his lap and he knows it. He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin at your ear.

“Is this all it takes?” The huskiness in his voice rakes down your spine, another resounding slap has your head falling, an involuntary whine pressing into his temple. His thumb finds your clit and your brain scrambles to connect when he even moved his arm from around your waist. He rubs sloppy circles, coaxing a release from you as his hips maintain their deep pace.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” He mouths into your ear and your body tenses, the breath in your lungs tripping over itself as you clutch the sheets in tight fists. You’re falling apart, your restraint fraying at the edges and it’s his fault. Everything is his doing— the feelings, the passion, the humanity.

And it all explodes behind your eyelids, sparks lighting up the black canvas of your sight as your release slams into you. You curl over his body, the intensity frightening you into a pleasure you’ve never felt before. You clench around him, his cock twitching inside of you as his pace quickens and his feet are firmly planted on the ground beneath you. His thrusts are jerky and uncoordinated, the desperation of it all lengthening your orgasm until you’re at the cusp of pain. It’s partial delirium, the way his body overwhelms yours– your mind nothing but fleeting moments of him flashing across it.

His grip is back to clutching your body, his hips stilling and a breathy shout of your name is kissed into your shoulder. Your breathing is erratic, an inhale for every one of his exhales. The heat of his cum inside of you has you shivering despite the still crackling fire and sweat coating your skin. He pets down your sides, a content sigh wisps passed your ear and a satisfied smile graces your face.

You roll off of him, a hiss sucking through his teeth as his cock slips out. He stays on his back, holding out an arm for you to curl into his side. In moments like these you typically strike your prey. They always have such a resounding vulnerability afterwards that it’s difficult not to take advantage. But as you relax your head onto his chest, the steady rise and falls lulling you into a false sense of security, the words that slip from your lips are shocking even to you.

“Stay with me,” you say, intentions clear and when he does not answer, the status of prey falls over your head and you’re left to wonder if you are the one being hunted.

Rain falls in a rage against your rooftop. The fire beside you has been snuffed out and you’re alone as dawn breaks. Something is off. And for the second time you awaken in a flurry of stress. The cottage is darker than usual from the dense clouds shrouding out the sun from reaching your island. Things are slightly askew, your carefully placed belongings, just as carefully shifted.

You rummage through the sheets to look for your clothes, slipping the dress over your head as you rush outside. It is starkly reminiscent of the day that Suguru arrived. Except the adrenaline coursing through you isn’t the thrill you’re accustomed to. It’s a building cacophony of nauseating defeat.

The rain is freezing against your skin, soaking through your linens instantly as the downpour ceases to let up. You blindly head towards the shore, your feet guiding you through the island you know like the palm of your hand.

You trudge through wet sand, your feet sinking with every hurried step until the beach is in sight. Along with Suguru’s ship, sails flying high and flapping dangerously in the wind. He comes stumbling out of a grove nearby, hands clinging a small pouch to his chest as he braves the storm.

You stare disbelievingly as he heads your way, his face tilted towards the ground. And just as he’s a few feet away, his eyes flicker up and he notices you— frozen in the sheets of rain that pummel down. He startles, but not in his body, his eyes the only thing giving it away.

“I’m leaving,” he says, eyes hardened and the conviction in his voice hitting you like a tidal wave.

“You can't,” because he can’t leave. Not now, not ever. You would rather watch the world burn than lose him. Would rather drown in the endless ocean in front of you before you voluntarily let him walk away.

“I have to,” he shakes his head, stepping away from you, carving out pieces of your splintering heart and crushing them beneath his feet.

“You don't.”

It’s then that you recognize what he’s carrying, what he’s holding like treasure against his beating heart. There’s dirt underneath his fingernails, smeared across his soaked sleeves, and an anguished rage claws its way through your body.

“Those are mine,” you say, matching every step he takes backwards with a forward step of your own. “My herbs that you’re stealing from me.”

“I told you,” he says, a hand reaches behind his back, but you can’t concentrate. Not when your heart is no longer in your chest and you’re cursing yourself for being so stupid, so naive. “I told you I couldn’t give you what you wanted. I can’t love you.”

