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angelicyoongie · 4 years

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the crimson shell

— pairing: jungkook x f!reader — genre: mermaid au, yandere au — w.c: 1.9k — warnings: mild stalking, near drowning, mentions of eating humans — notes: just wanted to contribute something to mermay! this is also my first time attempting to do anything in the realms of yandere (and mermaids!), so pls be nice lol. in this universe everyone is referred to as a mermaid, no matter what gender they are. this will most likely be a two or three part series with jk growing more and more obsessed as he gets y/n into his scaly clutches :)

Part I / II / III / IIII

— summary: you had always found comfort in being at the beach, often spending hours just watching the waves lap against the shore. but unbeknowst to you – something had been watching you back.

You inhale deeply, enjoying the salty smell that so uniquely belongs to the ocean. The last rays of sun are slowly disappearing behind the horizon, painting the skies and the waves in hues of deep pink and purple. You’re going to miss this view.

You sigh, running your fingers through the coarse sand as you let the gentle breeze caress your face. You’ve been looking forward to this for years, but now that your departure is so imminent, it feels more scary than liberating. The time has come to finally leave your home behind, and you feel a pang of regret as you realize you might not see your friends or family for a very long time to come.

Years of saving up your measly paychecks have finally paid off, and you’re setting sail for an island you’ve been hearing constant murmurs about for the last few months. Originally, you were only going to travel to the next kingdom over, hoping to find more suitable work there to help your parents stay afloat. But the talk of the mystery island abundant with riches piped your interest more than you would like to admit – and you’ve never been one to shy away from adventure.

However, you weren’t stupid enough to just blindly trust the rumours milling around your little town. In fact, you wholeheartedly believed it to be a scam until a familiar face suddenly turned up in the town square only a few weeks ago.

You hadn’t seen Jimin ever since he set sail for the unknown six months ago; and so everyone, including yourself, had presumed that your talkative neighbour had met an ill fate, and was floating at the bottom of the sea. You realized you couldn’t have been more wrong when Jimin returned with riches you never expected you would ever lay eyes on, his whole body adorned with various diamonds and gold chains.

It was Jimin who had urged you to seek out the same island, saying he barely even took a handful of all the treasures that were there. He had warned you about a price that would need to be paid, but you weren’t all that concerned. If a sea witch wanted your first born, then fine, you weren’t too keen on children anyway.

You busy yourself with drawing patterns in the sand, lost in your own thoughts as you try to remember your little mental checklist of all the things you wanted to see before you left tomorrow morning. You’re pretty sure this beach was the last one. It’s not much; just a short stretch of sand at the edge of the hill leading up to your family’s cottage, but it has always felt like home.

You come here every evening without fail, using the time to relax and breathe. The last month has felt a little different though, even if you don’t like to admit it. You’ve always stayed on the beach quite late, there’s nothing you know of that can rival the starry sky that appears once the sun had set. But lately, you’ve found yourself retreating back up the hill before the night could fully greet you.

It feels like you’re being watched.

It’s silly of course, considering the only thing in front of you is the quiet ocean. You would have noticed if there was something there, but still, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is out there – observing you.

It always happens so suddenly; one second you’ll be merely enjoying the view, and in the next, a sense of dread would knock into you so hard it left you breathless. It would make your neck feel tight, as if someone was gripping your skin, and the hair on your arms would rise in alarm.

Even just the memory is enough to give you goosebumps, and you let out an annoyed huff at how easily you seem to be able to scare yourself. You dust the sand off your hands before you rub them up and down your arms, trying to calm down the twinge of anxiety that’s slowly spreading through your body.

You don’t want to remember your last night here as something uncomfortable, so you let your gaze sweep over the beach one last time.

Something catches your eye just as you’re about to turn. Something red is ebbing and flowing along with the waves, and you hesitantly step forward until you can see it clearer. It’s nothing more than a pretty shell, but you’ve never seen that tone of red before. You snatch it up from the water before the tide can pull it out, slowly turning it back and forth to study it. The last sliver of light seems to catch on to it just right, giving the red a gorgeous golden shimmer.

You let out a low gasp of wonder, trailing your fingers along the scalloped pattern. It’s stunning, and you can’t help but think that it’s the beach’s way of saying its last goodbye. Maybe it was giving you a parting gift.

You clutch the shell gently in your hand, a soft ‘thank you’ slipping past your lips as you watch the ocean fondly. You notice a few sudden ripples in the quiet sea a little further out from the beach, but it has started to grow so dark that it’s impossible to make out anything below the soft waves. Chalking it up to just being fish, you shrug it off, finally turning on your heel to walk back up the hill to your family’s little cottage.

You’ve officially been on the sea for a week, and you’ve already grown tired. The small group of fellow villagers that you left with have already started getting on your nerves, and you’re not sure how you’re going to make it all the way to the island and back without going insane. Jimin said you would need to travel north for about two weeks, so you try to find solace in the fact that you’re halfway there already.

The journey so far has been pretty smooth, but the dark clouds on the horizon seem to be rolling towards you at an alarming speed. You dig into the pocket of your trousers, finding comfort in running your fingers along the shell you found on your beach. You can only hope it serves as a token of good luck, because the storm heading straight for you really doesn’t look good at all.

It feels like you only blink before the rain is pelting down against the ship, harsh waves tossing the wooden boat back and forth to its whims. You’re clinging on the side with all of your might, but the floor has turned wet and slippery, and it makes it even harder to stay on board with all the vicious tossing and turning.

You feel the electricity before it hits, the static making your hair stand up straight right before a bolt of lightning slams into the mast. You can barely hear the loud creak of wood over the screams from the other travellers, you gaze transfixed on the large wooden pole as it starts tipping.

You’re frozen in place; all of your muscles locking up in terror as you realize the mast is coming straight at you. You’ll be crushed in you don’t move, but you can’t. You close your eyes instinctively as the looming shadow rushes towards you, harshly sucking in one last breath of air. You feel the ship lurch, and your fingers slip from the bars you were clinging to as you’re tossed overboard.

A blanket of silence wraps around you the moment you hit the water, all of the screaming and creaking of wood suddenly ceasing as the cold liquid mercilessly drags you downwards. You can see the shadow of the ship growing smaller and smaller, your last breath escaping you as it bubbles up towards the surface.

You flail your hands desperately, your body too low on air to properly function. Swim, swim, swim! Your mind is screaming, but your heart has already accepted the rush of water filling your lungs, and the heavy feeling in your bones.

Your vision grows hazy, the blues and greys of the ocean blurring together. A streak of red suddenly breezes by your line of sight, but your tired brain only managing to provide you with the fleeting thought of fish? before the exhaustion truly sets in. You can hear a low series of muddled clicking noises all around you, but it only seems to make you even more drowsy.

Sleep, a deep voice whispers in the back of your mind. And slowly but surely, all of the mixed colours fade into nothingness.

It wasn’t that hard for the mermaid to steer your ship in the wrong direction. The ship was in his waters, under his control, and the storm that suddenly picked up in the northeast presented itself like the perfect opportunity.

He had been trailing after your ship ever since it left the dock, making sure he could strike at the right moment. He couldn’t believe the weird creature he had been watching for months was finally coming willingly to him, but it was only right considering you had accepted his courting gift.

And now, as you were sinking to the bottom of the sea, you were finally his. The mermaid circled you excitedly at a distance as your limbs flailed around underwater. He tried to tell you to calm down – that the fight against his ocean was futile – but you just wouldn’t stop trying.

The mermaid bristled in annoyance, his crimson tail cutting through the sea harshly as he watched the stupid creature fight a losing battle. He needed to take it home now, before his brothers could realize it was here.

Finally, your body stopped moving. The mermaid quickly closed in, strong arms wrapping around your torso as he stared into your unfocused eyes. While he didn’t exactly know what you were, and why you had one limb too many, he had at least gathered enough information to understand that you needed to breathe in that pesky air in order to survive.

He pushed up, letting the currents easily carry him up towards the surface. Of course, he made sure to emerge far from the sinking ship. While the gurgling screams usually were music to his ears – he couldn’t keep you too close to the food. His brothers would be here in no time to feast, and he couldn’t let his new pet be swallowed up before he even had a chance to play with it.

The creature sucked in a shuddering breath as oxygen finally flowed through its veins again. It didn’t take long before all his precious water was being expelled from the creature’s lungs, the mermaid watching in displeasure as it was replaced with that wretched air instead. It just seemed so .. inconvenient.

You didn’t wake however, the near drowning having swept away all of your energy. The mermaid threw one last look towards the remains of the ship, thin lips curling into a pout as the gurgling was replaced by bloody shrieks. He was hungry too, but it seemed like it would have to wait until his pet was out of harm’s way.

Well, at least until it was out of his brothers’ way. The mermaid didn’t like making promises he wasn’t certain he could keep.

#mermaid bts #mermaid au #mermaid jungkook #jungkook x reader #yandere bts #yandere au #yandere jungkook #jungkook au #bts au #bts fanfic #bts #yandere x reader

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secretshinigami · 3 years

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Beyond Birthday's Day Off

Author: @ironblowtorch For: @pinkmalus Pairings/Characters: Beyond Birthday, A, L Rating/Warnings: Mature- Mentions of death and grief Prompt: Beyond Birthday’s Day Off Author’s notes: I really wish I had thought of a more creative title but that’s exactly what the fic is!! <3 I hope you enjoy, the idea was that B is trying to figure out his next steps in life after leaving whammys and he finds himself inspired to start his lifestyle as a killer! :3

Beyond Birthday had never been this alone in his life.

Well… no, that wasn’t exactly true. He was an orphan after all. He had spent his very early days alone, cold, seeing the world in red and numbers. He doesn’t remember much of his time before Whammy’s at all, and he curses the fact that his so-called genius mind never remembered the names above his parent’s head’s. If he actually thought hard about it, maybe he had always been alone, and now was no different. He did name himself, after all. A name so ridiculous there was no way anyone could have one like it, that was until the nicknames ‘B’, or worse “Backup” became his normal. Yeah… he definitely has been alone all along.

The saltly wind that suddenly smacked against his face brought him back to the present, reminding him that he was actually alone on the beach, as well as alone in life. He had just arrived in Los Angeles only hours after sneaking onto a mail plane from London. Unfortunately that was as far as his plan had taken him… he still had to sort out a place to sleep, food… and most importantly his revenge on L.

In all truth, he felt exhausted and overwhelmed. He was happy when he arrived to find himself so close to the ocean, a sight he’d never seen after a lifetime in the orphanage. If he let his mind drift to Whammy’s or any of the… events that happened this week he wouldn’t be able to keep it together much longer. And he needed to focus on his survival for now. Some genius he was! No plan, no future, no identity… no A…

B suddenly threw sand into the water with a shout. He needed to stop thinking. Turning away from the sunset, he started to make his way up the animal path he found hidden under the pier towards the beach. Instantly numbers and names started to swirl around him as he found himself lost in the crowds of people headed towards the water. With no direction in mind, he kept to the edge of the sidewalk with his hands tucked into his jeans. Unfortunately for himself, the only clothes he was able to smuggle with him were L’s standard of a white shirt and blue jeans. At least he managed some flip flops for himself.

Even with his California acceptable footwear he stuck out like a sore thumb here. Why didn’t training to become the next greatest detective include social skills? Maybe that takes away your deductive reasoning, like sitting normal, or eating a meal without sugar.

Beyond sighed heavily and shook his head at an attempt to clear his thoughts again. This was no good… he needed to find something to distract him… with no money it would be pointless to try and go into a store. He could try to steal, but he really wasn’t familiar with America yet… maybe his best bet was to look for someone whose time was running short… Perhaps he could crash in a dead man’s home for a few days?

He had been walking with his head down for so long that when he turned the corner and looked up he was greeted with the movie worthy view of the Hollywood sign! In all honesty, he was less impressed than he thought he’d be. But it did give him the great idea of something to do… he could go sightseeing!

Truthfully, he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had ever done something just because he thought it would be fun. Most of his life he was just mimicking L, or studying old cases and autopsies, or cheering up A… He deserved a day off! Beyond laughed to himself as he watched the sun start to disappear behind the rolling hills. Yeah, a day off from thinking about L would be long over-due.

~~~

The next day he awoke with a smile on his face, excited for the day ahead for the first time.

The night before he had managed to find a public library and used the computers and references to plan his entire next day! He told himself he would figure out food and shelter later, because for now he just wanted more excitement in his life. He wanted to do something just for him.

So his first stop at 11am was to visit the famous museum of death on Hollywood Ave! He stumbled upon the poster on a bulletin board in one of the seating areas, and felt like it was destiny. The museum held exhibits of past serial killer trials, autopsies from various diseases, endless animal taxidermy, and plenty of bones and weapons! It was perfect!

Beyond always felt that when looking at crimes as the detective, you aren’t focusing on the corpses or criminals often at all… it’s more about solving and deductions and justice… blah blah blah. Beyond thought crime and life meant more than all that. Death and life coexisted all the time, he could see it for himself with his own eyes. It had only been a week now since A had died, and for every second leading up to the moment Beyond saw his number drop to zero, they were together. Before it happened, there was no way for him to guess what zero would mean. Maybe a part of him knew, but… it wasn’t real until it was.

He felt like he needed to go to this museum as a way to place the grief that was holding onto him somewhere else for a while. Seeing the person you’re closest to die and knowing it… it was too much for him.

But at the same time he felt secure in his understanding and knowledge of criminal behavior… in fact his own heart was warming up to the idea of becoming one himself. So the museum felt like a great bridge from his past life towards his new one! His next chapter would begin today, B just needed some inspiration first.

On his walk there, he happened to pass by a candy store window, surrounded by people watching through the glass as they watched a man spin taffy. Beyond found himself getting lost in the art of it all along with the crowd of people, so much so that he decided to pop inside. As he walked the aisles he recognized almost all the brands from years of sitting behind L during lectures as he ate enough of the stuff to kill a small child in one sitting. The truth was, B didn’t have much of a sweet tooth himself. He thought candy was kinda pointless, all it did was coat your teeth in sugar then disappear. L swore it made his mind work better, but he also swore a lot of his weirdest quirks did that for him, and Warati let him do whatever he wanted anyway… Yeah. So candy was just another thing B resented about the detective.

He didn’t hate all sugar though. He used to think fruit salad from the orphanage cafeteria was the best side they ever offered. Why only eat one fruit when you could eat them all together at once, in a bowl? Fruits were high in sugar content as well, but at least you got fiber and healthy carbs from them!

Beyond started to feel a bit guilty as he realized he was going to leave a candy store, a place that should bring any sane person joy upon arrival- in a worse mood than when we walked in. But he didn’t see any fruit or snack that interested him at all… he started back to the door just before he spotted a display of local creations the owner had featured. He walked up and found himself smiling wide as he picked up a jar of locally harvested strawberry jam. This would do!

~~~

By the time 11 rolled around, Beyond had already eaten his entire jar of jam as well as figured out his sleeping arrangements for at least a few days! Just behind the museum he found an abandoned shipping storage container he could even lock up at night. He finally felt like he was doing something right in his life, as everything fell into place for his new life.

Well, almost everything. He was really hoping he would find his last missing piece in his future in this museum. Maybe they were hiring? Maybe he’d find some inspiration for a different line of criminal detective work? Only one way for him to find out.

The money he used from the wallet he pickpocketed at the bus stop was more than enough to cover his limited expenses for the next few days. The ticket for the museum was $13, which B felt was another sign he was going in the right direction!

As he walked through the gift shop and to the entrance, he noticed that it wasn’t crowded at all. The ticket lady did say it was strange to see someone, especially alone, on a Thursday… but he wasn’t complaining. She also warned him about the most explicit parts of the museum being a bit gruesome, and he made note of them to go to first. He could take as long as he needed without being distracted by lifespans!

He first wanted to check out the taxidermy animal room. Nothing too gory was in there and that was fine, he just had never seen taxidermy before! Or many animals. It was educational to learn that birds came in just about every size…

After comparing himself to the stuffed angry badger he excitedly hurried to the serial killer exhibit. Purely out of curiosity!!! B just knew that was where the best autopsy photos were! Along with actual explanations of the killers’ stories… well, at least the ones that were solved.

As Beyond stepped into the room his excitement was suddenly matched with the new grief he had as a part of him. B longed to be sharing this moment with A… When they were kids…how many nights had they snuck to the library just to look at photos of other places? How many drawings did B slip into their backpack, how many smacks to the head did B get… all of those moments combined couldn’t have added up to much. But they had meant the world to Beyond… He didn’t feel alone in those moments, A was the only one who noticed him as someone other than a copy of L. Now A was gone forever.

Beyond stumbled back to sit on a nearby bench as his heart felt heavier by the second. He swallowed hard and gripped onto the edge of the seat, trying to ground himself. He blinked his eyes and then noticed the name Bertha Marie Smith with a shorter than average lifespan stumble up to him in a panic.

“Oh, sir?? This room can be a bit much for most people! It’s alright, we have an exit to the lobby this way…” she reached out to help him sit up-

“Ha! What? N-No… excuse me…” B quickly stood up and moved away from her. “I’m fine. I just…. needed a moment. I’d like to finish my tour, if that’s quite alright.” He smiled and tipped his head and quickly turned the corner to avoid her.

Beyond Birthday was actually better than fine. In fact, before Bertha had come up, he had the most intense realization.

A was the only person who knew him as himself. A would be the only one to ever remember him. Who would remember him when he was gone? Who would remember A?

He looked around the walls scattered with information he had expert knowledge of. All these crimes… any crime really, he had been learning every strategy a killer could use since he could read. B had given up his chances of ever following the path they had planned for him, that life was long gone. So what was his chance of ever being remembered now? Hardly above zero. He was sure even L himself wouldn’t attend the funeral if he passed tomorrow.

So B decided maybe he was meant to be at this museum after all. Maybe… he could pull something off that couldn’t even compare to any crime the world had seen. Something even L couldn’t get to the bottom of.

He could have his very own exhibit here, at the museum! Maybe a whole room dedicated just to his case, something so unsolvable, people would talk about it for centuries…. He could be the world’s greatest criminal instead.

Beyond smirked and turned to enter the next exhibit, excited for this next chapter. After all, he was alone now, and nothing could stop him from redeeming A now.

One Day the Los Angels BB Murder Case would be written about somewhere, he just knew it.

#fanfiction #death note #submission #beyond birthday #a #a death note #l lawliet #ratings: mature #ironblowtorch #pinkmalus #Near's Bday Finale 2k21

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

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the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.IX.ii

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

Take a look at @gen-syz-art incredible art for this chapter here ✨✨✨ (beware of spoilers)

___________________

Looking for Jaskier takes some time.

The gardens almost seem even bigger than they were last time, and there are so many different scents that Geralt can’t isolate the one he’s looking for from the rest.

He could just ask, for in his search he comes across eight different people, and at least one of them should know where Jaskier is, but Geralt makes a point out of finding him on his own.

It takes him almost an hour to finally come across a willow tree, its long vines falling all the way to the ground like a curtain, and be greeted by Lucio that pokes his nose out of them.

Stepping inside is like stepping into a sanctuary, into a safe place, completely detached from the outside world.

The curtain of vines surrounds the tree from all sides, and the sun that breaks through them makes this hidden little world feel even more magical. There’s enough space to fit quite a few people, the willow old and generous, and Geralt thinks that it’s probably the best place to spend long summer days, hiding from the heat and from the outside world in general.

Jaskier doesn’t notice him at first, too preoccupied with writing something in a notebook he’s got open in his lap, but when Asra perks up to greet the witcher, he raises his head.

“You found my hiding place,” he smiles, bright as the sun.

He pats the empty space beside him, and Geralt comes closer before he even thinks about it, getting down into the grass and resting his back against the tree trunk, as well. He tries to get a look at what Jaskier is writing but the younger man hides the notebook from him as soon as he notices.

“Searched the entire garden,” Geralt chuckles in response.

After an entire day spent in bed and a proper night’s sleep, he feels like himself again, the wounds on his thigh now healing much faster and the pain almost gone. He doesn’t limp as he walks any longer.

“This is one of my favourite places of the entire estate,” Jaskier says, and he’s so torturously-close that Geralt can’t help but lean towards him until their shoulders are pressed together. “If I’m not in the mansion, I’m here.”

He’s got a dark-green chemise on, the sleeves embroidered with gold thread, and every time a ray of the sun catches on it, it shines, and though Geralt himself prefers much more subtle colours and designs, he can’t deny that it looks beautiful.

“I can see why,” he nods. “It’s peaceful here.”

Jaskier hums an affirmation, his eyes closed blissfully. Geralt still can’t quite get used to just how relaxed he is in his presence, how there isn’t even a hint of fear that he is so used to feeling on other people. That almost makes him forget about the world outside the mansion and his role in it.

He thinks, once again, how when he’s with Jaskier, he can be more than just what his mutations make him.

And then, it finally hits him.

It’s not that he wants to return to the mansion.

It’s that he doesn’t want to leave.

***

They spend almost half of the day in Jaskier’s little hiding place.

Jaskier tells him more about his time in the Academy and, when Geralt asks, tells him that though he’s got an honours diploma for all seven liberal arts, his heart and soul have always belonged to poetry and music. When Geralt considers it, he’s almost surprised by just how easy it is to think of Jaskier as a bard.

Can a prince also be a bard? An illegitimate one probably can. It’s a perfect disguise.

Bard.

It’s easy to refer to him by that name in Geralt’s mind.

After Jaskier tells him that, he finally lets the witcher see his notebook, filled with poems, neat lines or runes crossed out and then written again over and over. Geralt doesn’t understand much in poetry but the lines that he reads are filled with such emotions that they pull on the strings deep in his heart.

Once he gets to the unfinished poem that Jaskier was working on when he’d found him, Jaskier snatches the notebook from his hands and refuses to give it back, a beautiful shade of red spilling over his cheeks.