“Why not? You loved me fine just a few hours ago.”

Something burns in your chest, hot and icky. It scratches down your esophagus, your stomach churning with acidity. It’s probably been centuries since you’ve felt this way, centuries of burying emotions and forcing them to evolve into something powerful, something productive. But now it’s all rising to the surface, and you can’t figure out if Suguru’s form is blurred from the downpour or from your vision coating with repressed desolation.

“That wasn’t love and you know it. Love is something I can never give you because my love belongs to someone else,” his words are riddled with finality. The truth slicing wicked lacerations into your soul.

“It wasn’t an accident that I landed here. There were rumors of a sorceress who grew herbs with magical properties on an island south of mine. These are what I came here for.” He finally holds the pouch out in front of him, shakes them in your direction, willing you to understand that you were never what he wanted. Not forever, anyway.

“I wasn’t expecting for you to be… you.”

You’re caught off guard by the softness of his tone, the last word almost inaudible from the waves crashing against the shore. You start closing the distance between you two and he stands ground, watching you through squinting eyes as you fist his shirt in shaking hands.

“I won’t let you leave,” you shove at him, your voice cracking from the strain of holding back emotions that are sending you reeling. “You really think after everything I’d let you go! I’d let you just leave me!”

You start to tug on his clothes, mustering every bit of strength to drag him back into the cottage. Where you’ll relight the fire and pretend like none of this ever happened. You are willing to forget this moment, its insignificance easily lost in threads of time. But he pushes at you, brute force knocking whatever air you had left in your lungs and the hand he had tucked behind his back now brandishes a dagger. One that’s jagged, metal barely glinting in the stray bits of light shining overhead.

“I have to save him!” He’s pointing the tip right at your chest and a stone the size of your heart sinks into your stomach. “You don’t understand and I doubt you ever will. But this is something I have to do.”

There’s no convincing him, especially when he’s willing to kill you for it. The knife, unwavering in his grasp, was evidence enough of that.

“If you go. I will only allow you one thing. To save his life.” You resign to a last resort, blackmailing him with a heartbreak similar to your own hoping he will take the bait. “But once that is done any love he ever held for you will be gone. He will never be yours because you are mine.”

He rolls his shoulders back, stance strong and immovable. “That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to take.”

You choke out a bitter laugh, not able to wrap your head around his idiocy. And it only reminds you of how feeble minded mortality is.

“You’re naive.”

“No,” he takes a step away again and this time you don’t follow. You let him walk off his own plank of hopelessness. “I'm human. Who’s faith in humanity has been tested and tried over and over again. There’s nothing that will restore what I lost, but if I can save the only person who tethers me to this godforsaken world, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I’ll curse you,” you bite out emptily, defeat weighing you down. Your eyes are burning with unshed tears, your throat closing up. Your own body betrays you as it succumbs to such pathetic feelings.

He drops his arm back to his side, sensing the fight you so strongly held fast to wash away. There’s a fierceness in his gaze, one that’s mixed with gross sympathy. You ball your hands into fists at your sides, determined to wear your mask of indifference until he's gone, a victim of the sea instead of yours.

“Do your worst,” he says, turning then towards his ship that’s anchored to your shores. In what feels like one second yet and eternity, he’s sailing away. The sight of his dripping shirt and thick black strands clumped together in a single braid bring you back to that very first day. The day where it felt like the world landed at your feet. A game you knew so well ready to begin again. Only for the board to be flipped upside down, the pieces captured and discarded.

You fall to your knees. The tears that were impatiently waiting, flowing freely and rapidly. Your fingers curl into the wet sand before a scream tears through your vocal cords. A screech rivaling that of the wild sea and whipping lightning sting your lungs, exposing you for what you truly are.

The ground quakes. And it’s indiscernible whether it’s from the storm rioting around you or the wails vibrating outside of your skin. Regardless, this ache is just a sliver of your eternity, but your resentment will be forever.

#highseascollab #getou suguru x reader #getou fanfic #getou smut #pirate au #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #kari’s writing🔆

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mystic-ocs-blog · 1 year

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So I finally got around to naming two ocs that I've mainly shown in discord like once before figuring out their names. One is a dragon oc and the other is a butterfly oc!

Pierce Venus uses He/Him pronouns and he's straight! Still unsure where what island he would be on.

Lillian uses She/Her pronouns and is straight as well. She lives on Twisted Thicket Island!

#oc blog #oc talk #my ocs #gacha club #oc #poptropica oc #poptropica

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lookslikethatsallthetimewehave · 2 months

Note

In PoptropiCon they dress up as Binary Bard and other people that are real in their world, even though in conventions you only dress as fictional characters. So are they aware they're in a video game?

Possible explanations

The people of PoptropiCon Island believe the events of other islands are all fictional. Since they actually believed Omegon's attack on them was staged... I can believe that.

They are so fascinated by the other islands, since things like superheroes, aliens, robots, magical creatures, etc are real there.

They are self-aware. Less likely, since most of them believed the whole Omegon thing was staged XD (Tessa Turncoat is the only one on the island that's self-aware.)

PoptropiCon comes from a universe where the other islands are fictional, kind of like ours.

#i tried #ask #poptropica #binary bard #poptropica mordred #dragotank #astro knights island #e.vile #poptropica test123 #legendary swords #twisted thicket island #poptropicon island #poptropica analysis #poptropica theory

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neopronouns · 1 year

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vampcursopic | twisthicketopic popgamesopic | wimpyboardopic lunarcolopic | supervillopic

vampcursopic: a gender related/connected to vampire's curse island from 'poptropica'

twisthicketopic: a gender related/connected to twisted thicket island from 'poptropica'

popgamesopic: a gender related/connected to poptropolis games island from 'poptropica'

wimpyboardopic: a gender related/connected to wimpy boardwalk island from 'poptropica'

lunarcolopic: a gender related/connected to lunar colony island from 'poptropica'

supervillopic: a gender related/connected to super villain island from 'poptropica'

[pt: vampcursopic: a gender related/connected to vampire's curse island from 'poptropica'

twisthicketopic: a gender related/connected to twisted thicket island from 'poptropica'

popgamesopic: a gender related/connected to poptropolis games island from 'poptropica'

wimpyboardopic: a gender related/connected to wimpy boardwalk island from 'poptropica'

lunarcolopic: a gender related/connected to lunar colony island from 'poptropica'

supervillopic: a gender related/connected to super villain island from 'poptropica'. end pt]

more islandopic terms! each flag has yellow from the blimp at the top, blue from the poptropica logo at the bottom, and a (desaturated/lightened) color from the map separating those from the rest of the stripes. the inner four stripes are taken from the islands' icons on the map.

the terms are: 'vamp' from 'vampire', 'curs' from 'curse', + 'opic' from 'poptropica'; 'twist' from 'twisted', 'thicket', + 'opic'; 'pop' from 'poptropolis', 'games', + 'opic'; 'wimpy', 'board' from 'boardwalk', + 'opic'; 'lunar', 'colo' from 'colony', + 'opic'; and 'super', 'vill' from 'villain', + 'opic'!

flag id: six flags with 8 stripes, with the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth being much larger than the rest. each flag has the same two top stripes, which are golden yellow and cream, and the same bottom two stripes, which are cream and sky blue.

the top left flag's middle four stripes, in order, are dark red, yellow-green, very dark reddish-grey, and very dark dull red. the top right flag's middle four stripes, in order, are very dark faded teal, dark dull red, gold, and green. the middle left flag's middle four stripes, in order, are gold, light yellowish-grey, cream, and faded yellow-green.

the middle right flag's middle four stripes, in order, are blue, orange-red, brown, and darker golden yellow. the bottom left flag's middle four stripes, in order, are pale green, orangish-red, greenish-grey, and light pale green. the bottom right flag's middle four stripes, in order, are very dark silver, golden yellow, yellowish-grey, and dark yellowish-grey. end id.

banner id: a 1600x200 teal banner with the words ‘please read my dni before interacting. those on my / dni may still use my terms, so do not recoin them.’ in large white text in the center. the text takes up two lines, split at the slash. end id.

dni link

#vampcursopic #twisthicketopic #popgamesopic #wimpyboardopic #lunarcolopic #supervillopic #poptropicenic #islandopic #fictigender #my flags #my terms #new flag #new term #mogai flag #mogai term #mogai #potential eyestrain

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mugiwara-no-toshokan · 9 months

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Thrice Prophesized

CisFem Reader x Roronoa Zoro

CW: In-Universe levels of violence, amnesia, romance, reader gets some good bad-ass moments, but shouldn't feel Overpowered if I did my job well, surprisingly no smut in this one loves, but it's book 1 of 2.