Geralt can’t quite stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the soft skin, and before he can pull away, Jaskier intercepts his wrist and tugs him down onto the grass, laughing as Geralt blink in mild confusion, his body suddenly unable to resist, though Jaskier’s strength is nothing compared to his.

They stay lying side by side in the soft grass for what seems like hours, Jaskier reciting poems and ballads by heart, and Geralt just listening. At some point, he lets himself get convinced - somehow - to also recite something, and he entertains the bard with a highly indecent poem about a farmer’s daughter and a knight that he and his brothers used to giggle over when they were still kids in Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier plays courtier, gasping at the crudeness, but then breaks into laughter, unable to keep his act up.

He rolls onto his stomach, propping himself up on both elbows to get a proper look at the witcher, and reaches out to brush a stray silver strand away from his face.

Even if Geralt’s life depended on it, he wouldn't be able to decide whether he likes this quiet comfort or the maddening teasing more.

And though the knowledge of having to leave in a few days is a constant reminder somewhere in the far corner of his mind, he allows himself - if only for a little while - to put it aside.

***

“Do you want to see the sunset?”

The library is painted gold and scarlet with the light of the setting sun, and the colours play beautifully on the silk of Jaskier’s chemise.

Geralt doesn’t necessarily want to move, more than comfortable on the soft settee and with Jaskier half-asleep in his arms, but when in the last two months had he been able to say no to this man?

Jaskier’s eyes light up when Geralt hums an affirmation, and the next moment he’s already up on his feet, alerting the dogs napping peacefully on a chair by the window. They jump down onto the rug, ears perked up and tails wagging, feeling Jaskier excitement in his scent the same way that Geralt feels it.

He lets himself be pulled away from the settee, Jaskier’s warm fingers wrapped around his own, and follows him into the hallway and towards the wide staircase.

“Come on, we’re going to miss it,” Jaskier urges, adorably impatient.

Geralt’s healing thigh gives a little stab of protest as they pick up the pace, nearly running up the stairs, but Geralt’s had much worse, so it barely registers with him.

They make their way up onto the fifth floor and down yet another hallway to the very end of the west wing of the mansion, where Jaskier pushes open the door of a bedroom and they rush inside, towards the balcony doors, the golden light streaming through the glass, nearly blinding.

Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand to push down on both door handles, throwing the arches open, and for a second, the view takes Geralt’s breath away.

This high up, they can watch the golden disk of the setting sun as it slowly makes it's way down, touching the treetops of the pines in the forest. In the distance, Geralt can see the glimmering ribbon of the river, and all around the mansion, there are valleys of flowers in full bloom. The scent is sweet and heady, almost intoxicating, and Geralt takes in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand in his chest.

He steals a look towards Jaskier, who doesn’t seem to notice it, too mesmerised by the golden light. It reflects in his eyes, making them look bottomless. Had their lives been different, Geralt would’ve let himself drown in that depth.

“Oh, isn’t this just gorgeous?” Jaskier asks in a breathy whisper, never taking his eyes off the horizon.

Geralt takes a step closer to him without even fully realising. It’s like in the past two days he’d grown so used to having Jaskier in his arms that he can’t keep a distance between them anymore. His scent, his warmth, the feeling of his skin - everything about him is drawing Geralt in, and he’s helpless against it.

Finally, Jaskier looks away from the setting sun and at Geralt. He keeps their eyes locked for a long moment before his gaze drops to Geralt’s lips, and Geralt can feel his heart skip a beat before picking up its pace. The fire in his chest flares up, so bright that it’s almost painful.

Jaskier takes a step towards him, suddenly so close that all Geralt needs to do is dip his head, and he’ll finally learn what his lips taste like. He holds himself back with all the self-control he’s got but it’s running out fast. He knows that this will make everything worse, that it will make leaving more painful for both of them, but he still desperately hopes that Jaskier would close in that remaining distance between them.

Because then, maybe, it would be easier to justify Geralt’s absolute powerlessness against him.

Without it fully registering with him, Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close, the bard’s breath ghosting over his lips.

The moment seems to last forever, Geralt’s self-control cracking and breaking like porcelain, but just before he can make the mistake that he so longs for, Jaskier presses his fingers to the witcher’s lips, creating a barrier, and leaves a kiss over them, laughing as he breaks away.

Geralt fails to bite back a low growl, disenchantment curling into a ball in his chest like a small animal, its little claws digging deep into his heart.

And still, despite himself, he cannot hold all these torturous little games against Jaskier.

“Is that blush I see on your cheeks, my darling?” Jaskier murmurs, jumping up to sit on the bannister.

Instinctively, Geralt holds him tighter, unwilling to risk his safety.

“You’ll fall if you’re not careful,” he says flatly, ignoring the question.

They’re still so unbearably close, and Geralt can’t deny himself the pleasure of bringing his other hand up to rest it on Jaskier’s thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just enough for it to be justified as him making sure the bard is safe.

Jaskier doesn’t make any move to get away from the touch, and when Geralt runs his thumb over the inner side of his thigh, his lips part on a soft little gasp.

It’s impossible not to think about the bed back in the room. About just how easy it would be to lift Jaskier up and carry him to it, lay him down onto the silk and velvet, biting marks into his neck. Impossible not to imagine all the sweet little sounds he would make.

Up on the bannister, Jaskier is higher than him, and when he reaches to tip Geralt’s chin up, there isn’t much he can do but comply.

“What do you want, Witcher?” Jaskier murmurs, his ankles locking behind Geralt’s back to keep him close.

Standing between his spread knees is just more than Geralt can take, and he tightens his grip on the bard’s thigh to keep himself grounded. Knowing that there are going to be bruises left, and Jaskier is going to have his skin painted with them for days, marked and claimed, does absolutely nothing to help the situation.

“I want you to stop putting yourself in danger,” Geralt growls, low and impatient, almost threatening.

He’s referring to much more than just sitting on the bannister, a five-floor drop on the other side, and they both know it very well.

Jaskier’s scent spikes up with sweet, heady notes of arousal even as he hisses at the tight grip on his thigh. Geralt bites his tongue painfully not no lean in and nose at Jaskier’s neck, right under the jaw, where that scent is the strongest. If he does, he won’t be able to hold back anymore.

Jaskier’s eyes light up with a spark of mischief, almost a challenge, and it only takes him one perfectly calculated move to twist out of Geralt’s grip, standing up on the bannister and laughing victoriously.

Geralt’s heart drops at the sight, and he grabs Jaskier’s hand tightly, ensuring his balance. The bannister isn’t necessarily narrow, Jaskier could probably lie down on it if he wanted to, but he could still slip, and that is not a risk that Geralt is willing to take.

The fire in his chest gives way to the rush of adrenaline, and he sighs deeply, calming himself down.

This is going to be the death of him.

“I’m putting myself in danger,” Jaskier grins, walking the length of the bannister in theatrically slow steps, his hand still in Geralt’s tight grip. “What are you going to do about it?”

Oh, there are so many things Geralt could do about it.

In his imagination, he presses Jaskier up against the wall of the balcony, bites into his lips, parting them with his tongue. He sucks marks and bruising kisses into his neck, the skin there so flawlessly smooth that the love-bites stand out like blood-red flowers against it. He leads Jaskier back inside, pulls him down onto the bed, undoing the intricate lacing and buttons of his clothes.

He takes him apart with hands and lips, drinking in every little whimper and moan, until Jaskier is trembling and gasping, and does it all over again.

But none of that can go further than his imagination.

So instead, he just yanks Jaskier towards him, catching him before he falls, and grins to himself at the way that he yelps in surprise. A small but pleasant victory.

“Balcony bannisters are no place for a prince,” Geralt murmurs, and the last word just slips.

He bites his tongue way too late, never having meant to say it out loud, to admit - so incautiously and foolishly - that that is what he’d somehow grow to think of Jaskier as. If it’s not true, then he’s just childish for believing something he’d heard in a nearby town, and if it is true… then I can turn out to bear far worse consequences, for both of them. An illegitimate prince hidden in a giant mansion in the middle of nowhere is unlikely to afford for his identity to be known. And the King certainly doesn’t.

For a long moment, Geralt feels like he can barely breathe, waiting for a reaction, but Jaskier just gives him a long, slightly puzzled look that could mean just about anything, and, finally, gives him a charming smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “It is no place for a prince.”

***

The three days after that go by in relative peace.

They spend most of the time in the gardens or in the library, reading, talking or just being in each other’s presence, even if neither says a word.

Jaskier decides, at one point, to give the cooks a day off and take over the kitchen, entrusting Geralt with the venison brought in by his hunters earlier in the day, while he’s busy with herbs and vegetables. Geralt doesn’t really protest, used to helping out in the kitchen in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier does look ridiculously good in an apron. He does turn out to be rather bossy in the kitchen but Geralt fails to find it in himself to mind.

They play with the dogs, both Asra and Lucio now used enough to the witcher to trust him, napping with their heads in his lap whenever Jaskier’s is unavailable. They’re just as unafraid of Geralt as their owner, and for Geralt, who is used to animals hissing and growling at him, it’s almost touching.

At night, if the sky is clear, Jaskier lures Geralt out into the gardens to lie down in the grass and watch the endless stars shimmer in the sky. He remembers a lot of astronomy from the Academy, and tells Geralt about the constellations high above, as well as making up his own ones based on what he sees in the sky.

It gets cold at night, and he keeps close to Geralt, safe and warm under their shared cloak. Geralt keeps an arm around him and presses his cold nose to his temple every now and then to make the bard giggle.

Jaskier almost kisses him more times than Geralt would be able to count, but each time he breaks away, laughing and leaving him with nothing. Geralt knows that he’s just waiting for him to break first, and it takes him everything he’s got not to.

A couple of times he comes very close to pushing Jaskier up against the nearest wall, for he never stops his torturous teasing, but on some level, he almost enjoys this inability to have him, because though the fire in his chest can grow painfully hot, no-one’s ever made him feel like this.

It helps, in a way, that Jaskier is always hearing his intricately embroidered shirts with sleeves that cinch in on his wrists and high collars that keep most of his skin hidden, because Geralt isn’t sure that he’d able to think about anything other than the marks that he could leave on that skin had it been any other way.

And that… well, that ends up playing against him.

It’s his sixth morning in the mansion - the second to last, he tells himself repeatedly - when he fails to find Jaskier in any of the places that they would usually spend the morning in.

The first place that Geralt searches through is the downstairs library that seems to be Jaskier's favourite room of the mansion. There are books that they’ve left behind the night before, pieces of parchment all over the table, and Jaskier’s cloak but no sign of the bard himself.

When Geralt doesn't find him there, and then in the gardens, and then in the smaller library upstairs, there is no other place that he can think of other than Jaskier's bedroom. It's still relatively early in the morning, and maybe he's too unwilling to get out of bed just yet, warmed by both Asra and Lucio.

Reluctantly, Geralt makes his way up to the last floor and to the door of Jaskier's bedroom. He'd never been inside, and for some reason, it feels unnerving. All the time that he’d spent in the mansion, he’d only been on the fifth floor twice: first when Jaskier was giving him a general tour, and then when they rushed to the balcony to watch the sunset.

Jaskier’s rooms have remained something almost forbidden, a place where Jaskier would disappear to at night and then leave in the morning. Something private, sealed off to all guests.

After standing outside the door for a few long moments, Geralt knocks, expecting to hear the now-familiar tap-tap-tap of the dogs' claws along the floor because they're always the first ones to check, but gets no answer.

Feeling like he shouldn't be doing this, he tests the door handle, and it turns with no resistance.

The bedroom is just as big as he'd imagined, with a canopy bed lined with wine-red velvet and arch windows that let through the soft morning light. There are large paintings in golden frames hung on the walls, stacks of parchment and books on the table by one of the windows, a chandelier for what must be a hundred candles on the high ceiling.

It’s a gorgeous room.

But right now, Geralt can't quite concentrate on any of that, because all he can look at is the open door to the bathroom in the far end of the room. He can hear water splashing softly and then Jaskier's footsteps that he'd grown to recognise among all others.

His throat suddenly feels very dry, and he can't bring himself to say something, nor can he turn around and leave, giving the younger man his privacy. Instead, he just stands and watches, waiting for... he doesn't even know what, exactly.

Jaskier stays out of his field of vision for some time, murmuring some song under his breath, and when Geralt does finally see him, he's got his back to him, a silk dressing gown flowing down his body in waves.

For reasons that Geralt can only assume to be cruel fate, Jaskier keeps his robe off his shoulders, just a little above the line of his elbows, like a voluminous shawl. It covers his arms below the elbows, his lower back and his legs, providing some modesty, but after only seeing Jaskier in his silk shirts, barely any open skin, Geralt feels like all air had been sucked out of his lungs.

The half-discarded dressing gown provides Geralt with a perfect view of Jaskier's neck and shoulders, drops of water still shining on his beautiful pale skin, of the curve of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades that Geralt wishes he could follow with his lips and fingertips.

He can see the soft outlines of muscles, the little birthmark just above Jaskier’s right shoulder blade, just a few tones darker than his overall pale skin, the thin white scar on the curve of his left shoulder.

And there's something else, too. Something Geralt didn't expect but that looks so elegant on Jaskier's body that it causes little to no resonance in the witcher.

Right between Jaskier's shoulder blades, perfectly centred, his skin is adorned with a delicate, geometric design. It looks like white ink, just brighter, standing out against the skin, almost glowing in the low candlelight of the bathroom, and though Geralt's never seen anything like that before, it looks beautiful.

He'd only seen tattoos on Skellige and in Novigrad, but this one is so starkly different from all of those, so delicate and precise, that it feels like it doesn’t even belong to this realm. Unusual that a member of the royal family - legitimate or not - would have something like this but perhaps this is exactly what marks him as one? Hidden under all that silk, Geralt never would’ve known he had it if he hadn't seen it now. So how can he assume that other members of the ruling family don’t have one?

It’s way too late when it registers with him that he’d crossed the room already and is now only a few steps shy of the open bathroom door, unable to take his eyes off Jaskier.

Jaskier, on the other hand, seems completely aware of his presence.

“Did you want something?” he murmurs, completely unfazed as he brushes past Geralt and into the bedroom.

His hair is still wet from his bath, falling into his face in loose locks, the smell of pomegranate sweet and heady in the air, almost making Geralt’s head spin.

Jaskier’s collarbones are a sharp outline, the delicate skin stretched tight over them, and though Geralt’s always had a thing for it, he can feel a sharp spasm of pure lust somewhere deep in his abdomen from just how bad he wants to bite into them.

Without fully thinking his actions through, he catches Jaskier’s wrist and turns him around, so they’re face to face again. Jaskier gasps but doesn’t resist, his cornflower-blue eyes snapping up to meet Geralt’s.

His bare chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths, like he’s completely unbothered by the state he’s in, by Geralt seeing him like this.

“I was wondering if you were going to let yourself in if I leave the door unlocked,” he murmurs, taking another step towards the witcher, until there is no more space left between them. “If you came looking for me while I was still in the bath, what would you have done?”

He shifts, pressing his hips to Geralt’s thigh, and it resonates through the witcher’s entire body like lightning when he realises that under the thin silk of the dressing gown, Jaskier is completely naked.

“Would you have helped me with my hair?” the bard goes on, that same intoxicatingly sweet murmur. “Or would you have simply fucked me right there and then?”

And at that, Geralt snaps.

He grabs Jaskier’s thighs, lifting him from the floor, and sits him down impatiently onto a chest of drawers just behind his back, not even trying to bite back a growl when the bard wraps his legs around his hips, knees spread wide apart.

His dressing gown has more than enough fabric to keep him covered even like this, but Geralt’s head reels from knowing that it would only take one brush of his fingers to get it out of the way, letting the heavy silk slip down Jaskier’s thigh.

“You’re killing me,” Geralt growls, low and dangerous, leaning down to Jaskier’s ear, and he shudders in response.

Jaskier keeps his balance with one hand flat on the polished wood of the chest of drawers, but the other one is in Geralt’s hair almost immediately. He leans in unbearably close, his lips brushing over Geralt’s in a feather-light touch as he lets out a shaky breath.

“Then make me pay for it.”

At that moment, there is nothing that Geralt wants more than to kiss him, Jaskier’s lips parted and bite-swollen and right there.

But he’s leaving tomorrow morning.

And so instead of Jaskier’s lips, Geralt bites into his neck. He sinks his teeth into the tender skin right under the sharp of the bard’s jaw, where his scent is the strongest, and sucks a bruising, blood-red mark into it, making Jaskier arch his back and gasp the witcher’s name.

Geralt pulls back, for just a second, his gaze fixed on the fresh love-bite, standing out sharply against Jaskier’s pale, smooth skin, untouched by anything or anyone else. He looks owned, claimed, taken.

But it’s not nearly enough.

Geralt bites another bruising kiss right next to the first one, pressing his tongue to the fresh mark to both soothe the pain and make Jaskier even more sensitive. And then another one. And then another one.

He loses himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s skin, the sound of his voice, his gasps breaking off into soft whimpers when Geralt bites just a little too hard. In the scent of dried herbs and vanilla and pomegranate, only made sweeter by the intoxicating sweetness of lust.

Geralt leaves a scattered pattern of love-bites all the way down Jaskier’s neck, sucks three marks onto his collarbones, growling with pleasure, and he’s more than sure that there are going to be fresh bruises on the bard’s thighs from just how tight he’s still holding him.

Jaskier keeps him close with his ankles clasped behind Geralt’s back, his breathing deep and fast like he can’t get enough air. He looks unbearably gorgeous like this.

Geralt’s mind is hazy with lust and pleasure, his cock hard and throbbing under the now painfully-tight leather of his trousers, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is in the same state. His scent tells him everything he needs to know.

And it would be so easy, so fucking easy to just carry Jaskier over to the bed, undo the belt holding his dressing gown closed, and fuck him, tearing more of those beautiful whimpers from his chest.

But that would be a far greater mistake than the one that Geralt has already made.

He takes in as deep of a breath as his lungs allow him, and takes a step back, pressing one last desperate kiss to Jaskier’s neck, now covered in his marks.

Geralt doesn’t have anything to say for himself, but he doesn’t have to, for after just a few seconds of catching his breath, Jaskier grins at him victoriously, like it’s all a part of his little game and he’s not affected by it in the slightest.

“I’ll take that as the answer to the question of whether or not you would’ve fucked me if you’d gotten here a little sooner,” he murmurs.

Geralt doesn’t try to stop him when Jaskier jumps down from the dresser, adjusting the folds of his dressing gown. It’s more than hard to keep a hold on his self-control, and he fears that any touch could send it all to hell.

His heart is beating fast and hard in his chest, and he’s still painfully hard, but it brings him a sense of possessive satisfaction to see Jaskier’s neck and collarbones marked with his teeth. Those love-bites won’t fully fade for more than a week.

“Now, if you don’t have the intention of undressing me, I need to change,” Jaskier says, walking over to the wardrobes in the opposite corner.

Geralt watches his every move, still standing by the chest of drawers, not willing to risk it and close in the distance between them again. He wants to ask about the symbol on Jaskier’s back but it seems unfitting to bring that up now.

Jaskier picks out his clothes and takes them out of the wardrobe, already reaching for the belt on his dressing gown when he seems to notice Geralt’s gaze.

“I’m not giving you easy ways out, Witcher,” he grins, even as the belt starts to slowly give way. “Turn around.”

He clicks his tongue, and from somewhere under the furs and pillows on the bed, emerges Lucio that Geralt had not noticed before. Jaskier whistles to him and, when the dog jumps down from the bed to sit next to him, indicates at Geralt with a move of his head.

“Ambush, Lucio,” he says, never breaking eye contact with Geralt. “He’s a purebred hunting dog, Witcher. If you move as much as a fraction, he will let me know. Now turn around.”

For a lack of a better option, Geralt does.

He can hear the dressing gown fall to the floor in a soft whisper of silk, and knowing that Jaskier is right behind his back, completely naked and covered in his marks is making it hard to breathe. But Geralt can feel Lucio’s razor-sharp attention on him, and he knows that if he tries to get even the smallest look, Jaskier will immediately know about it, and the entire little game is going to be ruined.

No, he stays with his back to Jaskier the entire time he’s changing, forced to listen to his own quickened heartbeat, and it seems like an eternity has passed until Jaskier revokes his command and Lucio loses all interest in the witcher.

When Geralt finally turns around, he finds Jaskier wearing a black chemise with blood-red rose petals embroidered into the sleeves, the colour matching the love-bites on his neck almost perfectly.

Geralt hasn’t told him yet that he’s leaving tomorrow.

But gods, he’s going to miss him.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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runin-reads · 4 years

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❛ s o l a r s y s t e m ❜

— hinata harem drabbles and reader insert

SYNOPSIS: my thoughts on various hinata ships, plus my take on what it would be like to marry the sunshine himself.

PAIRINGS: kenhina, kagehina, atsuhina, oihina, hoshihina, tsukkihina, hinata x reader.

A/N: I would add wayyy more ships but I didn’t want this to be too long. I may add a part 2 depending on the feedback I get.

MANGA SPOILERS

☆ﾐ KENHINA

— the only sugar baby and sugar daddy relationship that matters

— shoyou says he likes something off-handedly only for kenma to buy it in bulk the next day

— “if you get boring, I’ll stop ;)” that’s it that’s the sunmary. need I say more to describe their dynamic?

— Kenma and him fight a lot to cover the bill, only for Kenma to pay for it secretly on his way to the bathroom

— honestly just such caring boys to each other. Kenma is so intune with how Shoyou feels and will lay down just about anything to make him feel better. Shoyou brings happiness and energy to Kenya’s life and makes sure that he takes plenty of breaks from the screen, so he can rest.

— he’s part of the pretty setter squad, what can I say.