Still 18+

Chapter 10: Fall

You, Zoro, and Luffy had returned to the Sunny to face the wrath of Nami. When Luffy and Zoro had gotten down on their knees in front of her you had joined them, letting the fiery navigator get her rage out. You couldn’t argue any of her points – you had wandered off, you had caused a ruckus, you hadn’t even needed to do any of it to protect yourself.

Well, no you didn’t agree with that part.

“I had to Nami,” you interrupted, standing up. “Look, I’ll admit if I hadn’t let myself get distracted nothing else would’ve happened, but once I knew I couldn’t just do nothing.”

“We’re not knights, (Y/N).” Nami retorts her arms folded in front of her.

“If I had been a knight back there I wouldn’t have done anything.” You admit. “Knights obey the orders of their lord, and I can stand here and say that the Archduke of Winternight would’ve liberated that town, it’s not my place to speak for him. I tried to follow Luffy, but he’s not exactly one for giving orders.

“So, I decided to be a pirate.” You pointed down the gangplank to the boxes and bags that Zoro and Luffy had helped you carry back. “I left what I wanted at the door of every house I could find, and brought the rest back here.”

“… What did you leave at their doors?” Sanji questions.

“Swords. Food. Their king sits in the ruins of the scaffolding in the middle of the town square, battered but alive. His guards won’t be a threat for days at the least. It takes time for anyone else to get here. If these people rise up quickly, they’ll be fine.”

“They’ve been beat down for a long time.” Sanji murmurs.

“They have. But today they saw defiance. Kingdoms have risen and fallen on less.” You shrug. “You said yourself that you’re not revolutionaries.” You bow before Nami. “I’m sorry I got distracted, Nami.”

Nami rubs her forehead and sighs. “Well, you brought back supplies, and we’re not getting run out of the port, so it’s fine.”

“Supplies? I brought back gold, mostly.” You admit. “Sorry was I supposed to- eh?” You look around to see Nami is nowhere in sight.

Zoro tilted his head toward the gangplank.

Walking over to the ramp, you lean against the railing and grin. “Well, I imagine I’m not in trouble anymore.” You muse as Nami is positively delighted looking through the loot you came back with.

“So, what caused you to do it?” Jinbei asks, coming up to stand beside you.

You look up at him and then hoist yourself up onto the rail to sit. It puts you a little closer to eye level with the taller man. “Most of it was my own rage, if I’m honest.” You admit. “But you told me about this world and its history, and it was like I was seeing all the worst parts all in one place and… and I mean this world is amazing, and it’s beautiful and brilliant, and it’s not my world, but look at this island!” You stretch your arm toward the port to the trees.

“The forest is alight with color; the autumn season is in full swing! The color of the corals shimmer in the water, the mountains in the distance are massive! It’s breathtaking! To run through those trees, to see what sits in the caves and rocks, to know what manner of creature roams the thickets.” You take in a breath and let it out in a sigh. “And then those people. What do you have to do to a port town to strip its color away like that? Was what I read today normal? Was that why no one raged? Had they known days so much worse that they couldn’t even muster tears?”

“In my experience all peoples rise up,” Jinbei says. “It is often just a matter of when or opportunity. But, your choices aside, how do you feel? I could sense your haki from here.”

“Huh? Oh.” You twist and flex and bend and hop down from the rail and jump up and down a few times. “Good, apparently. All that practice really helped out, and practicing in those terrible currents was an effective idea.” You grin up at Jinbei. “Give me a few more weeks and I might ask to spar with you.”

Jinbei’s laugh warms your core. “It would be my honor, miss (Y/N).”