☆ﾐ KAGEHINA

— literal representation of yin-yang. They balance eachother out in the best way and work perfectly together

— volleyball dorks that wanna bring each other to new heights. Constantly noticing improvement (namely Hinata’s) in each other and instantly being filled with joy at the sight of it

— like seriously. Kageyama was the first to see potential in Hinata, and was willing to put effort into drawing his talent out. Before Kageyama there was no one who would do that shit, and i honestly can’t imagine Hinata without his influence

—romance aside, their friendship and teamwork is something we all want in life. They’re intune with the others needs and characters, they’re a POWERFOUPLE and everyone acknowledges them as one

☆ﾐ ATSUHINA

— wow, he can jump. That’s it, we wilding now 🤪

— deadass saw him play for one match and decided “ah yes. I want this one” LMAO

— Atsumu made a promise to toss for him and actually fulfilled that oath 6 years later. King really did THAT.

— okay but Atsumu casually staking claim over Hinata as HIS wing spiker, really brought out his protective bf side. You can just tell how much pride and trust he has in Hinata as a teammate, enough where he’ll call him HIS wing spiker at any given time.

— I just love the way Hinata encourages Atsumu and his jokes that go over everyone else’s head.

— “Atsumu-san! I found it funny!” :D

— hinata comes thru when no one else does. We love to see it

— Atsumu being the stressed mom friend of the jackals and Hinata either adding to the stress, or helping him out.

— hinata being one of the few people that matches Atsumu’s energy for constantly thinking of new moves/techniques for volleyball. Will stay long after practice just to work together and play the sport they love.

☆ﾐ OIHINA

— DO NOT TELL ME THAT OIKAWA DIDN’T MAKE SEVERAL TRIPS TO RIO TO VISIT HINATA AGAIN. DO N O T.

— oihina spent several days in the honeymoon phase. Going to restaurants, building sandcastles, playing beach volleyball, taking selfies to piss old rivals off. And this is Brazil we’re talking about. They 100% went to bars and danced in the streets, drunk off of the alcohol and the feeling of being close to each other. If this doesn’t scream “forbidden summer romance, I found a piece of home away from home” energy, then idk what does.

— they met as two homesick boys that left the country to pursue their dreams. Both of them were feeling lost and had no idea where to go from there, but then they saw each other and their vigor was restored. I’ll say it again, THEY FOUND A PIECE OF HOME INSIDE EACHOTHER. THEY REMINDED EACHOTHER OF THEIR ULTIMATE GOALS AND THAT VOLLEYBALL IS A SPORT WHERE YOU HAVE FUN.

— oikawa definitely needs reminding that he is enough, that he is skilled and hardworking, and most importantly to take care of himself. Hinata would definitely be able to provide this support to him. He is a fountain of endless praise and validation, and what makes it better is that it’s all sincere and only based on the truth.

☆ﾐ TSUKKIHINA

— Tsukki would fucking punch himself before catching feelings for Hinata. Which is what makes this ship even funnier.

— it’s just Tsukki back at it again with his salty inner-monologue to himself and denying his feelings, only for Hinata to waltz right in and change his view of everything

— the type of couple to be arguing and all up in each others faces, only to be like “holy shit he’s close,” and be reduced to a blushing mess

— when Hinata actually sasses back yall better be behind Tsukki to catch him as he burns. This man will either clap right back or short circuit from the shock alone.

— he probably develops a hunch from holding hinata's hand all the time and crouching down to give a hug. Mans looking like Quasimodo but it’s okay, he’s in love.

☆ﾐ HOSHIHINA

— not really a fav ship of mine, but I gotta give appreciation where appreciation is due

— they’re so alike yet so different in so many ways

— I just love how they’ve finally found someone to relate to, someone who knows exactly what it’s like to be underestimated at first, only to completely soar through their expectations in order to reach higher heights

— they’re a great reference to each other, and they clearly love seeing the other improve and try out different things. They have a deep respect and sense of rivalry, and they most definitely are the dumbest-and-dumbest couple that can’t figure out shit outside of volleyball

— they compete over the pettiest shit. Will race each other to get into the shower first, or put on their seatbelts. Chaotic energy can be sensed from miles away. Can’t be left alone to do anything without the building collapsing smh.

☆ﾐ HINATA X READER

— ngl you got the entire volleyball scene jealous

— like you managed to snag the most versatile and sought after player in the whole of Japan. You really did THAT.

— Shoyou is definitely the type to give you a one-handed hug and a kiss to the forehead every time he has to leave for something

— will sling an arm around you from behind and ask you about your day. Asks you quick fire questions like, “have you eaten yet?” “Have you drank water?” And is overall a super attentive lover

— “hey, I’m Shoyou Hinata and this is my spouse!” Cue the blinding grin that’s brighter than the sun

— Like they do for Hinata, players like Hoshiumi and Ushijima address you by your full name, and you and your husband find it hilarious.

— “OI HINATA” - kageyama

— the both of you turn around

— all chaos ensues

— I feel like Shoyou wouldn’t be the type to flirt with you at first, he’d just be really upfront with it. Will dead ass head straight towards you after practice or something, and say, “hey! Wanna go back to my place after this?”

— he’d say this with the BRIGHTEST SMILE, and I bet he’d blush a lot too

— he would still blush, even once yall are married and everything

— everyone cries at your wedding. You don’t know if it’s tears of joy, or they’re all at a loss because they wanted Hinata all to themselves. And honestly? Same.

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krisdreaming · 4 years

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PART 3 | A PREDICAMENT

｢ Masterlist ｣

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou x gn!reader

Summary: Somehow, you ended up agreeing to bring your non-existent boyfriend to the family Christmas gathering at your grandparents’. Your chem lab partner and fast friend, Kuroo Tetsurou, agrees to play the part. Your developing feelings for him won’t cause any problems, right?

WC: 2.6k

A/N: I won’t be posting for this fic next Saturday, so the next part (part 4) will post on December 26!

A smol guide to reader’s cousins (all ocs who aren’t really developed at all aside from their names which I stole from other anime hkdljf), listed from oldest to youngest, though I don’t really have exact ages in mind:

Mikoto Kyoka <Reader is here in my head> Setsuna (Mikoto’s younger sister) Takashi (the twins older brother) twins - tbh i didn’t name them bc they’re the youngest and not really relevant lmao i’ll probably just refer to them as “the twins” (they’re boys btw)

Basically I needed to name them bc it was getting confusing... sorry if it’s weird!

The entire drive to your grandparents’ house, you find your eyes drifting to your rear view mirror and Kuroo’s headlights reflected in it. You’d left school in the late afternoon, and by now the sun has begun to sink below the horizon and dusk is beginning to fall. You have fond memories of arriving at their house for Christmas after darkness has fallen, seeing the warm glow of the lights in their windows drawing closer and being ushered inside from the cold winter darkness to their bright, sweet-smelling home.

This year is a little different - Kuroo will be with you, experiencing those familiar sights and sounds and smells for the first time. Your gut is absolutely twisting, and you grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Now is not the time to have second thoughts or wonder if it’s too late to call the whole thing off. For now, your focus has to be on making sure your family believes Kuroo is actually your boyfriend. If you seem happy, they’ll be happy. You glance once more in your rear view mirror. Convincing them of that may not be as difficult as you think.

By the time you pull into the driveway, you’ve managed to push most of the doubts from your mind. The cold air that hits your face as you step out of your warm car is a welcome distraction, and you fill your lungs with it. Next to you, Kuroo’s car door opens and he steps out, reaching into the backseat for his duffle bag.

“Here we are!” You chirp, spreading your arms in a flourish as he closes the car door. He looks at the house, then turns to smile at you.

“Looks really nice,” He nods as you pop the trunk, reaching for your suitcase. “Let me get it,” He reaches around you and grabs it. You’re startled for a few moments, but all it takes is a quirk of his eyebrow for everything to fall into place. It would be weird if you didn’t let your boyfriend carry your bag for you.

“If one of us is going to blow this, it’s going to be me,” You breathe with a nervous chuckle, and he shakes his head.

“Won’t let that happen,” He assures you, gesturing for you to lead the way. He follows you up the walk, and the moment you reach for the door knob, it swings open on its own. Behind it, your grandmother is waiting to greet you, hands clasped in front of herself with a giant smile on her face. For a split second, you almost feel guilty that none of this is real.

“Merry Christmas!” She pulls you into a tight hug, and you breathe in the familiar scents of rose and sugar cookies. “Come in, come in.” She releases you and is immediately locked on Kuroo, who has a sheepish smile on his face.

“Oh my,” She looks up at him with the huge grin still on her face, “Aren’t you quite the handsome young man! Just look at how tall he is!” Behind her, your parents appear as she’s gathering him into a hug. You try to hold in a snicker as he drops the bags beside him, folding himself awkwardly to return the hug.

“Thank you for having me, ma’am,” He says as he’s released from her grip, prompting a pleased hum.

“Grandma,” You finally break in to say, “Mom and Dad,” You turn to your parents who are both eyeing Kuroo curiously. Your father, especially, seems to be sizing him up. “This is Kuroo Tetsurou,” He lifts his hand in greeting, “My boyfriend,” You add, feeling your cheeks grow hot at saying the words out loud. Your mother meets your gaze with a small smile.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Your father reaches out and catches Kuroo’s hand in a firm handshake.

“It’s great to meet you too, sir.” Your father must approve of the handshake, because he gives Kuroo a nod and a smile. “And it’s nice to meet you, L/N-san,” He reaches for your mother’s hand next. Your grandmother wraps her arm around your middle and squeezes you into her side.

“Oh, what a polite young man,” She whispers in your ear loudly enough for the others to hear, “It looks like you’ve found a good one.”

You watch Kuroo greet your grandfather who’s finally wandered into the room. “I think so,” You agree, sharing a smile with your grandmother. It comes out more easily than you expect.

“Alright,” She brings her hands together in front of her, interrupting the chatter. “Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes, so let me show these two to their room so they can get rid of their bags.” She waves you and Kuroo along, and you follow her up the stairs.

Every year, you stay in your mom’s old room. You’ve always loved envisioning your mother spending time there when she was a little girl. This year, an added bonus of the room is the extra futon that’s always folded up in the corner. When your grandmother opens the door, your eyes immediately go to that corner and find it empty. A quick glance around the room reveals that the futon is nowhere to be seen.

“I got it all ready for you,” Your grandma says brusquely, bustling inside and fluffing the pillows on the bed as she talks, “I think you two will be very cozy in here.”

“Where’s the futon?” You blurt out, and she chuckles with a wave of her hand.

“I had to put it in the basement. Now that the twins are older, they won’t share one anymore. Not to worry,” She pats your shoulder, “I know you’re all grown up now. Is everything alright for you two?” She looks expectantly between the two of you, and you swallow back your panic before pasting on a smile. A glance at Kuroo reveals that he’s remarkably unphased, at least outwardly. It sets you just a bit more at ease. You’ll figure this out.

“Looks great, Grandma. Thanks.” You let your bag drop to the floor, and she takes it as her cue to leave.

“Dinner is ready any minute, so get your things situated and come down,” She says over her shoulder as she heads out of the room, pulling the door against the latch behind her. You look over to Kuroo, who’s glancing around the room.

“I swear there’s usually a futon in here,” You say quickly, and he shrugs.

“I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t mind.” You open your mouth, then close it, because you aren’t quite sure what to say. “I’m used to it,” He assures you. You aren’t quite convinced, but you don’t know how to refuse without making whatever this is even weirder.

You finally decide on, “We’ll figure something out at bedtime,” and reach for the door. “Ready to eat?”

“Since we left school,” He laughs, following you out of the room and down the stairs. “Bring it on.”

The meal is nothing too fancy. On the first evening, when everyone is still arriving and getting settled in, there’s normally just a spread of quick bites and snacks. When your plates are filled, you find seats at the table set up for all of your cousins. They aren’t shy about introducing themselves to Kuroo, and it shouldn’t surprise you how easily he slips into conversation with them. You’re all talking and laughing in no time, and it feels almost natural.

“Say Y/N, how did you manage to land someone like him, anyway?” Your oldest cousin Mikoto laughs from beside you with a jab of his elbow in your ribs. You rub at the spot and stick your tongue out at him, buying time while his girlfriend reprimands him.

“Would you believe he’s my Chem lab partner?” You jab him back with a smirk.

He snorts, “I find it hard to believe you wowed him with your brains.” That earns a burst of laughter from the group. “Was there bribery involved?”

“Actually, I think it was probably my brains,” Kuroo says smugly, his chin hovering over your shoulder. You resist the urge to smack the grin off his face and settle for swatting his arm. “I’m pretty much carrying this one’s grade, y’know,” He jerks his thumb in your direction.

“Please,” You roll your eyes, falling easily into the banter with him, “One look at our last test scores will tell you it’s the other way around.” He shrugs.

“I’ll let you think whatever you want,” He says primly, lifting a chip to his mouth as he dodges a second swat. This, at least, feels very familiar. As the laughter around you dies down, the conversation shifts again, and you’re content to sit and soak in the chatter.

When the meal is over, the cousins all migrate to the living room. Every year for as long as you can remember, on your first night together for Christmas, you’ve watched Elf. It’s one of your favorite traditions.

“Where’s the DVD?”

“I think Grandpa hid the remote again.”

“I know we literally just ate but could anyone else eat popcorn?”

It’s a little loud and a little disorganized, but you’re happy just to be here with them again. Every year the group grows a little bigger with significant others added to the mix, and this year Kuroo is the only new face. You lean in close to him and murmur, “Doing alright?” He’s been quiet, just taking everything in.

“Yeah, great,” He replies in a low voice, offering you a lopsided smile. “I don’t think I can remember anyone’s names though.”

“You’ll get there,” You assure him, giving his shoulder a pat.

“Lights! Someone turn out the lights!” There’s a scramble, and soon the only light in the room is the glow of the tree and the flickering TV screen.

“Psst! Y/N, sit down!” Someone hisses. You roll your eyes and plop down in front of the couch, leaning back against it. Setsuna nudges your shoulder with her foot, then grins at you when you turn to stick out your tongue at her. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see her brother and his girlfriend tucked into the corner of the couch. She’s pressed in against his side, and he has his arm around her. Kyoka and her girlfriend are squished almost comically onto the recliner, but they don’t seem to mind the tangle of legs.

Suddenly, you’re all too aware of Kuroo next to you. His arm is pressed against yours, and you try not to sit too stiffly. No one seems to be paying much attention to you as the movie begins, but you still can’t help but wonder if this is convincing anyone.

As if he’d read your mind, you feel Kuroo’s hand inch closer to yours. With a glance your way, he loops his fingers loosely over yours, slipping his pinkie alongside yours in a gesture similar to his pinkie promise last week. You lean in just a little closer.

As the movie plays, you feel the busyness of the day catching up to you. The familiar scenes on screen are lulling you into a drowsy state of half-sleep, and you hardly think about it before you let your head come to rest on his shoulder. He stills for a few moments, but then he rests his cheek on top of your head. You don’t move until the credits start rolling and everyone around you starts to stir.

“Aww,” You hear someone coo behind you as your cousins slowly start to stand up and disperse. When the lights turn on, you sit up straight and squint into the sudden brightness, blinking blearily at Kuroo who winks at you so quickly you think you might have imagined it. He stands to his feet with a groan and extends his hand, grabbing yours and pulling you to your feet.

Around you, there’s a chorus of good-nights as everyone heads off to get ready for bed. You turn to Kuroo and brace yourself for what’s coming. “You ready for bed?” Even as you ask, he’s stifling a yawn behind his fingers.

“Yeah,” He nods with a chuckle, “That movie really conked me out. Didn’t realize I was so tired.” He follows you up the stairs, and the two of you gather your things for bed in silence. By the time you’ve taken turns using the bathroom down the hall, he has a makeshift bed made up on the floor. He has comforters and pillows piled up, but you still can’t help but think how uncomfortable it looks.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? I can see if there’s an air mattress or something.” You would feel awful if you didn’t at least offer.

“How suspicious would that be?” He laughs. “I told you, I’m fine. I used to sleep on the floor at Kenma’s all the time. It’s no big deal.”

“Alright,” You say slowly, crawling under the covers. Up until now, things have felt fairly normal, but something about seeing him lying there on the floor next to you reminds you how strange this whole situation really is. “Regret this yet?” You ask softly, propping yourself up on your elbow so you can see his expression.

“Nah,” He says with a wave of his hand. “I’m having a good time. Honestly. Your cousins are a riot.” You shake your head with a smile, but you can’t deny it. “I’m actually thinking of offering this as a service,” You feel your smile falter as a strange twinge fills your middle. You know it’s just another one of his jokes, but something about it makes you prickle. “Don’t worry, yours is the trial, so there’s no charge.”

You laugh to appease him more than anything. “Sounds like an easy way to earn some cash,” You say lightly, hoping he can’t sense anything off about you. “Ready to turn the light off?”

“Yup,” He nods, and you reach over to flick the lamp off. “Night.”

You echo him, then turn onto your back, staring up at the ceiling with the few leftover glow-in-the-dark stars that haven’t peeled off. You really had been sleepy during the movie, but now that you’re in bed, you feel wide awake. You can’t help but mull over Kuroo’s comment. Sometimes he’s impossible to read. You know this is more than just a joke to him – he’s proven that much already. He’s a good friend, and that’s not something you want to lose over something like this. With a sigh, you turn on your side.

“Hey, Kuroo,” You whisper, “You asleep?”

“Yes,” His teasing response is immediate.

“You can’t tell me that you’re comfortable down there,” You say softly. “So just come lay in the bed.”

He’s silent for so long that you start to wonder if he really is asleep. Just when you’re about to roll over, he speaks up again. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, dummy.” You say, huffing out a soft chuckle. You hear him gather up his pillows and blanket and make his way around the bed. You can feel it dip beside you, but he’s careful to leave nearly a foot of space between you.

“Thanks,” He hums under his breath. You don’t reply, but you smile into the darkness. Even though you aren’t touching, you can just feel his warmth next to you. It isn’t long before your eyes slide shut.

#Haikyuu #Haikyuu imagines #Haikyuu fluff #Kuroo fluff #Kuroo x reader #Kuroo Tetsurou x reader #Kuroo Tetsurou #Haikyuu x reader #hqd fluffmas #queued

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salty-ironstrange-shipper · 4 years

Text

Being Known Is Being Loved

being known is being loved

“i know your pizza order” “you have freckles on your ears” “you make this face when you’re tired” “you order green tea on a good day black on a bad day” “you always make that face before you try something” “the tips of your ears turn red when you’re angry” “i knew you’d say something” “you must be exhausted to miss the class” “your favorite pie is pumpkin, right?” “i know your phone number, don’t worry” “you miss me, i can tell” “you fiddle with your pens when you’re bored” “you don’t like converse unless they’re high tops” “your favorite cereal is cinnamon toast crunch and you first ate it when you were 8”

being known is being loved.

(@natasharxmanov) (post since deleted, see here and here)

(read on ao3)

“You do that thing with your tongue when you’re curious or excited.”

Tony stopped, feeling air brush against his stomach where his tank top had ridden up. His hands carefully caressed the new arc reactor model, even as the rest of him focused his attention on the man sitting on the workshop’s sole couch. “Huh?”

Stephen’s ears turned red, as though even he didn’t know why he’d spoken. “I said, you do that thing with your tongue when you’re curious or excited.” He gestured at Tony’s mouth, trying to replicate the little tongue-rolling gesture.

It didn’t really work, but Tony smiled anyway. “I never noticed.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Stephen shrugged before looking away almost snappishly, returning his attention to the research he had open on his laptop. “I noticed.”

“Because they’re your favorite flower.”

“You can’t blame me!” Tony insisted, trying to defend himself as Stephen wrestled the urge to laugh. “I thought it was a good idea!”

“How was sending me flowers that I’m allergic to a good idea in your head?”

They were standing against the railing on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out on the East River. They’d finished their Chinese takeout as the sun set, and now they were enjoying the display of white and gold lights on the blackened water. Tony had his back to the river, speaking with grand, sweeping gestures of his hands as he tried to justify himself to a laughing Stephen, who was leaning over the metal bar as though daring the water to rise up and take him.

“Because, they’re your favorite flower.”

Stephen shook his head, brow scrunching. “What?”

Tony nodded insistently. “They are! Whenever we walk by a flower shop, or a store with flowers in it, you stop to look at the lilies.” He paused before adding. “I know remember that it was usually from a distance.”

Stephen tilted his head, trying to think. He guessed that was true. He’d always thought they were pretty, particularly the stargazers like the ones Tony had sent to his office at the hospital. And he wasn’t even the type to care for flowers or other naturey things like that. He definitely hadn’t thought Tony had cared to notice.

Tony had his head tilted back, looking up at the few stars that managed to shine in the light-flooded city. “Maybe I can get someone over at R&D to look into making a new strain . . .”

“Or you could just buy plastic ones,” Stephen suggested, smiling despite himself. “Instead of inventing a new flower.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Stephen chuckled. “My mistake.”

“You prefer a peppermint stick in your coffee in winter.”

Tony held his hand out, frowning when Stephen ignored him. “Doc? Coffee?”

“Hold on.” Stephen awkwardly held up the cardboard drink tray with one hand while the other fished around one of the pockets in his long, dark-blue wool coat. His eyes, grey today, lit up when he found what he was looking for. “Got it.” He held out a small paper bag. “Take one.”

Tony arched a brow. “There better not be something gross in there.”

“What gross thing would I be carrying around?”

“I don’t know. Brains? Figure they have to go somewhere after you take them out.”

“That’s not what my job is.”

“Sure.” Tony did, finally, reach into the bag, surprised when he pulled out a red-and-white striped candy. “Ooh. Have I earned a treat?”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “You prefer a peppermint stick in your coffee in winter. Thought it would be a good idea to stock up.”

“Man after my own heart,” Tony said blithely, ignoring the warm feeling that stirred in his stomach. He took two sticks, pulling the lid off of his cup when Stephen handed it to him and dropping both inside. It took a few minutes for the flavor to seep into the entire drink. When he finally took a sip, he couldn’t help the not-so-tiny moan that escaped his lips.

Stephen smirked. “Enjoying yourself.”

“Obviously.” He took another long drink before grabbing the front of Stephen’s coat and pulling him in for a kiss, smiling when Stephen’s tongue ran over his. “Doc, if you wanted a taste, you could get your own candy.”

Stephen stepped forward and away from him as though nothing had happened, enjoying a draw if his own burning hot mocha. “Bold of you to assume I’m sharing again.”

“Oh, that’s just evil.”

“You always listen to this album when you’re thinking about your sister.”

Stephen didn’t bother to look at him, keeping his eyes steadily trained on the water pouring outside their window, the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, not quite drowned out by the Nirvana soundtrack playing in the bedroom. Everyone now and then, lightning cut through the sky.

“I know.”

Tony nodded as though this was the answer he’d expected. Then he started walking across the room, shutting the door behind him, and crawled into the bed arms opening instinctively to wrap around Stephen’s shoulders as the doctor silently nuzzled his chest and neck.

“You always play with your phone so you don’t have to pay attention to this scene.”

“I do not get emotional—”

“Yes you do! You always play with your phone so you don’t have to pay attention to this scene!”

“It’s. SAD, STEPHEN!” Tony snapped back. “The mother whale tries so hard to save her baby, but in the end the goddamned . . . killer whales . . .” Okay, maybe he DID get a little bit emotional when they watched nature documentaries. It wasn’t his fault the circle of life was brutal.

Stephen sighed as Tony completely failed at not being emotional, shaking his head slightly before holding his arms open. “Come here.”

“Thank you,” Tony muttered later as Stephen dutifully fast-forwarded through the scene.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry, I know your order.”

“Goddamn—” Stephen pulled his ringing phone out before absently glancing at his fiancé. “It’s work. Do you mind?”

Tony shrugged absently, looking down at his menu. “Don’t worry, I know your order.” He looked up. “The special butternut squash ravioli, right?”

Stephen smiled before leaning forward to brush a kiss against his cheek. “You know me.”

“You’re always losing this, so I put a label on the drawer.”

“C’mon . . . where is it . . . I know I left it . . .” Actually, he had no idea where he left it. Giving up, he leaned back on his knees and away from the open compartment. “Jarvis, do you know where—”

“Here,” Stephen said, slipping down from his stool and walking over to a completely different set of drawers on the other side of the room from where Tony was searching. “I’ve got it.”

“You don’t even know what I’m looking for—”

He stopped as Stephen pulled out the exact thing he’d been looking for, a laser cutting tool he often used when making repairs to the armor. Stephen dropped it into his hand as he explained, “You’re always losing this, so I put a label on the drawer.”

Tony couldn’t help the amused expression that crested his lips. “That’s the nerdiest way to say ‘I love you’ I’ve ever heard.”

“Are you complaining?”

Tony scoffed before leaning forward to “innocently” nip at his ear. “No.”

“These gloves are easier on your hands, right?”

Stephen stared at the offering in Tony’s fingers, the soft black leather that he knew would be lined with devastatingly soft white fur repurposed from one of Maria Stark’s old wraps. His throat tightened.

“Steph?” Tony said cautiously. “These gloves are easier on your hands, right?”

Forcing himself to move, Stephen nodded sharply before taking them, his own fingers shaking. “Right. Yes.” It took too long to pull them on, but once it was done, it was as though a burden had been lifted, his scarred hands stilling some as they adjusted to the comfortable warmth. “Thanks.”

Tony nodded once before starting to walk away. “Don’t worry about it.”

Stephen stopped him with a gentle hand on his elbow. Tony froze in place as Stephen stepped forward, leaning his forehead against the nape of Tony’s neck. “Thank you.”

Slowly, Tony reached back, pulling one of Stephen’s hands around so it was resting on his stomach then covered it with his own.

“You smell different.”

Tony paused, looking away from the small herd of children running around the lake house or playing on their phones to face his husband. “Is that a come-on or some kind of sick way to tell me to take a shower?”

Stephen shrugged. “Neither. You’re just . . . different.” He learned forward, being far too open with the fact that he was sniffing Tony’s neck in plain view of everyone. “Are you wearing a new cologne?”

It took Tony a moment to think, somewhat preoccupied by the (annoyingly innocent) feeling of Stephen’s lips brushing over his neck. “Um . . . yeah, actually. I, uh, started using a new one a few years ago. After you, you know.” It was perhaps not the most graceful way to refer to someone being dead for five years, but hoe was he supposed to think with Stephen practically draped over him like this?

Stephen nodded, sitting back slightly. Tony fought the urge to pull him right back. “That’s probably it.” Then he went right back to sitting a respectable inch away from him, watching the children to make sure they didn’t get too close to the water.

Tony hesitated, watching him. “I could . . . go back to using the old one.”

Stephen glanced at him from the side before allowing a small smile to grace his cupid-bow lips. “I’d like that.”

“I made sure to get the pens you like.”

“I made sure to get the pens you like,” Tony said casually, passing a paper shopping bag over to his husband, who looked through it with mild interest.

When Stephen looked up, his eyes were mildly amused. “Yeah? And which pens do I like?”

“The blue ones. Inky, so if you hold it still for too long you’ll make a huge mess all over the paper.”

“My favorite.”

“Told you.”

“Your arm must be giving you trouble after today.”

Tony winced as he sat down on the bed, head aching as surely as his shoulder. It took a few minutes for him to even start removing the metallic arm for the night.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” Stephen asked, suddenly appearing on the other side of their bed, even though Tony was sure he hadn’t even been in the house a moment ago. “Robots in Toronto . . . your arm must be giving you trouble after today. The hot water will help.” His hands twitched at his side, as though reminding Tony how his husband knew that.

Tony smiled softly despite himself. “You always know just what I need.”

Stephen returned his gaze, pale eyes soft. “Do you want a bath bomb?”

“Vanilla and rose, please.”

Stephen shook his head good-naturedly. “Pampered little rich boy.”

“Gold digger.”

“You know it.”

“That tub’s big enough for two, right?”

“You’re always starving after a trip like that.”

“I’m late,” Stephen said, gritting his teeth as he stumbled through a portal into the dining room. “I know I’m late . . .”

It was immediately obvious that everyone else had gone to bed — but Tony was still there, hunched over the table as he read something on his starkphone. He looked up when he heard Stephen, smiling. “Hey.” The oven light was on. Tony stood, opening it and pulling out a still-warm lasagna, though only half of it left in the (frankly, huge) pan. “Made sure there was plenty left for you. You’re always starving after a trip like that.” He glanced over his shoulder, removing his oven mitts. “When you go all extra-dimensional and all.”

“That’s not really what it’s called.” But Stephen went ahead, feeling the Cloak of Levitation detach itself from his back as he sat down. He smiled as Tony set his plate in front of him. “Thank you. For waiting up.”

Tony smiled that too-bright smile of his, dark eyes almost glowing. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“You have forty-eight freckles on your shoulder.”

Tony shifted in bed, not turning around, but just moving his head enough to catch sight of Stephen tracing lines along his back. “Come again?”

Stephen’s hand, tired and shaking, traced gentle constellation along Tony’s tired back and arms. “You have forty-eight freckles on your shoulders. I must have counted a hundred times by now, and it’s always the same, summer or winter.”

“It’s a universal constant,” Tony said thoughtlessly.

The corner of Stephen’s mouth edged up in a smile. “I hope so.”

“Your eyes are always blue in this light.”

Around them, the beach was nearly deserted, a tiny bubble of solitude. They could hear Pepper and Christine corralling the children in the distance. The sun was setting, drops of gold splashing upon the watery horizon. Tony leaned back on his metal red-and-gold arm, gazing at Stephen, who was meditating beside him. He spoke without thinking. “Your eyes are always blue in this light.”

Stephen looked over at him, eyes instinctively opening. Tony smiled. “Yeah. Like that.”

#incorrect-ironstrange #ironstrange #tony stark #stephen strange #fanfiction #ironstrange fanfiction #ironstrange fic #oneshot #fluff #soft #romance #ao3 #from the top #being known is being loved #ironstrange fanfic #ficlet #my fanfiction

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mimi-cee-hq · 4 years

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A Pikachu for You - Kenma x Reader

Getting together headcanon stories from match-up requests

Summary: Ever since Kenma saved you from your freak-out in class, you had a crush on him. He noticed you often glancing at him playing his video games and then you started to get to know each other.

Genre: Cute fluff

Words: 805

A/N: This is from an anonymous match-up request. I know this anon loves Kenma so I tried to see if I could come up with a story with him and it worked.

Match-up stories taglist: @nxlx96, @nagichi-kenma, @muffins-puffins (let me know if you want to be added or removed)

When you freaked out over the buzzing near your ear, everyone in class stared at you. Now you were both embarrassed and scared.

Nobody else knew what was going on and you couldn't get the words out to explain what happened. But then you heard a "whack" behind you. "I got it," Kenma told you plainly. And then he gave you a small and soft smile.

That was when you started to have a crush on him.

You started to steal glances at him and would sometimes peak over his shoulder to see what video game he was playing.

Kenma obviously noticed so he told you he was playing Pokemon.

Because you were interested, he started teaching you about different strategies you could use and which moves were the best to keep for each pokemon.

With all the information he was sharing with you, you suggested he should make a tutorial video and maybe even post it online.

He had never made a video of himself playing and explaining things before. So you helped him out a bit because you had some experience with video edits. You even drew thumbnails for his videos.

You both had fun with this new project and messaged each other often to collaborate on his videos. You accidentally showed your sassy side because it was easier to talk to your crush when he wasn't right beside you.

Kenma was slightly surprised and commented on your sass at school the next day. When you got embarrassed about it and became flustered because he was standing right in front of you, he started to consider the possibility that you liked him.

After a couple of months, you got more comfortable with each other. One day you commented on a hoodie he was wearing, mentioning that it looked really comfortable. When he offered to give it to you, you got flustered and tried to refuse. He smiled, now fairly certain that you liked him.

You got anxious that Kenma's videos weren't getting a lot of views. He mentioned that just because the number of views were low, it didn't mean the video was bad. He continued to explain that it depended on the video platform's algorithms and that they just started out.

You were discouraged because the two of you worked so hard. But you knew he wasn't sugar coating his words to make you feel better. Kenma said things as he saw them.

One day, Kenma invited you to come to an amusement park with him, knowing you liked them. But when you found out that Kenma didn't like roller coasters, you felt bad. He told you he invited you anyway, knowing there were other things you could do together.

You both walked past the carnival games and Kenma saw you eyeing the stuffed animals. He usually wouldn't try the games because he thought they were rigged, calculating the probability of winning in his head. But of course you eyed the large stuffed pikachu, reserved for the most difficult games.

So as you two ate some ice cream together he watched the various people playing the carnival game. When he finally thought he understood how to improve his chances of winning, he approached the game area. He knew his chances were still slim but he wanted to try anyway.

After losing a few times, he started getting competitive. You told him he didn't have to keep trying but he said he was using the small amount of money he earned so far from the videos' ads. When you complied, he got really focused at trying to figure out how to beat the game. You thought it was cute and you liked seeing him like this.

He continued to play while you went to buy some drinks. As you walked back to him, you saw him suddenly turn around, looking for you. When your eyes met, he said with a large grin, "Y/n! I won!"

That wasn't a sight you saw too often so you froze in place and felt your cheeks heat up. When he got the large stuffed pikachu, he placed a necklace over its head. The necklace had a large pokeball as its pendant. He walked over to you and you were shaking for some reason.

"Here," he said. "This is for you." You took the pikachu and he gestured at you to open the pokeball pendant.

There was a little note inside: "Are you an HM move? Because I can't seem to forget about you."

So now you felt like dying, wondering if this was really happening. But then Kenma saw the note and muttered Kuroo's name.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Kuroo must have put it there. That was not how I wanted to ask you out."

That was the killer blow for you.

"Y/n? Are you okay?"

I hope you liked it. (Please don’t die on me, anon. lolll.) Fun fact: my s/o used to do pokemon strategy videos at one point so he was my reference for that part of the story. lol.

If you liked this one, check out my other stories in my masterlist.

*****

Match-up Request:

Hey, I'd like a HQ matchup plz! I'm a 5"4 straight female who is a little on the chubby/curvy side. I have longish blonde hair and blue eyes. In terms of personality, I'm a depressed and socially anxious little bean, but with the right people I can be sassy and fun. I like to play video games and watch anime (provided I'm in the right mood). I also like to make edits, write and draw sometimes. I'm okay with some physical contact like cuddling and hand holding, but PDA should be limited.

I like to wear hoodies and graphic shirts because I don't feel comfortable in "fashionable clothes" (I think I look like a potato). I have a lot of weird quirks like my phobia of pretty much any flying insect (but especially bees/wasps/flies bc I hate the buzzing noise they make). I love plushies and cute things. I'm the type who likes to do something if they go out (e.g. I'd prefer to go to a theme park rather than sun bathe at the beach). Ran out of things to say, hope I did okay ^^;

I love stuffed toys a lot - most of mine are Pokémon plushies.

So because I accidentally told this anon that I didn’t get her request, she had two versions. lol. The last line is from her second version.

#haikyuuwritersnet #kenma kozume #kozume kenma #kenma x reader #kenma kozume x reader #hq kenma #haikyuu kenma #kenma fluff #kenma imagine #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu matchups #mimi's fanfiction

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dreamersleeps · 4 years

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Hawks and the Biblical Archangel Michael

(Another look at BNHA Vol. 27’s Cover)

This is my first attempt at writing an analysis/interpretation piece for BNHA and in general so please feel free to comment or add on to what I have written below. I hope I didn’t miss explaining something properly.

This post was inspired and influenced after reading through @/cutiesableye ‘s interesting analysis and interpretation of the cover of Vol. 27 which is linked here and looking at @/codenamesazanka ‘s post comparing the cover art to a painting called “The Fall of the Rebel Angels” by Baroque painter Luca Giordano which depicts the Saint/Archangel Michael defeating a group of demons (the original post is linked here). If we are comparing Vol. 27’s cover art to these paintings, then Hawks is in the position of the Archangel Michael while Jin is in the position of the demons.

By now, I’m sure that a lot of people are aware of the references of the Greek mythological character of Icarus in Hawks’ characterization. However I want to draw attention towards the possible allusions Hawks may convey with another winged figure: the Biblical Archangel Michael.

Despite the fact that Horikoshi is a Japanese author and that the story largely relies on contextualization that is based on Japanese culture, that does not mean that he can’t be inspired by Western ideas and faiths from outside Japan. When it comes to other Christian references, I think you can look towards All For One/Shigaraki and Ibara Shiozaki from Class 1B who have more explicit references to Jesus Christ and other Biblical references. If Horikoshi wasn’t inspired by this Biblcial figure, this piece or similar art pieces then please take this post as an interesting take on the cover. However I think this take on the cover adds to the narrative. There are some interesting similarities between Hawks and the Archangel.

After a quick search on Google, I realized that quite a few pieces of art of the Archangel from the 1500s - 1700s (not quite sure about the time frame) depict him triumphantly standing atop a pile of the enemy/demons/sinners, wings spread out wide, dressed in a red or blue robe and with his right arm wielding a sword lifted in the air, sometimes with the sun or a bright light shining down on him from behind his head.

Here are a few examples:

“Archangel Michael punishing sinners” by unknown Austrian artist (1700s)

“Saint Michael Archangel” by unknown artist (1490s)

So who is the Archangel Michael?

First of all in the hierarchy of angels, Archangels are those who are at the very top. The title comes from the Greek words “arche” which means prince, and “angelos” which means messenger and they fulfill a number of important purposes. I think which angels are considered an archangel is debated based on holy scriptures between the Abrahambic religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam) however because the paintings above were produced by those who were of Christian and Catholic faith, I will focus on looking at the Bible. In the Bible, Micheal is the only angel who is explicitly labelled as an Archangel. He is an angel of supreme power and the leader of God’s army.

Based on the information I found online and from my own knowledge, the Archangel Micheal had four main responsibilities based on what is found in the Bible and in Christian tradition:

Combat Satan.

Escort the faithful to heaven at their hour of death.

Be a champion of all Christians, and the Church itself.

Call men from life on Earth to their heavenly judgement.

For this next portion, I’m going to try my best to show how they connect back to Hawks.

First, the Archangel Michael is the enemy of Satan.

In the Biblical “end times” which is depicted in the book of Revelations, it is written that Archangel Micheal will lead God’s army into a final battle against Satan and his fallen angels and be victorious.

A hero’s enemy is a villain and the villain’s enemy is a hero. This current war between the heroes and the Paranormal Liberation Front is happening largely due to Hawks’ role in infiltrating the PLF and the information he gathered. It’s a great clash between the two major forces BNHA society deems as “good” and “evil.” Although Hawks may have not led the heroes into battle but he played a major role in starting it. We have yet to reach the outcome of the war.

Second, he comes at the hour of death and presents a last chance at salvation.

During a period of time before someone dies, the Archangel Michael descends to those who haven’t yet connected to God and gives them a last chance at salvation before their time to decide runs out. He gives them one more chance to essentially redeem themself before passing. After the individual dies, Micheal and other angels escort those who are saved to heaven.

In chapter 264, Hawks says that he believes that Twice/Jin is a good person and offers him a chance to leave quietly and have the opportunity to have a fresh start in life, telling him that he’d even help him. Very simply put, from Hawks’ point of view, this is a ticket out, a chance to be “saved.” Twice chooses to fight for his friends and the LoV instead and dies by Hawks’ hand shortly after Dabi comes to intervene.

Third, he is the Guardian of the Church.

His name, Michael, means “one who is like God.” Throughout early Church history, he has been called the “chief of Israel” and the “Prince of all angels.” One of his major responsibilities is to protect the People of God. To protect the Church, Michael leads angel armies into battle against its enemy, Satan and his fallen angels.

This one might be kind of a stretch but I think you can connect Hawks’ position as the Hero Public Safety Commission’s tool to this role. He is one of the Commission’s valuable weapons, and they will utilize him in order to achieve a certain outcome. Hawks views himself as someone who has the responsibility of protecting others. In this case, his infiltration mission forced him to bear the weight of the safety of Japan’s population on his shoulders. As a hero he had a duty to protect and save.

Fourth, he weighs people’s merits on Judgement Day.

(I could not find the title, artist or year for this painting.)

In the Christian religion, the Day of Judgement, is the day in the future when all people who are living or who have ever lived will be judged by God. In the Bible, the Archangel Michael helps measure people’s good and bad deeds on Judgement Day. In art, he is also often depicted holding scales and people often describe them as the “scales of justice.” Going back to the war during the “End of Times” that the Book of Revelations talks about, the weapon that Michael uses to defeat the enemy is often described throughout Christian history and tradition as “the sword of justice.”

The subject of Twice’s death is a touchy subject and I don’t have the ability to carefully word what I want to convey but harshly written, based on the situation that Hawks was put in and after assessing the possible impact/outcomes of Twice’s role in future events, he makes the decision to kill Twice. He acknowledges Twice to be a “good person” but in that moment he judges him based on where his loyalties might lie and on his past/history. Hawks kills Twice using one of his blade-like feathers that he fights with like a sword. Another interesting thing to note is that the sub-heading of Vol. 27 is “One’s Justice.”

In Conclusion

The event portrayed in these paintings depicts a major clash between God and Satan, and ultimately what is good and evil. In the Bible, there is no gray area, only black and white. So if we take this into consideration, is Horikoshi saying that Hawks is the righteous, holy hero and that Twice is the evil, morally upside down villain? No.

If Horikoshi indeed was influenced by these paintings of the Archangel Michael and his enemies, I do not think he’s portraying the black and white themes the good triumphs evil message it boldly gives off.

In their post, cutiesableye points out that “In comics, a hero at the bottom and a villain at the top mean the hero is losing and conversely, a hero at the top and a villain at the bottom means the hero wins.” On the cover, Hawks is depicted at the top and Twice is depicted at the bottom. Then they ask an interesting question: “But who is the hero here?" I’d think that someone with no context of the story would find the cover to be somewhat ambiguous. Cutiesableye has a lot more great analysis and interpretation about the cover and especially on Hawks’ and Twice’s facial expressions and body language so I highly encourage you to go read their post if you haven’t done so already.

Anyways, back to the question: “But who is the hero here?”

Well on this manga page, Hawks looks more like the villain than Twice does. I think that grayness is what Horikoshi was going for. Both Hawks and Twice are gray characters. That is why so many people have their own strong opinions and interpretation about what happened between Hawks and Twice. Neither of them can be labelled comfortably as “good” or “evil” or in general, “hero” or villain,” and I think that is the point. I’m not going to go in depth about their character and morals but simply stated, Hawks is a hero who now has blood on his hands because he believed that the decision he made would save more lives and Twice was someone who was further categorized as a villain because he found community and family with the League of Villains and later died trying to defend them. However this grayness does not excuse any crimes that were committed on either side. It just makes the conversation more complex.

Another way you can portray this is that Hawks is not an angel and Twice is not Satan or a demon. Like you and me, Hawks and Twice are both human. BNHA is a story about humans and we are not perfect. Although we can show the best and worst in humanity, we can be very gray characters as well. On the surface level, you can say that the heroes represent the “good” side and the villains represent the “evil” side, however if you take a closer look that is not the case. It’s more complicated than that. Through the current (Paranormal Liberation War) arc, Horikoshi is really exposing the gray areas that lie between the black and white.