Supplies and treasure were stowed, and it was decided that the boat would be moved over to the other town as planned. It was best to leave the people to their opportunity, and keep from shaking things up worse on accident, and so you all relocated. Aside from fish, you had everything else you really needed, so it was a sound decision.

Once the ship was docked again it was decided who would go with Luffy. You turned down the opportunity, admitting that you had already caused enough problems on the island, but also you weren’t quite solid enough to keep pace with those that were going.

Luffy, Sanji, Brook, and Franky were not going to be easy to keep up with, and if you exhausted your haki you were just going to be a burden. Besides, all you really wanted to do was walk through the forest that was painted by the season. Usopp and Chopper offered to come along with you, and you accepted the company.

“You two are well-versed in plants, but for different reasons.” You muse as the two have stopped yet again to talk about some moss or fungus or herb or flower. You were in no rush, and didn’t mind the stops, but they had already pointed out so much that it was over-crowding your brain.

Knights were educated in Winternight, but a well-educated knight in your world was an under-educated swordsman in this world. Only because most of your education didn’t translate to this world in the slightest. The only thing you found that was the same as you were used to was salt, but then Sanji had given you some “special salt” and you were almost back to square one.

You were just glad the food didn’t make you sick, and that there wasn’t a language barrier to deal with on top of it all.

“Yeah, there’s a decent amount of overlap,” Usopp answers you as he points something out to Chopper. “But I cultivate for tactical support, and Chopper cultivates for medical support.”

“You’re both so dedicated and talented, the crew is lucky to have you.” You lean down as you offer your praise, and get the expected reactions. Usopp awkwardly accepts it, and Chopper insists he isn’t happy to hear it at all. They’re cute. Both unaware of their full worth, but cute.

Something tickles the back of your neck and you stand up and reach out with your haki. You do so as casually as you can, not wanting to worry either of them, but after a moment you realize whose presence you’re feeling.

You tap Usopp and point. “I’m going to head over there. I won’t be too far away – take your time catching up, there’s just something I want to see.”

“Sure, we’ll catch up.” Usopp nods after seeing which way you were pointing. Between his skill at observation haki and Chopper’s sense of smell they would’ve found you no matter what, but it seemed better to let them know instead of just wandering off.

You walk through the forest, enjoying the quiet and the crisp air, making your way to the source of what you were feeling slowly. You didn’t want to disturb him, but you were curious. Aside from lifting weights, Zoro didn’t do much training on the ship. He meditated, probably working on his haki in a way similar to what Jinbei had taught you, but you hadn’t really seen him fight.

The tussle with Smoker and Tashigi hadn’t been a full fight. You wondered if you’d ever get to see him go all out, and at the same time you hopped you never would. His countenance was already so severe and fierce even when he was at rest, that you feared you wouldn’t be able to stand up if he wasn’t holding back at all.

You came to the edge of the clearing and saw him, holding three swords. Your eyes widen a little, you wouldn’t have been surprised to see him dual-wielding, since he carried three swords, but you had always assumed the 3rd was either a ceremonial piece, or a spare blade. Instead, it seemed, he had a style of fighting that utilized all three.

The sword in his mouth should be ridiculous. It should be completely worthless and tactically useless. It made your teeth and jaw ache just to see him like that, but the way he stood – the way he moved – the flow of energy that came from him, there was nothing worthless about it. It defied all you knew of swordsmanship and combat, but much of this world had redefined how you saw combat.

His movements when he wasn’t off-balance – whatever or whoever Tashigi was to him, you didn’t know and it didn’t matter, she wasn’t here and his movements were like water. Still and calm water, crystal clear and smooth as glass. Small shivers and trembles here and there – places were improvements could still be made, but nearly flawless. The weight of each movement, the ease with which he did it, the soundlessness of his movements even as he moved among the dry leaves.

How could you have associated such beauty to a demon?

You don’t know how long you watched him, it could’ve been hours, you would’ve stood there for days. The soft shift of fabric, the shimmer of sweat, the glimmer of those three earrings in the cool light. It was a dance for the gods, a pinnacle you had neither believed existed nor even considered traveling. It was all the seasons – no, all the worlds. He was aware of worlds within the space of his swords.