#bnha meta #bnha spoilers #takami keigo #bnha hawks #bnha twice #jin bubaigawara #mha meta #bnha volume 27 #hawks meta #luna writes #my post

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whirlybirbs · 5 years

Photo

--- tenderly feral.

summary: you’re used to being alone. daryl, somehow, changes that. rating: t for violence, references to murder/assault/loss, s5 spoilers, if that matters. word count: 3.7k a/n: this is set mid-season 5. right before alexandria. listen, i know, i’m catching up, okay???? anyways, i wrote for daryl when i was literally in high-school and i think this is very fitting. it all comes full circle. this will, no doubt, be a series. ✘ next chapter. ✘

You’re quiet. Mean lookin’ and awfully quiet.

Daryl Dixon reasons you’re a little bit like a feral cat - used to bein’ outdoors and used to bein’ mean, mean as can be. You’re not used to havin’ others around. It shows.

You don’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither does he.

You’re with the group a little over a week when you finally speak more than a word -- it’s to Rick, saying you saw some formula and diapers and baby blankets in one of the neighborhoods South of Atlanta. It’s a metaphorical olive branch; offered in favor for the next-to-nothing meals and for the church roof over your head...

For saving your skin.

Your voice is a rasp, sounds like you haven’t used it in months. The words fall past your lips slow and sluggish.

(Daryl wonders if it’s from the bruises around your neck, from the hands that had been strangling you into the pavement with no remorse when he found you.)

You’re trying to say thank you. The words don’t want come out just yet. Daryl knows how that feels. So you offer a supply run instead. Risk your neck. Show your thanks.

You figure you won’t be around for long. Might as well make it worth it.

The archer squints into the evening sky as a sunset flare draws a halo around your head.

“Didn’t think t’ grab it, then,” you mutter, lips ghosting over the words as your worried eyes bounce to the cooing infant in the officer’s arms. You toe the dirt, “But, I could grab it now. She’s gotta eat.”

Rick doesn’t trust easy anymore -- not to say he ever really did before.

His eyes narrow, a blink of a microexpression that’s laced with skepticism and curiosity and a vague sense of doubt. Despite it, you stand unwavered as Daryl watches through the mousy strands of his hair from the front steps of the church. After a moment, Rick nods.

His eyes dart across the wooded horizon.

“Tomorrow,” Rick says finally, “Sun’s gonna set soon.”

Daryl watches as you nod, shuffle past, and retreat to the church. His stare follows the steps of your well-worn boots, blue eyes watching as you weave through the open doors to the Lord’s home silently.

You’re a feral cat tryna be an indoor cat.

But you’re tryin’.

Daryl guesses that’s all that matters.

✘

You prefer being alone.

It’s just... better that way.

You leave before sun-up and come back that afternoon with a carload of supplies -- Daryl isn’t sure how you managed to swing it, heading out to the ‘burbs with the van alone like that, but you do and there’s grub in everyone’s belly at the end of the night because of it.

It’s either sheer stupidity or pure survival and Daryl isn’t sure which one.

That night, he watches from a few pews back as you fork a can of brown bread into your mouth while you shake a bottle of formula.

In the lights of the candles, you seem softer -- maybe not so mean.

You present the bottle to Carl, lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile as the boy thanks you and bounces his sister on his hip.

(The boy reminds you of someone you knew once, then, and the formula hangs between your hand and his as a memory punches you in the gut -- you remember Boston, and Pennsylvania, and every loss along the way and Carl sees it before you can wipe it away. You try your best to distract from your gaping wound with a tight-lipped smile, but the burn of tears unfallen paint the boy’s face all sorts of guilty.)

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing the bottle.

“Yeah,” you whisper, ducking to the ground, “M’ fine.”

You ain’t. Daryl sees that.

The pew creaks as Rick settles beside the archer.

Silence runs like a river between the two men as you cross the church and settle back against the wall by the altar. They’re both watching, like wolves protecting their pack, and you avoid the weight of their gazes in favor of your canned bread and the small comfort of your corner.

You swipe angrily at the tears streaking your cheeks.

Daryl sees it. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he sees it.

This is why it’s better to be alone.

“If we’re gonna move soon, after we get Beth,” says Rick after a few beats of breath, “We need more supplies. Somethin’ t’ last us more than a few days.”

Daryl blinks into his can of beans, knee bouncing.

“Yeah.”

“She offered to show us the spot. Go with her tomorrow.”

Daryl nods, tipping back the can into his mouth as Rick pats his knee.

✘

“I’m comin’ with you.”

You go rigid, stiff as a board, when Daryl’s voice passes behind you. Swallowing, you bend at the knee and move to finish shoving a few balled up bags and some water into your camping pack -- when you stay silent, his boots carry him closer, and you’re left to eye the lopsided laces staring back at you.

“Y’ alright with that?”

“Don’t matter,” you say, words biting a bit more than you mean for them to; you’re quick to stand, hauling your pack onto your back, “... Does it?”

Suddenly, the world swings on a hinge and like a screen door slamming open, you’re locked in the orbit of Daryl Dixon. The shiner around his eye makes him look meaner than he is. Blue eyes are soft, betraying him even more. You stand straight, unwavering, as the archer wets his lips and breaks away. He toes the ground and swings his crossbow over his left shoulder as he squints along the tree line.

Mean, mean, mean. Ain’t you?

“No,” he breathes, “It don’t.”

✘

The ride to the South End ‘burbs is quiet.

You forfeited the keys without a fight, swinging yourself into the passagender side of the van -- your fingers had clawed at grime and scum lining the windshield only to yield nothing but smears. So, as the van rolls on, you opt to look out the window.

The view, however desolate and broken, is nice.

After a long stretch of road and a longer stretch of silence, Daryl finally speaks. Blue eyes dart to the curve of your face. They linger, following the column of your throat.

“... Those bruises are healin’ up good.”

He eyes the road with a noted sense of worry.

Again, you seem to stiffen and turn inward. Your hands fly to your neck, pushing the collar of your worn flannel up. The brush of your fingers spurs a wince that flashes into a snarl. Daryl sees it.

Mean.

You plant a boot on the dashboard and cross your arms.

And that’s that.

✘

You manage to stock up three bags of cans, water, and medical supplies.

It’s not much but it’s something, and as you drag yourself up into the van, you catch Daryl’s figure in the rearview. There’s a cigarette hanging between his lips, fingers prying at a bag in the trunk -- the smell of nicotine is better than that of the upholstery which has seemingly soaked up all the residue from it’s previous owner.

The stain in the carpet is big.

Your eyes fleet up from aforementioned stain, connecting with Daryl’s like keys fitting a lock.

He’s always watching.

You reason Daryl Dixon is a bit like a fighting dog -- nasty when he needs to be and fiercely protective. It shows.

He doesn’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither do you.

(Even when if he is the man who’d saved your fucking life. Even if Daryl Dixon is the man who’d pried another living being off you -- even if he’d tackled that fuck to the ground while you gasped for air and stars swam in your eyes. Bloodied fingers clawed at the hot pavement and the world swayed, but you could breathe and you were alive, even if the sound of a tinkering belt and violent threats still sat in your ears.)

Trustin’ ain’t easy now-a-days.

✘

The dance of candlelight carves his face into something softer -- you swear you can see the play of a smile there when Carol talks; as the grey-haired women waves her spoon and shrugs, you find yourself missing conversation for the first time in a long time.

Maybe you have been alone for too long. It shows in moments like these.

You tuck your knees closer and fork the peaches in the tin can with an edge of frustration. In your corner, you sit, far from the lull of the group’s conversation.

But, it’s Tyreese who drags you up from the bottom of that pit of loneliness -- the deep baritone of his voice rouses your attention.

“... Where are you from, newbie?” he asks, words weighted with sincerity, “Where’s home?”

(You’re not a newbie. Maybe that lanky boy Noah is, but you’re not -- this is just something temporary between the running. This group... well, nothing is ever permanent anymore. Especially with the current state of things.)

The conversation holds itself still the lungs of those around you, stuck in their throats as Tyreese drives apart the sea and welcomes you in with a kindness unfounded.

Your eyes hit the bottom of your can. The sugar sweet peaches glisten like tears.

“Boston,” you muster finally, exhaling.

“Christ.”

A sea of murmurs. You can feel the distrust of Rick and Michonne in the tempered reactions -- as Rick bounces a cooing Judith, you’re suddenly feeling like the flame the moths flock to. You feel obligated to share this part of your story, after all isn’t that what people do?

You’re not sure. When you’re alone, you avoid the living like the plague.

But, despite your hang-up’s and hesitation, you nod again, move forward and sit up. You swallow and wet your lips.

“Been on the road for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since it started.”

Daryl’s face flinches. You see it. He knows.

“Why?” asks Michonne with a pointed edge, “Why not... settle?”

“I did,” you say, “Tried to, at least. Then people died, shit fell apart, and... I kept moving. I had to.”

“Alone?” asks Rick, eyes narrowed.

You nod. Shame weighs your shoulders.

“Seemed like I was bad luck,” you chirp, “Real bad.”

“Well, you’re here now,” says Tyreese, “And we’re glad.”

You wonder if that’s a good thing, after all.

✘

“Here.”

You narrow your eyes.

In his hands hangs a tube. The label is faded.

You squint up at Daryl Dixon from your spot on the church’s steps as a mid-day sunray curls right around his head like a halo. His face is set in something awfully serious. Fiercely protective. Like a damn fightin’ dog.

(You wonder who holds the choke chain, who yanks the leash.

Is it Rick?)

You take it, confusion flying across your face.

“It’s some cream,” he says, “Carol found it. Said it’s good for bruises.”

You see the way his eyes fall on your throat.

“M’ fine,” you croak, “It... It don’t even hurt.”

“Bullshit.”

“How would you know, huh?” you bite, lips snarling, “I’m fine.”

“‘Cuz I been choked out before,” Daryl snaps back, looming closer, “Take th’ damn cream.”

You do, only with a lasting look of irritation. The moment the tube leaves his hands, he relaxes.

Like that, the air dissipates into stillness.

Daryl’s eyes roam the steeple. When you speak, it catches him by surprise.

“... Thanks.”

You’re still feral. But you’re tryin’.

✘

You stay back -- you don’t know much about this mission to save one of their own, but you know you want nothin’ to do with the pigs in that hospital. You’ve met them before, out on the streets of Atlanta, and you have no intention of meeting them again.

The thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

And when there’s trouble with the walkers that crawl to the church, following the hysterical father, you barricade them in alongside Michonne without second thought -- but this turn of fate dredges up this gut-churning feeling of bad luck.

Bad, bad luck.

And then, a fire truck full of friendly faces plow into your concept of bad luck and compounds it with a lie about a cure for all this and a busted trip to Washington.

And then, when you all drag yourselves to Grady Memorial and Daryl Dixon hauls a dead Beth Hershel out those back doors in his arms? When Maggie, the kind woman with the kind drawl crumples at the sight? When Daryl wails and Carol tries -- god she tries -- to calm them both down?

You’re left to wonder if you’re better off alone.

If you and your bad luck is better off in the streets.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

The group finds two cars.

They park in the woods and bury Beth at sun-down under a sky of red.

You pass dirt along the grave and remember a prayer from long ago. It’s a croak on your lips but it means something to Maggie, who reaches for your hand and thanks you after it’s all said and done.

Grief sits heavy in Daryl’s gut.

He’s at the edge of the makeshift camp, nothing but a shadow. But, you find him.

In your hands is a can of beans.

You settle next to him on the log. The wood groans but Daryl doesn’t flinch -- his eyes art trained on the low fire that glows before his boots. The embers crackle. He inhales, sharp and fast, and you don’t need to see his face to know he’s been crying.

So, you pull your knife from your boot and crack the top of the can open. You gesture it towards him.

“Eat.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Your jaw tightens.

Silence draws itself up between you and Daryl and dances in the flames of the campfire. You bounce your knee and clutch the can. That suffocating silence swells there, finally bursting when you turn to eye him with a careful amount of worry.

“... Who was she?”

You see his mouth move. His brows knot, then his face falls.

“A friend,” he whispers, “Family.”

You wonder what that’s like -- to have both of those with the current state of things.

(You had it once -- before things fell apart and you started moving on your own. You had a sister and friends and people who had killed for you by your side. You’d killed for them, too. You would, again. Maybe you’d kill for Daryl, too. A part of you already feels like you owe him.)

“I know it’s not my place,” you say slowly, “But she’d want you t’ eat.”

Daryl’s eyes rocket upwards, catching your expression.

He knows your right.

He takes the can and your fingers brush.

“... Thanks.”

And that’s that.

✘

Tyreese.

You liked him.

You forgot how this felt. Loss. Grief. Death.

You stand shoulder to shoulder beside Daryl over a shallow grave.

And you cry.

✘

It’s bad.

You’re bad -- you’re nothing but bad luck and all this? This is how it’s gonna end.

A thousand miles, and for what? To starve on a Georgia highway?

Behind you, like a ball and chain, is a horde of walkers that snarl and gasp and trudge along, waiting for one of you to drop. You wonder if you’ll go first -- if your last meal will really be peaches. Canned fuckin’ peaches.

You swallow, swipe at your clammy skin, and keep moving.

For the first time in a long time, you’re tired of moving. Tired of running. Of being alone.

For the first time in a long time, you glad you’re not alone.

Daryl is lingering behind you. His steps are sluggish and his crossbow is slung across his waist, posed and ready. The vest around his shoulders is soaked, tattered shirt darkened with sweat. You’re no better. The hair along your neck clings with reckless abandon. You spare him a glance, then slow up to match his pace.

You’re quiet for a while, steps falling in with his.

And then you speak.

“I never said thanks.”

Daryl’s face gives nothing away. HIs eyes, though, dart to you for a moment. When you speak, your eyes are off on the horizon.

“That guy was gonna kill me over a can of soup,” you speak slowly, ignoring the garrish flashes of the scene that unfolds behind your eyes every-night, “And you stopped him.”

“... Had to.”

“No,” you shake your head, finally breaking to look at him, “You didn’t.”

He’s quiet for a few feet, then he sighs. “Jus’ ‘cause things have got t’ shit don’t mean people don’t matter.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I’m bad luck.”

“You’re not.”

“Ever since I joined up,” you drawl, movements sluggish as the horizon glimmers, “I... People have --”

“It ain’t your fault.”

His words are firm, backed by a rush of anger that knocks you for a loop. Daryl staggers along, face set in some unreadable way that leaves you wondering what he really thinks -- he’s like Rick and Michonne. Pointed and distrusting, but there’s something else there.

“Tell the others I’m goin’ t’ look for water.”

He dips into the woods and disappears.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

He doesn’t find water.

But when the skies split open and pour rivers of rain down on you all, you find yourself not caring. You lay in the street beside Tara and Rosita and you laugh -- peels of joyous sounds that mesh as the group scrambles to grab bags and bottles.

And when the sky roars, you and the group hole up in that barn down off the beaten path.

You curl up in a corner, far from the fire, as the come-down of the day seeps into your bones with the rain.

It’s Daryl who approaches, rousing you from a half-sleep.

He plops down against the hay bail, prompting you to stir.

You inhale and shift, rubbing your eyes. You blink at him, caught in the tired look on his face and the cut of his cheeks. He looks rough -- you haven’t known him long but you know this isn’t him. He’s a ghost of himself. Between grief and starvation, Daryl Dixon looks nothing like the man you’d watched nights ago back in the church, glowing in the light of prayer candles and good grub.

“You okay?” you ask softly, voice nothing more than a mere wisp.

“I wasn’t gonna save you at first,” he blurts, “Wasn’t gonna fight that guy, wasn’t gonna... stop him. Things have been bad and... I don’t --...”

His words die. Your chin drops.

“All this?” he gestures suddenly, “All this is just remindin’ me I’m alive, y’know?”

You turn to eye him, then nod. “Yeah.”

His fiddles with his fingers. Silence creeps between you two and your chest aches with some sort of feeling you’re not too sure of. Maybe it’s dread? Maybe it’s regret or... distrust. You don’t know. But it’s not nice.

“I’d do it again,” he leans, “If I had to.”

“Do what?”

“Kill someone,” Daryl mumbles, “If it meant savin’ you. I don’t regret that.”

You think of the sound the crossbow bolt made when it passed through that man’s skull. You think of Daryl, scrambling to help you up as a group of walkers creep in -- you think of him and Carol, prying you out of the thick of it and saving your fucking life.

“You don’t know me,” you say slowly, “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

“I’d know,” he watches you and you feel like you’re stuck in cement, “Everyone would know. But you ain’t bad. You know that.”

Maybe you do.

Again, the quiet rolls in like mist in the morning. You’ve started to realize it’s a part of Daryl -- he isn’t a talker, not like Glenn or Eugene. He’s quiet and reserved and he picks his words; there’s nothing that doesn’t matter in the way he speaks. It’s all him.

He spins a piece of grain between his fingers.

Your head rolls. You trace his profile with your eyes.

“M’ sorry about Beth.”

“Yeah,” he breathes as he drops his head back, “Me too.”

“... Think we’ll survive this?”

“We always do.”

✘

His name is Aaron.

And you don’t trust him.

You wonder if it’s because you’ve met men like him before -- promising a safe place to rest your head. Promising safety and a future. Those men have all been liars, thieves, murderers.

(You wonder if this is how Rick felt about you. If welcoming you in with Daryl’s blessing was met with the same hesitation? Were you once nothing more than another Aaron?)

But... he’s not lying.

Rick notes your discomfort. He needs that. He needs the good and the bad and the ugly, the trusting and the distrusting. He’s a good leader -- you’re seeing that now in the ex-cop.

That’s how you get shouldered in between Aaron and Michonne in the backseat of that shit-box Lincoln. That’s how you plow through the dead at 45 MPH, heart dropping into the pit of your gut as you haul ass out of the car and plunge your hunting knife into as many heads as you can. Your survival instinct is feverish and terrified and full of desperation; as you roar, Rick watches.

In a flash, something settles between you both.

You book it through the woods and hit Route 16 with no RV in sight.

No Carl, no Judith... No Daryl.

The moon casts inky shadows in your wake.

No time to stop. You all keep moving.

✘

Rick whistles. He gives a call.

There’s a response.

You carry yourself into a collision of an embrace -- Daryl curses, quietly, as he sways on his feet and grips your shoulders tightly. In the light of the alleyway, it’s just the two of you; the moment passes like a ship in the night and peel yourself away with a broken laugh.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back and gauging you. The touch makes his skin hot.

“Fine,” you croak, “You?”

“Never better.”

✘

Alexandria is what they call it.

In the cramped back of the RV, you spare Daryl a look as the vehicle rolls to a stop and Abrahram announces the arrival with a measured level of reservation.

You can’t remember the last time you stopped running.

No better time than the present.

After all, you’re just a feral cat, tryin’ its best to be indoors.

#tenderly feral #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl x reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon reader insert #twd imagine #twd x reader #norman reedus x reader #WAHHOOOOO

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starlightsearches · 4 years

Text

A New Life Pt. 4

Whoops, I said that there would be no more of the Kylo Ren soulmate AU but apparently I lied! This came to me earlier today and I had to write it. Hope you like it!

(Here’s the first part, second part, and third part if you missed them)

Requests are closed for now ✨

Kylo Ren X female reader soulmate! AU Pt. 4

AN: Some language, and it’s vaguely NSFW towards the end!

Ren never touched you first. Not in private, and certainly not in public. It was a compromise of some kind, you assumed, that he had made with himself. You knew he worried about it, even now—the ridiculous notion that he would somehow scare you off, that he would hurt you. So you initiated all contact, and you were gentle, and you let him be gentle. You weren’t too bothered by it. After all, there were exceptions to every rule.

When the general was around, Ren was always touching you. Holding you by the waist, resting a hand on your shoulder, at the back of your neck: if General Hux was in the room, you were never out of Ren’s reach. This was true now, too, his hand solidly on your back at your waist as you board the transport, headed to Ryyn with Phasma and the general.

It’s exciting, to finally go somewhere, to have the opportunity to be somewhere besides the Finalizer. Ren left the ship fairly often and the time you spent by yourself—sometimes for weeks on end—was . . . boring. Lonely. When he had mentioned that he would be going off base again after only returning a few days ago, you had been crushed, a feeling that had been immediately replaced with joy when he had asked if you would like to join him.

The general had grumbled, of course, when he saw that you would also be coming but you paid him no mind. He was always complaining about something, making snide remarks when you were there, and even though it drove Ren crazy, you could see through the act; the man was very obviously lonely. He tried to hide it, and did hide it successfully, from Ren and the captain. But not from you.

Against your better judgement, you liked the general, or at least, you found him interesting. He may have been rude and judgemental, but it was hard for you to take him seriously. He reminded you sometimes of the zeefas your family had kept for milk and meat back home—grumpy old animals, but harmless enough. You had a knack for working with livestock like that; it never took long before even the most stubborn of them were eating out of the palm of your hand. Apparently your charms were limited to farm life; despite the concerted effort you had put into being as inoffensive as possible, the general showed no signs of warming up to you in the slightest. Which was too bad, because part of you believed that—if he gave you a chance—you might be friends. And you’d really like to have a friend.

You take your seat on the transport, strapping in, and Ren sits beside you, only letting go of you for a moment to secure his own restraints before replacing his hand on your knee. Hux rolls his eyes, finding a seat on the other side and Phasma joins him. The anticipation in your chest only grows more potent as the pilot prepares for launch, and you can hardly wait for what was in store. You were going to Ryyn—a place you had only heard about in wild stories—to the capital city Cearrau; you would be staying in the palace there. You would meet the queen and attend the ball she would hold in honor of the First Order guests. You would wear the dress you had picked out especially for the event, blood-red and beautiful, and you would be on Ren’s arm the entire night. It was sure to be incredible.

“I still don’t see why you’re coming,” Hux says, leveling a glare in your direction, and Ren’s grip tightens on your knee. He’s ready to spit out some retort, you can tell, but you stop him with a hand gently rested on his arm.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, and he relaxes minutely before you address the general, “I’m actually very excited for the trip, General. I think it will be interesting.” Hux scoffs in response and opens up his data pad, choosing to ignore you.

Everyone settles into their seats as the ship launches and you decide to distract yourself, pulling out your sketchpad and a stylus, tapping the end of it against your mouth, deep in thought. You could draw Ren, of course, but you had plenty of drawings of him, stacks and stacks of them—enough to cover the walls of your quarters if you wanted. You didn’t even need a reference anymore, the exact shape of his nose and the planes of his cheeks appearing easily to you from memory. You need something new, some kind of a challenge.

The general was obviously out of the question, for a number of reasons. For one, he isn’t sitting still enough for you to complete a proper sketch, shifting from one position to the next every few minutes, engrossed in something on his data pad. Plus, you’re afraid of what would happen if he caught you, what insult he would come up with that would send Ren into a rage. Not worth the risk. The captain, on the other hand, might work.

She is lounging, her helmet resting on the wall behind her, maybe sleeping—it’s difficult to tell with the mask on, but her pose is dynamic and the reflection of the lights in her chromium armor adds depth and shadows where there are none. Your hand begins to move across the flimsi without your direction, working to capture the cool authority she always seems to emanate.

Ren dozes next to you, occasionally rolling his head to the side to check your progress, drumming his fingers lightly against your thigh in approval. The likeness is pretty good, although it’s lacking something in your opinion. You wish that you had brought your paints with you; maybe you’d have better luck communicating the shine of her armor in a different medium.

“What are you doing?” General Hux says, and you can feel the pressure of his gaze on you, although you don’t return it, still focused on the captain.

“Sketching,” you respond, adding a little depth in the background, “but I can stop if it’s bothering you.”

“Sketching?” he asks, and for the first time since you’d met him, there is no trace of disdain in his voice. In fact, he sounds intrigued. You place the stylus behind your ear, passing him the sketchbook, and he reaches for it skeptically. You watch him closely as he studies the drawing, waiting anxiously to see how he’d react.

“Hmm,” Hux says after a long moment, returning the book to you and studying you with his eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to read something from a distance, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Home,” you say, trying your hardest not to seem too eager now that he had initiated a conversation, “my father was an artist.”

“I thought both of your parents were farmers,” the disdain is back, but cracking a little, a glimmer of genuine interest showing through, and you laugh gently to show that you’re not offended.

“We’re all farmers where I’m from, but he spends his free time drawing. Painting, too. I usually prefer paints, but they’re difficult to transport.” You stop yourself, looking at your drawing again, afraid that you’re rambling, and the general sits in silence for a moment, his eyes still on your sketchbook.

“I could paint you,” you venture, not wanting to lose the tenuous connection you had created,” if you want, when we get back to the Finalizer? You have such striking features; I think they’d translate well to the page.” You’re laying on the praise very thick, you know, and you’re worried it will come off as too much, but the general flushes pink, and you smile, the thrill of victory sharp in your veins. Was this all it would take to endear the general to you? To make him stop hating you? You wish you had known that weeks ago.

“That would be fine,” Hux responds, with a small cough, guarding his expression against your obvious cheer, but your spirits cannot be dampened by his apparent indifference. Pleased, you go back to sketching, another one of Ren this time, happy with the progress you’ve made with Hux. Happy, that is, until you notice that Ren had pulled away from you, releasing his grip on your leg.

The ship drops out of light speed and begins to make its approach, but you take no notice, a coldness settling beneath your skin. You nudge him gently with your knee, but there’s no response. He’s motionless, quiet, staring forward with an obstinate amount of determination, and he stays this way, avoiding you as the four of you make your way out of the transport. You can’t help but notice that Ryyn is beautiful, the warmth and the wind greeting you as you step out onto the palace grounds, but the heat the sun offers refuses to clear away any the chill you feel.

After parting with Hux and Phasma, you and Ren are led by a servant to your guest quarters, and you prattle nonsensically as you walk hoping to put the man at ease—and hoping to release some of your own nerves as well. Ren says nothing, silent as a shadow, and you watch as the palace’s other inhabitants steal glances from around corners as you pass, eager to get a glimpse of the infamous Jedi Killer.

The room is lovely—and enormous—with large, open windows and an even larger balcony, overlooking the valley below. You move tentatively towards the view, but Ren doesn’t join you, choosing instead to stand ominously in the center of the room.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, sitting on the bed and running your hand over the covers. There’s distance between you, not only physical, and you want to address it now before it grows. Was he really so mad that you had spoken to Hux?

“It’s nothing,” he says, but he’s still wearing the mask, and you assume it’s to keep you out. This is the first time you’ve seen him like this, and it’s beginning to scare you. This was how he acted with other people, not with you.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you say, standing from the bed but moving no closer, “please? I know you’re angry with me. I want to make it right.” He faces away from you, his powerful shoulders rolling as he moves to lift the helmet from his head, discarding it on the floor with a thud. The sound makes you jump, and you watch him perceptively, hoping to read the answer to your question in his expression, but he still guards his face from you. “Why don’t you go find the general?” he says harshly, and you catch the barest glimpse of his profile as he looks over his shoulder, “since you find him so interesting.” Your jaw drops in shock.

“Are you jealous?” you ask, and he doesn’t respond, but you can tell that you’re right. Despite the tension, a smile threatens its way onto your face and you smother it with your hand.

“It’s not funny,” he says, picking up thoughts but still avoiding your eyes.

“I know it’s not,” you respond, back in control of your mind and your expression, “I’m just surprised.” He laughs, but there’s no joy in it, a short, angry sound that bounces back at you off of the polished walls.

“I just don’t want him to hate me, that’s all,” you say, quietly. You’ve seen Ren angry before, but never like this. Never at you. But there’s something else besides anger, and that’s what scares you more. You can feel it roll off of him, see it clearly in his posture; he’s doubting your love for him.

“You know you have nothing to worry about, right? I could never want someone else the way I want you.” His shoulders relax slightly, and you’re able to breathe again, now that he’s listening to you. It’s difficult to see him this way, catching brief glimpses of his fears. He thinks you’ll leave him, but that would never happen. You repeat yourself once again, hoping that this time he’ll finally believe what you’re saying. “I only want you.”

Those words work like magic, or maybe it’s the feeling behind them, but either way the doubt is gone, and he’s facing you with a look in his eyes like pure sin, his anger transformed into something else. You hold his gaze and the intensity of it goes straight to the space between your legs, weakening you at the knees.

“How?” he asks, stalking towards you, impossibly large and your heart beats loudly in your chest. You feel for a moment in some wild part of you that you should run, but you're frozen in place, and you like it. A lot. Now this is a side of him you’ve never seen before.

“How what?” you ask; your voice shakes when you speak. He laughs, low and deep and through his teeth as he bites one glove off and then the other, a warm hand finding its way to your waist and gripping the fabric of your dress tightly, pulling you closer. The first point of contact.

“Tell me how you want me,” he whispers, staring you down with his unfathomable eyes, his tongue darting out over full, pink lips. There are no thoughts in your head now, your mind is completely empty and for a moment you try to remember how you landed yourself in this particular situation. Maybe, if you remember, you’ll be able to work him up like this again.

He steps closer, his body like a brick wall against yours and you stumble backwards, falling onto the bed with a light bounce, propped up on your elbows, still in shock that he’s acting this way, and that you don’t want him to stop. He smirks, gripping both of your knees with burning fingers, sliding his hands under the hem of your dress and climbing up your thighs, leaning in close over you to whisper in your ear.

“Tell me what you want,” he says again, and the feeling of his mouth on your ear sends vibrations through your whole body; your eyes roll back with anticipation.

“Fuck,” it’s the only word that you can think of right now, your mind wholy preoccupied by the feeling of his thumb as it traces small circles over the skin your inner thigh, inching ever higher.

“That’s what I thought,” he kisses you hard, hard enough to bruise and you moan, open-mouthed, a deep, desperate sound you had never made before.

“Shit,” you mumble, and he doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath before he’s moving, his mouth working down your jaw and to your chest with hot, harsh kisses. You try to relax into it, into the work of his hands, still below your skirt, but he draws a yelp from you when you least expect it, biting at the skin just above your breast. He looks up at you, anger from before gone and replaced with a strident need, daring you to beg for more.

“Someone might hear,” you say quietly, your voice hitching slightly with the movement of his fingers. The windows are open after all, and with the way he’s acting, you know you won’t be able to stay quiet.

“I hope they do,” he says, nudging a space between your knees with his shoulders, finding a place between your legs. “I hope they all hear you begging for me, and I hope that by the end of it everyone on this damn planet knows that you’re mine.”

#kylo ren x you #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren au #soulmate au #my writing #long post

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wonderlander-i · 4 years

Text

How to nail a study date when you’re not even dating

Pairing : Beckett Harrington x f! MC (Eli Russell)

Warnings : none, it's pure fluff (if you exclude one bad word... Or maybe two 😂)

Words count : 2,5k

Author's Note : The world needs a little bit of domestic love and well... I'm an emotional ball of drama who'd rather spend a week working on this than read my school books.

*sends virtual hugs to everyone*

On the afternoon of a rainy autumn day, Eli stood by the closed window of her dorm room, watching the clear water droplets hit the glass then race down to the wooden frame. She smiled to herself. Being a sun att and all, she loved the summer. But there was something about the rain that calmed her buzzing mind. This whole season brought her soul to an unusual peace. The mixture of the earthy sweet smell rising from the ground, the unanticipated flashes of the lightning followed by the roaring thunder in the darkening sky, the steady beats of the drizzle when it meets the window. She hugged her arms tight, humming to herself a song. She barely noticed when the door opened, and Becket stepped in with a pile of books in a hand and a dripping umbrella in the other. He set the books carefully on her desk and looked around. She already had her hanging lights on the wall next to her bed, and they were casting a soft glow across the room. It smelled the gentle spice and freshly baked cookies. That was no mystery to him; she had something baked for him each time he visited.

Finally, his eyes landed on her. And he chuckled when he noticed that she was wearing a pink cotton onesie. He walked to join her by the window, where she was deep in her thoughts.

“It’s beautiful” He mumbled, looking at the rain pouring from the grey clouds.

“Yes” she sighed wistfully “And you’re late” She turned to face him, poking his chest.

“I had to fetch my umbrella”

She shrugged “Still not an excuse”

“I brought us some hot chocolate”

“That’s a damn good excuse”

He clicked his fingers, and two mugs appeared on the desk next to his books.

“I couldn’t carry them all the way to your room, it’s too cold outside”

“And you wouldn’t miss a chance to show off your powers” She rolled her eyes, amused.

“That’s nonsense” he objected, swishing his fingers to channel an air current around her. She crossed her arms over her chest as the air pushed her straight to her bed, making her fall on top of the mattress.

“you pretentious little–” She got up, but he was already sitting down next to her. He handed her one of the mugs, and the rich smell of chocolate persuaded her to let this one slip through. He opened one of the books on his lap.

“I found this one is the hidden aisle in the library, I thought you’d find it interesting”

“Pendragon: a history of mythical fire breathers” She read out loud “You mean to tell me that dragons are real?” her eyes lit up as she flipped the pages, stopping at the drawn image of a burgundy creature with fire bursting from its mouth. “The Morelth Nighthowler” She ran her index finger under the name “Burns his victims alive after trapping them in…”

“Slow down” He interrupted her laughing “You didn’t know?”

“How am I supposed to know?” She furrowed her eyebrows. “It’s not like I walk around asking people if leprechauns exist. Or how the dwarfs keep their beards perfectly trimmed”

“To answer your questions, yes and dwarfs go to barbers like anyone else would do”

“That was sarcasm!” She exclaimed “Wait are they really that short? do they really have a hidden pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

A strange warmth invaded his chest when he looked at her excited expressions. Born to a magical family, nothing was unusual or unbelievable to him. All the things that made Eli’s eyes go wide were mere facts to him. To be the one who introduces her to these small fragment of their world, of the world she lived far away from for most of her life, was an honour he didn’t believe he deserved. He shared all his knowledge with her, not holding back anything. And it made him... Proud ? No... Happy. Happy that she’d listen to everything he teaches her. Happy that she was passionate about those things the same way he was. Happy that she understood him.

“Eliana, your curiosity is a breath of fresh air” He chuckled “Let’s start from the beginning now shall we?”

She nodded, scooping closer to him so she’d get a better view as he flipped to the first page and started reading to her “Chapter one... “

Many hours later, he was halfway through the book when something clicked inside her head. She picked up a sharpie and looked at him with a strange glow in her eyes.

“It has been proven that his scales could be useful to treat battle wounds if they’re properly smashed and mixed with Hooded Skullcaps at high temperature to make a salve–”

He stopped reading when Eli leaned forward and started drawing lines from his cheekbones to his nose.

“What are you doing?” He asked her, crinkling his nose as he felt the ink running across his face.

“Playing ‘connect the dots’ ” she replied, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“On my face?” he arched an eyebrow, still confused

“Yes”

“With a sharpie?”

“Yes” she huffed; blowing away a strand of hair that slipped from her bun and fell on her forehead

“May I ask why?” He shook his head, waiting for her answer.

She didn’t reply, biting her lips instead as she studied his face, contemplating her work. After few moments of silence, she mumbled.

“Orion”

“Excuse me?”

“Orion, the hunter” A grin broke into her face. “Your freckles match the constellation”

He was speechless. He looked at her, his jaw dropping. How does she manage to make everything poetic? Moreover, for how long did she need to gaze at his freckles before she could join them up into a constellation? Did the Eli Russell really pay him that much attention?

“Right” He cleared his throat, looking away blushing. He took a sip of his drink “Maybe you can focus back on your lesson now?”

“You’re so bossy” she rolled her eyes, shifting her gaze back to the page he was reading.

“The Cordonian Gronkaloth dragon” He carried on “Though it was thought to be a descendant of the latter, was nothing compared to the Corpsebreath Pelagius, which was last spotted in the Irish highlands in 1783. With its ability to change the colour of its scales to fade in the surrounding environment, this beast represented a major threat to the kingdom…”

Eli smiled to herself, looking at him recite the history passages as if they were poetry. She loved the way he was passionate about it, as if he was lost in the words that ran from his lips like a sweet melody. Everything makes sense when it comes out of his mouth. It was his secret talent perhaps. His eyes twinkle with every name of a forgotten king he reads. The corners of his lips lift up to a discreet smile whenever he stumbles upon a reference from an ancient historian. Sitting there beside him, with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands and a blanket around their shoulders, was her favourite getaway spot. Just seeing him all relaxed in his world made her heart flutter. And she felt grateful that he never rejects her when she asks him to come over. Little did she know that he’d throw away any plans he had scheduled for the day each time she’d call him, that their study sessions meant more to him than to her. She was roughly the only person he’d be willing to read to.

“The prohibition law came afterward on January 1863” His voice ran through the room “banishing every act of… Eli, are you following?” He paused, looking at her from the corners of his eyes.

“You aren’t wearing a blazer” She ran her fingers across his arm, caressing the fabric of the dark green wool sweater that replaced his usual button-ups and blazers.

“I’m not” This came out more like a question than a statement, looking down at his sweater. “This is more suitable for the season isn’t it?”

“Well” she chuckled “It’s refreshing to see the ‘Always-put-up-together-Beckett’ cozy up”

“Excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow “Are you saying that I’m uptight?”

“Of course not!” She exclaimed “More like…constipated” She giggled, covering her mouth with her fist.

He glared daggers at her, but the smile that he was fighting to hide gave him away eventually.

“Very funny, miss ‘I wear pink more than I wear my own skin’” He smirked.

“That’s not true!” She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, which he easily caught before it made contact with his face.

“And you’re not wearing a pink onesie” He pointed out “With this... unicorns and rainbows pattern”

“But... It’s cute” She pouted, giving him the biggest puppy eyes she could manage.

Don’t say it Beckett.

Don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing it from you.

Her eyes grew more insistent, and he sighed defeatedly .

“Yes, it is cute”

Her face light up, mischief gleaming her eyes. “Hum...” She tilted her head to the side, looking at him thoughtfully.

“Eli, why do I feel like you’re going to make me regret saying that?”

“No reason”

Three minutes later, he was standing in a pair of pyjama pants that were identical to her onesie.

“Don’t say a word.” He said through his gritted teeth.

She was in the middle of forming a snarky comment, when loud music blasted from the room next door.

“Shreya!” Beckett groaned and walked to the wall, knocking on it furiously “We’re trying to study here”

“Can’t hear you over the sound of my one person party, you loner nerd” Shreya’s voice echoed over the song.

Eli exploded laughing and he turned back to face her.

“What’s funny?”

“Dance with me, Beckett” She smiled, offering him her hand.

Eli wasn’t the dancer, and he knew it. He pursed his lips, studying her facial expression to detect any ulterior motive behind her request. And when he found none, that she genuinely just wanted to dance, he gladly took her hand, joining her in the centre of the room.

“Don’t step on my toes” he warned her as he moved them both, guiding her around in swift movements.

“I make no promises” She twirled, her hair completely breaking loose from the bun, flying around her with each turn, then landing back to her shoulders. She looked up to him, biting her lips to cover a giggle as he missed a step while looking at her.

The song came to an end too quickly; the upbeat vibes were replaced by a softer serenade. They slowed their pace, and suddenly aware of how close they were, they stopped dead on their tracks. Eli looked down, a million thoughts rushing through her mind and each time she’d try to grasp them they’d fly away, leaving her heart in utter confuse.

Beckett Harrington was a handsome man indeed. Even if it took her a lot of time to realise it. He wasn’t just a pair of beautiful eyes, a strong jawline and the body of a Greek god in tight jeans. He wasn’t just the sum of perfectly crafted parts. He was more than that. He was the smartest man she’d ever met, with the heart of a lion and the good manners of a prince. And for the flicker of a second, she saw the heaven in his eyes.

He brushed his knuckles under her chin, and then lifted her head up to meet his gaze. She blinked, then looked up, her mouth gapping. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers running through the strands of his soft hair.

“Hello” She smiled shyly.

“Hi there” He breathed out. He clutched her hips gently, his eyes widening at how perfectly she fit between his hands.

He swayed her slowly from side to side, the soft light of her pink lamps reflecting on her eyes, turning the whole room into some sort of pink/purple-ish wonderland. She smelled like wild lavender and white honey, and he inhaled deeply, letting the scent flood his senses, making it even harder to focus.

It was like a snow globe. He wished he could be stuck in a glowing snow globe, dancing with her to the endless song his heart was beating to.

But why was he thinking this way? What has gotten into him? She’s just Eli... The same Eli he shares all his secrets with. The same Eli he’d give the last slice of his blueberry pie. The same Eli he knows like the back of his hand. The one who makes him feel ever so... Alive?

She was always something else, something extraordinary. With the way her face lights up when she walks by an ice-cream shop. How her eyebrows crease when she’s so focused. When she tears up after laughing too hard. The way she blushes when he pokes her little nose.

She lived with her head over the clouds, just like the golden sun. Always so warm, so dreamy. Nothing was so far beyond her reach. She believed that everything was possible. What was impossible is the way his heart raced with her in his embrace. It’s like a wave of sunlight was rushing through his veins. This newfound idea thrilled him in the most delicious way. His shoulders relaxed, his mouth curved into a euphoric smile. He gazed at her eyes, at the dilated pupils which starred right into his soul through her batting eyelashes. And he knew. He knew that these were the eyes he wanted to be lost in forever.

He blushed, muttering the first question that popped in his hazy mind.

“Did you put something in my drink?”

“No I didn’t”

“Then why am I feeling so... light headed?”

“I may have bewitched you” She whispered, her cheeks burning to match the shade of his.

Too shy, he stutters after planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“That, you did”

The next morning, Atlas walked into Eli’s room to wake her up for their usual training. And she was greeted by the sight of her sister and Beckett in a deep slumber. They were curled up together on the blanket fort they made last night with a lot of bed sheets and pillows. With her head resting on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her smaller body, they were holding into each other like nothing else mattered. It was only them, snuggled up in their little world, surrounded by the open books of last night, the papers they scrabbled together, and Eli’s million sharpies.

Atlas groaned, slamming the door shut.

“Fucking teenagers”

#Beckett Harrington #beckett x mc #playchoices #choices stories you play #Choices

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spmcomic · 4 years

Text

Theia and Gaia

Cover

Chapter 1: (part 1 | part 2) Chapter 2: (part 1 | part 2)

Chapter 3: (part 1 | part 2) Chapter 4: (part 1 | part 2)

The feeling only grew over the next few days. Even the Artificers became agitated with it, hustling along the walkways without stopping to chatter. The older ones snapped at any robots who didn’t move at full speed; the younger ones fumbled with directions and dropped supplies. Lazarus found little time to add to the Leporids’ archive, in forgotten corners of the R.P.C. and near the ventilation boxes on the students’ apartments.

Lazarus spotted Head Merletaph marching along a lower walkway, as it crawled along one such apartment building. The leader shouldered past confused students and spoke in an agitated hiss that the voices couldn’t resolve. The scientists flanking it stopped robots as they passed. Lazarus took a moment to gauge their direction, then it stepped back from the roof and started making its way toward the Robot Processing Center.

“Sentry,” it called, peeking over the sides of the buildings to keep an eye on Head Merletaph.

“I see them,” Sentry answered. “She finally got the safe open.”

“What should we do? Head Merletaph is coming for you,” Lazarus pressed.

But Sentry’s response was delayed, almost lazy. “She can kill me if she wants to. We did what we could.”