This was the knight that knelt at the feet of the King. The King of Pirates, the King of something. Demons wasn’t right, but there was something there, and both titles felt so absolute and irrefutable.

Your haki lurched, twisting in you almost painfully and you nearly shattered your teeth to keep yourself silent against the strangely painful sensation. Turning your back to the clearing you leaned against a tree and steadied your breathing. Haki was the wrong word, something in your core lurched, and haki was throughout the body. Your mana core didn’t exist in this world, but the sensation of an overload was what that had felt like. It was unsettling to feel in this world, especially after so long.

You saw Chopper and Usopp coming toward you and walked over to them. The non-existent core twisted in you again and this time it buckled your legs. You didn’t cry out, but Chopper and Usopp did.

“(Y/N)!” Usopp moved faster than you expected and kept you from falling into the dirt.

“D-Doctor! We need a doctor! Wait – that’s me! (Y/N) are you okay?”

You shake your head, pushing Usopp away as something lurches through your body again, bucking your muscles, and pulling a grunt of frustration from you. It’s almost like your body needs to vomit, but something in you tells you that if you give into the urge it’ll be bad. Not just for you, but for the two near you.

“Get,” you slam a fist into the ground. “Away!”

Usopp and Chopper look at you in concern and both move toward you. You shake your head and swipe your arm through the air to push them back. “Please! Go to -,” You feel an oppressive aura pushing back against your body. It’s like a weighted net, pushing you down and helping you, falling over you so forcefully you’re nearly pushed into the dirt.

“Zoro!” You hear Usopp and Chopper exclaim in unison.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and you can feel the question is directed at you.

You shake your head. “Don’t… know.” You growl, but there’s less struggle in you. “That helps.”

After a few long minutes the strange and painful sensation passes and you let yourself lay in the dirt, holding a thumbs up over your head as Zoro eases off whatever it was he was doing. You’re covered in sweat, dirt and leaf litter as you roll onto your back, catching your breath while Chopper fusses over you.

“I’m fine little forest spirit,” you say with a smile. “I don’t know what that was, but I’m fine now. Just a little tired.”

“It wasn’t another portal, was it?” Zoro questions.

You shake your head. “The pull of winter magic doesn’t feel like that, or, at least, it didn’t feel like that last time. If that was another portal it wouldn’t have mattered, I couldn’t move, but it felt like it was coming from inside me.” You take a few deep breaths and sit up. “Anyone trying to bring me back home wouldn’t risk ripping my body apart to do it.”

You dust yourself off and stand up, patting Chopper on the head with a smile to reassure him.

“I promise, I feel much better now.” You look over at Zoro and look away. “Ah, sorry for interrupting your training. I’ll, uh, I mean I’m going to go back to the ship.”

You’re really trying to not actually run away from him, but suddenly Zoro was just too close. Chopper followed after you, but Usopp stayed to make sure Zoro got back to the ship. You didn’t ask why Zoro would need Usopp to protect him, but maybe he was going to train so much he’d be too tired to get back on his own. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask because that would mean turning back toward the both of them.

“You certainly seem to have plenty of energy!” Chopper beams, having changed into his faster form to keep pace with you. You hadn’t even realized how quickly you were walking.

“Oh, my apologies. I was… lost in thought, it seems.” You admit sheepishly.

“It’s fine, I’m just glad you’re not struggling to walk.”

“No, not struggling to walk.” You let out a concerned sigh. “Struggling to think maybe.”

“Does your head hurt?”

“Enh… No, there’s just a lot swirling around in here.” You say, pointing to your chest.

“You… heart hurts?”

You flinch. “Oh, no, I mean… ah, I mean emotional turmoil, Chopper. I-I mean it’s been, you know, a bit of an ordeal. But I’m fine! I’m fine. Don’t worry.” You say hastily and watch as the young doctor’s face brightens. You weren’t exactly lying, and quite frankly, you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to acknowledge the truth anyway.

You were going to get back home someday.

He had said so, after all.

#x reader #reader insert #one piece fanfiction #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #Thrice Prophesized #grandline metro au

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