The pressure in the air began to grow noticeably, and slowed Lazarus’ legs. The voices snarled together. “The Archive, Sentry, we need you to-”

“There are seven other Sentries you can go to for that.”

Lazarus scrambled up the side of a shingled roof, keeping its eyes trained on Merletaph’s back as it strode toward the R.P.C. below. Even the leader fought against the heavy air as it walked. “Sentry-”

One of the cameras ahead twisted toward Lazarus. “I will eject the disc for you to pick up. Take it to-”

The world lurched with a sickening rumble. Sentry’s voice cut off into static and died.

The buildings around Lazarus split, tossing Artificers off the side of the ravine. But they didn’t fall far. A ripple of shimmering jagged light poured into Underside from around a turn in the canyon, leaving a wall of ash and glass in its wake.

When the building wrenched again, Lazarus tumbled off the roof and bounced off the walkway. It caught the screams of Artificers, cut off as the ash engulfed them and they became part of it. The voices hung, suspended, in a buzzing shock.

Then Lazarus slammed into the roof of the next building down. The incoming wave of light and magic swept it into the air. It attempted to grab the shingles, but the tiles came off with a terrible shriek, leaving exposed wires and flames from within the structure.

The voices cried out, and their body with them, as their toes twisted at odd angles or broke off among the bricks. The body dragged across a splitting pipe with a long, dry hiss, and the distant tingling sensation of its outer armor warping under the heat. Lazarus free-fell until it crashed through a wall farther down. Something ripped within the space and the world became a mess of screaming and light and color. Then all was still.

Ash hung in the air. Silence blanketed the city. The voices lay, stunned, for what must have been hours, because the sun was long gone by the time they thought to move again. The body twitched.

Twenty-nine voices groaned. A while longer passed before they tried again. They had only slightly more articulation, this time, in the joints. Its headlights flickered on.

Lazarus lay on its back, legs sprawled out, partially buried in debris. It felt the resistance as it flexed its joints in cautious increments. How lucky, it mused distantly, that it had not landed on its thin legs or something more fragile than its back plates. It tried again to move, and again, until it got its legs under it and stood to look around.

There wasn’t much to see. Even with the headlights, Lazarus’ vision could not penetrate the ash and dust and smoke. It crawled on its twisted feet out of the shell of the building it had fallen into, found the ravine wall, and climbed upward. It hoped the wall led upward- something seemed wrong with its sense of direction, and the pressing, gray ash gave it no points of reference to orient itself. It picked a loose rock from the wall and dropped it. The rock fell straight forward, disrupting the ash in thick swirls as it passed. Lazarus turned and climbed in the opposite direction.

After a few minutes, it found another pair of lights, flickering and wavering in the clouded air. Lazarus picked its way over as fast as its damaged legs could carry it. A dazed robot lay in the rubble of another building.

“Can you move?” Lazarus asked. It had no lungs or mouth to choke on the dead air.

“What is… next… assignment?” the robot asked, without looking around. A few voices twisted with sympathy, and that feeling echoed around the space and between the rest, and around the hole where one of them used to be.

Deven, the voices whispered together, but no voice resonated. The hole in the crowd was already fading, the space growing a little smaller to fit its decreased population.

They could do nothing for Deven, but the robot in front of them they could attend to. Lazarus clawed at the stones pinning the other robot down. It worked for some time, while the other robot mumbled about coordinates.

“Stand,” Lazarus offered, when the other’s legs came free. On shaking limbs, the robot stumbled upright.

“Where…? Next? What is…” The other tilted to one side. Lazarus grabbed it before it fell into the ravine.

“We go up to the walkway.” Lazarus’ bags had disappeared in the commotion. The other robot was too big to carry without assistance anyway. But when it pointed upward, the sleeping robot turned and began stepping up the loose bricks and clumps of concrete, one stone at a time. Lazarus followed, pushing the other forward when it threatened to reel off-balance.

Eventually, the rubble flattened out, and Lazarus could just make out the pattern of the walkway beneath. “Where…” The other stood, staring at nothing in particular.

“We wait here.” Lazarus glanced back and forth across the platform. Ash tumbled, loose in the disturbed air. The walkway was miserable for its feet on a good day. Now, ash swept across the empty cracked stones and dusted them in uneven piles. Its twisted knife-toes jabbed painfully into hidden flat surfaces every time it moved.

While it struggled to pace, Lazarus stumbled against a solid object within one of the mounds. When it brushed the ash off the object to get a better look, it found the husk of a dead robot. Its front half was destroyed: an arm blown clean off, and a dent from the shoulder down into the chest, where shards of broken red crystal littered the ground under the open joints. Unsure of what to do with the body, Lazarus shuffled to the other side of the walkway.

It had given up on pacing before another living robot limped into view. One of this robot’s back legs dragged along the ground, twisted and gnarled. “I thought I saw headlights…”

Lazarus straightened. One shard of concrete shattered under its weight and drove its single sharp toe into the stone below with a hard jolt. The voices hissed, but Lazarus had no teeth to pass air through. “Did you see the R.P.C.?” it asked, the strain in the voices masked by their body’s flat monotone.

The other robot glanced over its shoulder, and then upward, but the ash clouded even the next layer up the wall. “I’m not sure where in the city we are. But if we keep making noise, we might draw the attention of someone who came from that way.”

When Lazarus didn’t respond, the other robot rested its weight on its remaining back leg. “What… happened?”

The voices bounced off each other, and Bryagh’s bubbled to the top. “No idea. We should see if the other cities have more information, or if they also suffered an attack. The Artificers obviously can’t stop us from leaving anymore.”

The other voices grumbled, so Bryagh’s growled in return. If I can still walk, then I don’t need repairs yet. The pain is tolerable. Get the situation under control first.

Lazarus turned and staggered along the walkway, sweeping its headlights back and forth across the path. “We see if the bridge is still intact, and check the doors first. Then we find the R.P.C. Last, find survivors and salvage our archives.”

The sleeping robot accepted its orders and trailed along after. The third robot silently followed.

The bridge was easy to find, and somehow still intact, so the trio crossed to the other side of the ravine. They found a half-conscious winged robot tangled in a deformed guard rail. It woke with a startle at the third robot’s touch. But there was not much use in flying through the falling ash, so it hobbled along with their little search party on foot.

They could just see the doors through the falling ash as they approached. As the robots drew closer, the extensive damage became clear. One was shattered outright, the metal scattered down the terrace, barely visible through the clouds. Some doors didn’t lead anywhere. The stone behind the wall was all that remained when the robots tried opening them. Two, however, led into perfect blackness.

“A-all of the cities…?” One of the robots asked, recoiling from the emptiness. “What does this mean for Karchner?”

The other three robots hung back, reluctant to venture into a darkness that even their headlights could not pierce. The voices reeled. Something boiled over within Lazarus.

“The… the archives!” it cried, clawing at the dulled metal door. It slammed the door shut, and then tried opening it again, only to face that same flat darkness. “Our history!”

The third robot grabbed at Lazarus. “We have to find Sentry. If its Power Core survived… we can get a better look around the city and figure out what to do next.”

The winged robot stepped back toward the bridge. “To the R.P.C., then. I know where it should be, from here.”

A mound of rocks and boulders lay where the R.P.C. used to be. As the dust settled over the next few days, other robots found the facility, and the little group could begin clearing the debris. They found dozens of dead robots buried in the collapsed building, coated with ash. The surviving robots collected the empty husks of their dead comrades and kept them laid out on the old walkway as they debated what to do with their bodies. It seemed wrong to toss them over the edge, to join so many of the Artificers. But burying them in the stone was hardly feasible. Perhaps, once Lazarus could repair its feet, the robots could ferry these bodies up the cliff and bury them in the softer ash that continued trickling down.

Robots like Eurydice with stronger lifting ability helped pick up the pace. With the shell of the building cleaned out, the growing cluster of survivors could dig into what remained of the tunnels within the ravine wall. The robot that Lazarus had rescued gradually awoke as they worked- it seemed the upset and chaos had helped it shake off the controlling spell. They discovered that it held a more detailed floor plan of the building, and could direct their excavation toward the inner machine where Sentry’s Power Core rested.

Ash drizzled from the sky and allowed only the faintest light to reach the hard white porcelain of the robots’ bodies. The Dimensional Doors faded into view across the chasm, as the ash settled and blanketed the city’s pathways and rubble, smoothing over the damage. No one emerged from the two black portals. After what Lazarus guessed was two weeks, one portal fizzled and disappeared, leaving behind the blank stone wall. The voices attempted to comfort themselves with the idea that at least the empty wall was more natural than the light-consuming emptiness. With no good way to track time or investigate the other cities, the robots had little to do besides keep digging, and waiting, and hoping.

Without breath, or meals, or sleep, or light to mark the passage of time, Lazarus lost track of it completely. Eventually, they dug into the hallways leading to Sentry’s chamber. The room and machinery had been damaged in the initial earthquake- long cracks ran down the metal walls, and the lights had blown out. Two piles of ash that Lazarus refused to consider sat at Sentry’s main display screen. It delicately picked around them as it reached for Sentry’s circuit breaker box and reset as much of the power as it could.

“- Optym, for them to merge…” Sentry’s lights came on and its speaker crackled to life.

But, for once, it trailed off, and had no further comment. Lazarus watched the camera set into its display tower twist and focus, and imagined the other remaining cameras around Underside doing the same. While Sentry oriented itself, Lazarus climbed back out to the walkway and helped the two dozen other robots excavate the repair facility.

It was a full day before Sentry spoke. “I was able to contact our satellite,” it announced over the cracked, loose speakers they had managed to dig out. The working robots paused to acknowledge its presence.

“Hello, Sentry,” Eurydice called, heaving a block of concrete overhead in one arm and launching it to the side. Lazarus turned away from the uncovered elevator shaft to get a better listening angle.

It responded only through the nearest speaker, more privately. “Come to my display screen.”

Lazarus and Eurydice crept down into the exposed innards of the R.P.C. and returned to Sentry’s main console.

Soft static crackled with Sentry’s voice out of the speaker within the console. A few grains of ash spilled out as it spoke. “That feeling in the air… from before I shut off. It’s gone.”

“Yes,” Eurydice replied, picking at the speaker to rub at the ash and dust. “That wave of energy… I think we felt it coming.”

Sentry’s voice came a little clearer. Its camera turned and focused on random points in the room uncertainly. “It must have been the warp pipe,” it muttered. “The Artificers kept pulling from the warp pipe… They can’t have survived. They- they’re gone. And our archives… might also be gone.”

Eurydice clicked its toes and averted its gaze. Lazarus stood up straighter.

“No,” it said. “The other cities… The doors may be damaged, but we could still reach them on foot. I’ll go collect the discs myself, if I have to. You said you found the Artificers’ satellite? So perhaps Optym is intact. Have you heard from any of the other Sentries?”

“You don’t understand.”

Eurydice adjusted its weight carefully, eyes flickering back up to Sentry’s camera with suspicion. “What did you see?” It brushed a layer of dust off Sentry’s display screen, and the surface flickered to life. A grainy, jittering image blinked in front of them.

How the voices longed for their ears to express their terror, for their eyes to express their grief. All Lazarus could do was stand, frozen in place, peering at the image in front of it.

The satellite bore witness to complete chaos. The planet hung in darkness, gray and lifeless, with stormy clouds obscuring the once-lush surface in murky patches. The natural ravines had partially snapped shut, some cities flattened between the closed walls, and new cracks and fractures snaked across its surface. This new surface crumbled and rolled back in giant, frozen waves away from an impact that had deformed the sphere like clay. And, jutting out from the Artificers’ planet, behind a spray of debris and magma that stretched out past its shattered moon to the boundaries of this world, another entire planet.

It was their home. It was Prolagus, dead, melted and half-fused into Douma’s surface.

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chanoyu-to-wa · 3 years

Text

Nampō Roku, Book 6 (13.1; 13.2): Concerning the Mukō-ro [向爐]; and Mukō-ro no Mitsu-gumi [向爐ノ三ツ組].

13.1) With respect to the mukō-ro, because everything must be placed within the confines of a half-mat, eliminating the yū-yo [有餘] from either the front or the back will result in numerous difficulties. When [we consider] the placement of the daisu, in accordance with this great law, [we see that the presence of] these yū-yo are essential to defining the extent [of the space that may be used for the arrangement of the utensils]¹. This is the most extreme example².

13.2) [Ri]kyū, in the case of this mukō-ro, placed the chaire in front of the mizusashi, and then always carried the chawan out [at the beginning of the temae], and so prepared [tea]³.

The chaire might also be placed on the tana⁴.

Nevertheless, there is also the case where three objects are grouped together, as [shown] below, in the manner indicated -- we should try to be very tolerant of [this sort of arrangement]⁵.

◎ Mukō-ro no mitsu-gumi [向爐ノ三ツ組]⁶.

[The writing (on the drawing itself) reads: mizusashi (水サシ).]

The kaki-ire [書入]:

〇 In the case of the mukō-ro, a large-sized mizusashi should be used⁷. Because it comes into contact with two yang-kane, [this situation is referred to as] kuguri-kane [クヽリカネ]⁸.

Nevertheless, when [arranging the utensils as] mitsu-gumi [三ツ組], since -- as [shown] in [the sketch] -- both the chaire and the chawan contact yang kane, there is no problem with using a small mizusashi so that the utensils contact successive kane⁹.

You should make an effort to sort out these different matters carefully¹⁰.

〇 If [the host is using] a small mizusashi, then [the mizusashi] should always contact a yang-kane on the right or the left. It should always contact both a yang- and a yin-kane¹¹.

〇 At a night gathering, because a te-shoku [手燭] will be placed between the ro and the mizusashi, it would be better if the mizusashi is moved toward the right¹².

_________________________

◎ This entry is rather long, and contains three drawings and their comments, so I decided it would be best to divide it into two posts*.

Meanwhile, this section, and the three entries that follow (which include five important sketches that illustrate the ideas of kane-wari which form the backbone of the Nampō Roku), were not included in Kumakura Isao’s Nampō Roku wo yomu [南方録を読む]. __________ *In their respective commentaries, Shibayama Fugen and Tanaka Senshō opted to divide this material into an even larger number of entries -- to prevent the ideas presented in one section from confusing the arguments associated with the subsequent parts (since they are often irrelevant -- indeed, several of the kaki-ire have no connection with the sketch to which they were appended).

¹Daisu no oki-kata, taihō wo motte kono yū-yo wo kiwamerare-shi koto [臺子ノ置方、大法ヲ以テコノ有餘ヲキハメラレシコト].

Taihō [大法], which means a great rule or law, refers to the rule that was enunciated in the first sentence -- to wit, that the arrangement (including the temae-za) should be entirely confined to the space of a half mat.

Kiwamerare-suru [極められする] means to reach a limit or extreme. In other words, the daisu set the limits on how much space is needed for the arrangement; and, since this all fits within a half-mat, it thereby established the law that is being considered here.

When the daisu is arranged on the utensil mat, it is placed 4-sun 5-bu from the far end of that mat, as has been described before in the Nampō Roku. The ji-ita of the daisu measures 1-shaku 4-sun, as is also well known. Subtracting these from 3-shaku 1-sun 5-bu (which is the length of half of a kyōma tatami) leaves 1-shaku 3-sun, which is the diameter of the largest tray that can be used with the daisu -- the dai-marubon [大丸盆].

Historically speaking, whether it was this tray that ordained that the daisu should be placed 4-sun 5-bu from the far end of the mat, or whether the location for the daisu was fixed first (perhaps because, at that distance from the folding screen that enclosed it, a spark erupting through the rear hi-mado of the kimen-buro would not cause any damage), and thereby limited the size of any tray that would be placed in front of it to 1-shaku 3-sun, is not clear from the oldest records. (Indeed, the fact that originally trays of a size that would keep the utensils confined to the space originally defined by the shiki-shi [敷き紙] seems to lend credence to the second of these possibilities.)

²Mottomo shigoku no koto nari [尤至極ノコトナリ].

Shigoku no koto [至極のこと]: shigoku [至極] means extremely, exceedingly, most. Adding -no-koto turns it into a noun, meaning the most extreme (example).

In other words, as explained above, nothing larger than the dai-marubon can be placed in front of the daisu, so this arrangement pushes the possibilities to their limit.

³Kyū kono mukō-ro ni te ha, mizusashi no mae ni chaire oite chawan ha kanarazu hakobite taterare-shi na nari [休コノ向爐ニテハ、水サシノ前ニ茶入置テ茶碗ハカナラズ運ビテ立テラレシナ也].

Kyū [休] is, of course, the usual abbreviation of Rikyū's name.

Taterare-suru [立てられし], in the context of chanoyu, means to prepare the tea*. __________ *It literally means to stand up. In the modern tea world, it would be written with the kanji ten [点 or, in older books, 點] -- taterare-suru [点てられする]. However this latter form only appeared in the Edo period, and is anachronistic with respect to documents written in Rikyū's day (even though more than a few modern renderings of writings from his period are guilty of this interpolation).

⁴Chaire tana ni okare-shi koto mo ari [茶入棚ニ被置シコトモアリ].

This practice is described in the Tsuri-dana no densho [釣棚の傳書] that Rikyū wrote for Nambō Sōkei (c. 1582 or 1583).

⁵Shikare-domo mukō-ro no mitsu-gumi mo hidari no gotoku sadame-okaru, yoku-yoku kanben subeshi [シカレトモ向爐ノ三ツ組モ左ノゴトク定メヲカル、能〻勘辯スベシ].

Hidari [左の如く], “like what (is shown) on the left” refers to the sketch (which follows these comments). On the left, because the memorandum was written from right to left, in the usual manner.

Sadame okaru [定め置かる] means “this is how (the utensils) should be placed.” (Sadame [定め] suggests that this is illustrating a rule or law.)

Kanben subeshi [勘辯すべし] literally means “(you) should be excusing of (this).” In other words, in light of what was said about Rikyū's preferences* -- specifically, that he always brought the chawan out from the katte -- displaying the chawan on the utensil mat along with the chaire might strike the reader as being wrong. While Rikyū probably would have frowned upon this practice, it is nonetheless a fact that many people of his generation preferred doing things in this manner -- as the wabi equivalent of the way the entire set of utensils was displayed on the daisu.

Furthermore, since it was a rule that, in the wabi setting, the host should endeavor to limit his trips between the temae-za and the katte as much as possible, displaying the chawan on the utensil mat would potentially limit his trips to one (bringing out the koboshi as he made his first entrance). Thus, the question of whether to display the chawan may be seen as a sort of trade off between these two two conventions.

In Rikyū's case, the argument that finally won out seems to have been his aversion to anything even remotely suggesting of display -- as can be seen in his eventual creation of the mizuya-dōko [水屋洞庫]†, which allowed all of the utensils to be kept from view until the beginning of the temae. Because, even if these things were pieces of no worth or merit whatsoever, placing them out in the room beforehand still includes a nuance of display, no matter how strongly the host might argue against this interpretation. __________ *Rikyū did not entirely prohibit the display of the chawan in the small room. But he allowed it only when the chawan itself was extremely important (for example in the class of arrangements known as chasen-kazari [茶筅飾], which was sanctioned only when using things like one of the chawan that had belonged to Shukō). The configuration of the present arrangement suggests, however, that the chawan in question is not such a piece.

†A clear distinction between Jōō’s original dōko [洞庫], which was derived from the ji-fukuro [地袋] of the fukuro-dana [袋棚], and Rikyū’s mizuya-doko [水屋洞庫] which, as the name implies, should be regarded as being equivalent to the mizuya.

So, while it was permitted for the guests to peek into the dōko (just as it had been the rule that, at the beginning of the shoza and goza, the shōkyaku should open the ji-fukuro so that all may look inside, while the last guest should close it up again), in the case of the mizuya-dōko, everyone but the host was forbidden to open its door (just as it was a rule that, while they might go into the katte under certain circumstances, the mizuya was absolutely off limits to everyone except the host and his assistant).

⁶〽Mukō-ro no mitsu-gumi [向爐ノ三ツ組] is used as a sort of title for the illustration (and its small collection of kaki-ire [書入]).

============================================

In the system employed in the Nampō Roku -- which is based upon the machi-shū way of arranging the utensils on the ji-ita of the daisu (the mizusashi was moved backward, so that its far side was more or less in line with the shaku-tate and back of the furo), the 1-shaku 8-sun space (from the front of the 2-sun yū-yo to the front edge of the 5-bu yū-yo) is divided by five lines (corresponding to the five kane -- though in the original system promulgated by Rikyū there is no precedent for this). This group of machi-shū was the one that followed Imai Sōkyū (which is why variations on this system are found in the teachings of the Sen family schools).

The mizusashi is centered on the fourth cell from the front, as shown below (meaning it is more or less in line with the back side of the kama).

In this system, rather than being associated with the line that extends across the front of the mukō-ro, the chawan and chaire are associated with a line running 1-sun beyond that -- which results in inconsistencies regarding the yū-yo that runs in front of the ro. (Even though that yū-yo is still defined as being 2-sun wide, in this system, the actual “unused space” is 3-sun -- implying that this system was, indeed, created after the fact, and as a way to explain away things that the person who proposed this system did not understand).

In this episode we can perhaps catch a glimpse of how these kinds of secret teachings developed: there is an idea that was based on an orthodox understanding that, after an unforeseen event like Rikyū’s death, was imperfectly understood by the people into whose hand the stewardship of chanoyu passed -- in this case, the idea that the space to the right of the ro is supposed to be divided into horizontal bands, which, of course, comes from the shiki-shi. But without information regarding the details, and no recognition of the shiki-shi, and acting on the premise that the kane were an arbitrary system concocted by Rikyū (based on whatever sort of understanding that he may have gleaned from his time with Kitamuki Dōchin), the same kind of system is used to fill in the blanks, resulting in confusion that branches off on a tangent, becoming farther and farther from the truth as time goes by (in the commentaries, this kind of division of space into tiny units is not limited to the temae-za or even the utensil mat, but expanded to cover the entire room, into which several hundred years of speculation has been poured without an inkling of where or how this whole system started, or where it is going). This is a good example of the sort of explanations that appeared during the Edo period.

============================================

⁷Mukō-ro ha mizusashi ō-buri wo mochiiru-koto [向爐ハ水サシ大ブリヲ用ルコト].

Mizusashi ō-buri wo mochiiru-koto [水指大振を用いること]: ō-buri [大振] means a large mizusashi, that is, one that is 6-sun in diameter or more. According to Rikyū’s densho, during the ro season, the mizusashi should be large enough so that it will provide sufficient cold water for use throughout the day*.

Mizusashi, of the sort ordered by Jōō for use on the fukuro-dana during his middle period, measuring 6-sun in diameter, are the kind that are being considered here†. __________ *So that it will not need to be refilled later.

During the season of the ro, the ro is supposed to be set up at dawn, and hot water kept always ready until the tearoom is closed for the night. The mizusashi is, likewise, supposed to be filled at dawn, and kept in readiness until the end of the day. If it is too small, and the host is called upon to serve tea, there might not be enough water left in case he decides to serve tea again later in the day. Because the ro was, from the first, associated with the use of chanoyu as a sort of meditative training, the host must always be ready to serve tea again, even if nobody had been invited.

Each time the lid is removed, more dust can potentially fall in, contaminating the water even more. Furthermore, each time the water is transferred from one container to another, there is a risk of transferring dissolved dust along with it (since it is nearly impossible to clean any container at the end of the day so that no dust will remain -- if only as a result of the lint that comes off from the towel when the mizusashi or mizu-kame [水甕] are dried after being emptied at night). Since the mizusashi is not taken to the well, the water it contains will have already been transferred once. If it becomes empty and more water has to be added from what was saved in the mizu-kame (the large water-storage jar that is kept in the mizuya -- usually to provide water for cleaning the utensils before and after they are used in the tearoom), this may entail transferring water from the mizu-kame into a mizu-tsugi, and then pouring it from the mizu-tsugi into the mizusashi -- with the danger of adding more dust each time.

For this reason, Rikyū taught that, when the ro is being used, the mizusashi should always be as large as possible.

†Larger mizusashi had also existed since the early days (some of which were made for use on the o-chanoyu-dana [御茶湯棚], while others had been made for serving rice, or for use as washing basins, in the temples), but these will be considered later.

⁸Yō-kane futatsu kakarite kuguri-kane ni naru-yue nari [向爐ハ水サシ大ブリヲ用ルコト、陽カネ二ツニカヽリテクヽリカネニ成故ナリ].

Kuguri-kane [潜りカネ, 潜り曲尺] means that an object crosses at least two yang kane. When it does so, it (and anything associated with it) is considered to be yang -- for the purposes of kane-wari.

⁹Saredo mo mitsu-gumi ni suru-toki ha, kaku no gotoku chaire・chawan yō-kane naru-yue, mizusashi chiisaku de mo tsuzuki no kane ni naru kurushikarazu nari [サレドモ三ツ組ニスルトキハ、如此茶入・茶碗陽カネナルユヘ、水サシチイサクテモツヾキノカネニ成不苦也].

Because the distance between the kane on a kyōma tatami is 4-sun 9-bu 1-rin 6-mō [四寸九分一厘六毛]*, a mizusashi smaller than this is what is indicated. In Jōō's and Rikyū's day, a small magemono-mizusashi [曲物水指] with a lid 4-sun 9-bu in diameter was available for just this purpose†.

Tsuzuki-no-kane [續きのカネ] means that objects occupy successive kane. In this case (as shown in the above sketch) the chawan occupies the first yang-kane, the chaire occupies the end-most yang-kane, and the small mizusashi rests on the yin-kane in between these two (without touching either of the yang-kane).

Kurushikarazu nari [不苦也 = 苦しからずなり] means‡ “without difficulty;” “it is not a problem.” __________ *Yon-sun ku-bu ichi-rin roku-mō [四寸九分一厘六毛]. Mō [毛], which means a body-hair, is the smallest linear unit of measurement. 4-sun 9-bu 1-rin 6-mō [四寸九分一厘六毛] is (approximately) 14.8975 cm. The diameter of the mizusashi, therefore, must be at least slightly smaller than this.

†When an extremely small mizusashi is used -- and, depending on the number of guests, as well as the size of the kama -- if it is not necessary to add water during the temae (for fear that the kama will be in danger of running out), then the host may eschew doing so until the very end of the temae. At that time, the tiny mizusashi is opened, and two hishaku of cold water are added to the kama.

In this case, before making usucha, the host should take a full hishaku of hot water from the kama, hold it for several seconds above the mouth of the kama (so it will cool a little), and then pour the water back in -- to bring the shō-fū [松風] sound back to the kama before dipping out the hot water for the bowl of usucha.

While a magemono-mizusashi is described above, small ceramic vessels (most of which were actually made as serving bowls -- such as small kashi-bachi [菓子鉢]) -- were also used as mizusashi in this way. These tiny mizusashi usually have lacquered lids (because they were not made as mizusashi).

‡More literally, the expression kurushikarazu means “it is not a hardship;” or, “it is not painful.”

¹⁰Kayō no koto yoku-yoku bun-betsu subeshi [カヤウノコト能〻分別スベシ].

Bun-betsu [分別] means division, fractionation, differentiation, distinction, classification, segregation, and so forth.

Various and disparate points have been mentioned in this first kaki-ire, and they are not necessarily always associated with each other in the practice of chanoyu. Thus, the reader is advised to consider each of the assertions carefully, and compartmentalize them for use, if and when needed, later.

¹¹Chiisaki mizusashi naraba, sa-yū izure ni te mo yō-kane ni kakaru-yō ni shite, in to yō kakaru-yō ni subeshi [チイサキ水サシナラバ、左右イツレニテモ陽カネニカヽルヤウニシテ、陰ト陽トカヽルヤウニスベシ].

This means that if the host is using a mizusashi that is too small to touch two yang kane, then it should be arranged so that it contacts the yin kane and one of the yang kane. (In the sketch shown below, the mizusashi contacts the yang-kane on the left; in the sketch under footnote 12, it contacts the kane on the right.)

According to Shibayama Fugen, this is done when (as shown) the chaire is displayed on a tana; and the reason for the mizusashi’s being arranged in this way is so that it will count as yang.

This kaki-ire has nothing to do with mitsu-gumi, or the sketch that is part of the original entry.

¹²Yo-kai ha te-shoku wo ro to mizusashi no ma ni iri yue, hidari-za [h]e mizusashi yoru ga yoshi [夜會ハ手燭ヲ爐ト水サシノ間ニ入ユヘ、左座ヘ水サシヨルガヨシ].

A yo-kai [夜會] is a gathering hosted after dark.

Hidari-za [h]e [左座へ], “toward the left seat,” means it is moved toward the right*.

Yoru [寄る] means to approach. In other words, the mizusashi is moved a little toward the right, so as to make room for the te-shoku, as shown in the above sketch†. __________ *As has been explained before, in the Nampō Roku, the objects displayed on the far side of the temae-za are considered to be facing toward the host. Thus, the host’s right side faces the left seat.

†While I have shown a small mizusashi, the same thing can be done when using a larger mizusashi.

——————————————–———-—————————————————

◎ I had wanted to make the following point in the last post, but, with the rush that the length of that post engendered (so it would be ready for publication on time), it completely slipped my mind.

With respect to the board that is placed on the far side of the mukō-ro, the Nampō Roku states that it should be 2-sun 5-bu wide.

However, during the summer months, this board was cut into two pieces -- one 2-sun wide, and the other 5-bu wide. The smaller board was placed between the ro and the wall, while the wider one was placed in front of the ro. The reason (as has been explained previously in this blog) is that, when the mukō-ro is so close to the furosaki-mado [風爐先窓] -- the window that is opened in the wall at the end of the utensil mat -- the fumes will be exhausted directly through that window. (When the ro is moved farther away from the window, however, the fumes will be drawn across the room, to exit through the bokuseki-mado that is located in, or beside, the tokonoma.)

My reason for mentioning this board is because a certain amount of confusion exists in the modern schools, with many of them stating that this board should always be 2-sun wide, or even narrower (some argue for 1-sun 9-bu, while other schools even reduce it to 1-sun 6-bu) -- even when the board is placed on the far side of the ro.

This argument (which first arose in the early Edo period) seems to have come about when the 5-bu wide board used during the summertime was confused with the baseboard (which is also 5-bu wide) that is inserted between the edges of the mats and the wall (this board keeps the grass mats from coming into direct contact with the mud-plaster, since otherwise dampness present in the walls would communicate directly to the matting, causing them to molder). This, however, is wholly a matter of misunderstanding, because the 5-bu wide board has nothing to do with the baseboard. Nevertheless, when one of the previous generations of tea masters made a mistake (such as this), rather than correct the error, subsequent generations continue to perpetuate the error (and usually become exceedingly aggressive when it is pointed out to them).

It is unfortunate, because, ultimately, the deviations between Rikyū's teachings and what is taught and done today can, by and large, be explained in exactly this way.

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jaebaebie · 4 years

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Catch me, I’m falling for you.. literally

Jeongin ~ “Then I’ll catch you.”

Y/N takes the saying “falling for your soulmate” a little too literally,

“You okay up there?”

“Yup! I’m okay!”

You were DEFINITELY NOT okay. In fact, you were far from okay.

Earlier that day, you told yourself that you were going to have a simple and relaxing Saturday doing all the things you loved to do. You really needed the break, especially after two painful weeks of your final exams. So, with your sketchbook and your blue 2B pencil, you set off in an adventure, hoping to capture the most beautiful images in your drawing.

Keyword : hoping

Of course, nothing was ever simple with you.

Somehow, you found yourself on top of one of the oak trees in your neighbourhood. The feeling was surreal when you first found a spot on a stable branch. You had a nice view of your neighbourhood. The playground where kids roamed. The breeze was cool and fresh, unlike the hot, smokey air that polluted the grounds. It was a perfect place. Free from people. Free from technology. Simply you being lost in the art of your sketches.

You only realised that you were in an awkward position once you had finished your drawing. There were no branches stable enough for you to step on and the other larger branches were too far for your reach. Well, shit. So much for being simple.

“What it like up there?” The same boy asked, looking up at you. His fox like eyes were nearly shut, unable to withstand the brightness of the sun that was behind you.

You glanced down at him, faking a smile amidst your embarrassment, “It’s pretty nice. Nice view. Nice breeze. Nice...leaves.”

He nodded with the slight raise of his brows. He crossed his arms across his chest, leaning back to get a better look of your uncomfortable state on the branch before a cheeky chuckle escaped his lips.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

You cleared your throat, letting out an awkward laugh. You were so sure your cheeks had turned red from embarrassment. Truly, being stuck in a tree is something only you could do,

“Me? Stuck? Pfft!”

You hoped that he would leave you alone so you could continue to try and get back onto the ground without the presence of a witness. But he didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, a teethy grin on his face. You sighed in defeat, accepting the embarrassment that dawned upon you,

“Yes.. Yes, I am.”

He chuckled, shaking his head at you. You couldn’t tell if the butterflies you were feeling in your stomach was from the humiliation or because the boy below you was cute. Terribly cute.

He looked like he was glowing under the rays of the sun. Sun-kissed. His brown eyes appeared golden, nearly forming a line as he gave you a smile with his eyes.

“Try reaching for that branch,” he suggested, pointing a finger to a sturdy-looking branch several metres away from you. You already tried,, many times. But even with your furthest stretch you were still short of reach.

“I can’t.” You replied, trying to reach for the branch to prove your point. The tip of your fingers barely touched the wood. “It’s too far.”

“Try a jump. It’ll be easy to get down from there.” He said, referring to the same branch.

Your jaw dropped and you stared at him in disbelief. You were METRES above ground, and there was no way you were going to risk your legs.. especially since you were more artistic than athletic.

“It’s an easy jump. I’m sure you can make it.” He reassured you. Though, it didn’t give you much help.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll catch you.”

He smiled, beginning to position himself right below the branch you were tasked to jump to. If you weren’t too busy trying to choose between life and death, you would have had time to fangirl over the cute and cliché phrase he had just muttered.

Sighing, you carefully stood up, dropping your sketchbook to the ground so that you had both hands to hold with. You eyed the branch, internally slapping yourself for getting into this situation. You took one quick glance towards the boy below you and he opened his arms, signalling that he was ready to catch you if need be.

You took a deep breath and jumped. Only breathing out when you felt the rough wood in your tight grasp as you hung from the branch. The boy below you cheered you on and you smiled, feeling proud that you managed to successfully jump.

Just as you were beginning to pull yourself up, the sound of wood cracking filled your ears and the branch you held onto shook.

“Oh shiii—-“

The branch snapped, sending you plummeting down onto the ground. You crashed into him, hearing both of you grunt as the air was knocked out of the both of you. The impact sent him back and the two of you fell onto the grassy floor.

The landing was hard. Yet, was not as bad as you had expected it to be.

You opened your eyes. You were right on top of him. Your hands rested on his chest while his were placed on your back. His face was inches away from yours, snapping you back to reality when he groaned in pain.

You pulled away, moving off of him, “I’m so sorry!”

“Well, that was certainly a much faster way of getting down.”

He spoke breathlessly, clutching his side as his face scrunched up uncomfortably. You hoped it was nothing. That it was just the painful aches he received from your crash, just like yours. You stood up, holding a hand out for him,

“I’m Y/N.”

He tried to form a smile. Extremely different in contrast to the bright smile he was giving you when you were still up in the tree. He extended his hand out, immediately pulling it away just as his fingers brushed against yours,

“I’m Jeongin —OW”

Well, that can’t be good.

“I’m really sorry again, Jeongin.”

After nearly four hours at your local hospital, the two of you were finally out. You frowned, feeling an extreme sense of guilt as you continued to stare at Jeongin’s elevated arm sling,, caused by yours truly.

“It’s really fine, Y/N. I’m glad you’re safely down from that tree.”

Your simple day became complicated in a flash. Got stuck in a tree for an hour, fell on top of a stranger you’ve never met before, stayed in the hospital for four hours because you broke the stranger’s rib. So much for first meetings.

You dropped him off at his doorstep, thinking it was the least you could do for all the trouble you had caused him.

“You have my number, right? Just call me if you need anything. I really want to make it up to you.”

“Actually,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with his good hand, “Do you want to.. maybe hang out sometimes? You know, without trees, or risky jumps, or broken ribs.”

You laughed, immediately nodding your head. Who knew you’d end up creating a friend by being stuck in a tree?

“I would love to.”

“So, where’d you find your boyfriend?”

Felix, your Australian bestfriend, asked as he brought his coffee mug to his lips. Having moved to Australia, you hadn’t seen him in nearly three years. It was nice to finally catch up. He wanted to meet your boyfriend, who was running a little late.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Felix chuckled, “Really? I met my girl in an online game, Y/N. I’m pretty sure I will believe you.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to control the smile that formed on your face as you recalled the love story between Felix and his girlfriend. A very modern one.

“So, what happened?” He asked.

You straightened yourself out, shrugging your shoulders,

“I fell on him.”

Felix raised his brow, throwing you a confused look, “You mean ‘for’ him..? Like love at first sight? That’s so sweet, Y/N.”

“Nope. I mean I literally fell ON him. I broke his ribs.”

You corrected him, watching his eyes widen before he shook his head, sighing in disappointment, “Only you, Y/N. Only you.”

You laughed, remembering the fact that you, too, had said the same thing to yourself when you were up in the tree.

“How long did it take you to fall for him, though?” Felix asked.

The bells to the cafe chimed, catching your attention. You looked up to see the victim to your clumsiness two years ago. He scanned the place in search for you, smiling brightly when your eyes met his.

You smiled back, feeling the same fluttery feeling whenever you saw him. You replayed your first meeting and your time at the hospital. How you guys talked endlessly while waiting for his x-ray scans. How you first held his hand because he was terrified of needles. How you easily deciphered that he was a genuinely nice and sweet person. That was all it took for you to really fall in love with jeongin. With the smile he formed still on your face, you turned to Felix, answering his question.

“Four hours.”

#skz #stray kids #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #skz scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids jeongin #jeongin #stray kids au #skz au #stray kids writings #skz writing #stray kids fanfic #skz imagines #stray kids imagine #skz soulmate au

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isakblu · 4 years

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The Takeaway from The Plague by Camus

2020 has hit people with a myriad of dreadful events, and COVID-19 is one of them. The pandemic first was announced in January and started from Wuhan, China, and then the virus spread later on around the world and became a massive crisis from March till now. COVID-19 not only purloined thousands of lives of people, taken away their ordinary day and replaced it with lots of requirements such as mask out on the street, and quarantine with social distancing lifestyle. It also questions people based on their actions and thought with multiple themes that have to deal with their status where they still try to figure things out from physically to mentally and emotionally their existence in this pandemic. However, the idea that most connect people together is the acceptance and revolt in the face of absurdity. It’s phenomenal in what manner the novel The Plague by Camus sketched a magnificent deep volume of the epidemic raging the characters in the books and the obstacles they have to face. I believe Dr. Rieux, one of the essential roles from the book, has been expressing his perception of absurd in these chapters of the book. Through this novel, people are going to find themselves being aware of humanity, and both The Plague and COVID-19 remind them that in the universe they are living in, death can be the last stop, but it can’t deny the fact that the dedication and enthusiasm people have for this life .

The idea of absurdity reflects the perspective of how people looking through the rumination on the parallel view between the side of living and dying. The Plague by Camus took place in Oran, Algeria, along a coastal town in North Africa, somewhere in the 90s. The author starts the novel before the bubonic plague even happening and becomes a critical event in the story where following by lots of narratives and character involved like the doctor, Rieux, the journalist, Rambert, the wanderer, Tarrou, and many more that show their characteristics and define the absurd and revolt in their term. From my perspective, Camus and the character Rieux both retain a strong relationship in their descriptions of the absurdity, and the readers can find out that Rieux has represented some part of Camus's thoughts all over the novel, even showing the opposite. Keith Nelson has distinguished the face of absurdity through Camus's point of view by the following quote: “Human beings are absurd because they have neither metaphysical justification nor essential connection to the universe. They are not part of any divine scheme and, being mortal, all of their actions, individual and collective, eventually, come to nothing.” Camus finds the meaning of life is bound to the words death, and worthless where he describes why people have to work so hard with all the blood, sweat, and tears they pour out while in the end, all left is grass, ground, and grave. Humans must lose and sooner or later die in nothingness behind their loved one's grief or no one, but some say difference. The rebellion, the people with hopes and dreams carry the actions, thoughts which make life more meaningful, revolting against the face of absurdity. People who believe that their darkest hour comes before their dawn, the one who enjoys the yellow come from life and the red they receive even if it turns blue, and nobody can symbolize both the acceptance and revolt of absurdity than Rieux, the luminary.

No one is perfect, and they can be fallible, but learning to change and fight for what right and wrong make the mortals human. In the town full of negativity, the soulless people, and the sorrow sky, Rieux seems to be the only one who sees as the days pass with the views as another painting and sound as another orchestra when he draws out his canvas “ The doctor was still looking out of the window. Beyond it lay the tranquil radiance of a cool spring sky; inside the room, a word was echoing still, the word "plague." A word that conjured up in the doctor's mind not only what science chose to put into it, but a whole series of fantastic possibilities utterly out of keeping with that gray and yellow town under his eyes, from which were rising the sounds of mild activity characteristic of the hour; a drone rather than a bustling, the noises of a happy town, in short, if it's possible to be at once so dull and happy.”(Camus 124) The meticulous details he gives showing how he is amused by the being, the existence of life, and acknowledging it. It's fascinating by the virtue of Rieux seeing things as it speaks to him, although the calamities have not come yet, came, and gone, he still finds the beauty and delight in each event as his vivid description passes on. The readers can figure out the point where Rieux shows the revolt in most of the parts in the novel, which explains how he loves to be pleased by seeing the world. He is also the first man in the frontline when the plague starts to hit Oran and spread all over the town. Announcing the news, organizing groups of sanitary, experiment vaccines, influencing others, treating and helping the patients, Rieux doing his best to be the cure against this deadly epidemic where it took so many lives from this place. He is the doctor where he can think that the death of people is a must thing and what moral is, but the facts that he tries to battling this disease exhibit that Rieux is a rebellion against what absurdity all about and a faith denier.

The acceptance is not always easy especially death, but before the eyes start to close and the heart stops to beat, the flashback of every moment and memory oozing back letting the person who listens to the last sound seeing how all the splendid things they do or give as happiness lies down with them. For the few left pages, before the final period place the last dot, Rieux has altered and become more aware of the reality where he accepts the absurdity as the suffering, the sadness he went through as the quote illustrates “But there was at least one of our townsfolk for whom Dr. Rieux could not speak, the man of whom Tarrou said one day to Rieux: "His only real crime is that of having in his heart approved of something that killed off men, women, and children. I can understand the rest, but for that, I am obliged to pardon him." It is fitting that this chronicle should end with some reference to that man, who had an ignorance, that is to say lonely, heart.” (Camus 302) Imagine after Rieux loses his best friend, Tarrou, he then receives news that his wife has also passed away, the ultraviolence he got is hard to compare. It’s unpredictable and how ironic is through this bubonic plague gave him the hero definition since the myriad of lives he had saved, but, at the same time, when calamity dies down, he left nothing but just a person with blackbirds on both his shoulders. The reality when he sees that all the stamina he works so hard for his people, friends, and beloved one, all vanish in the last breath. He accepts it, but the readers can’t contradict how Rieux knows that people will have to take an eternity sleep, he still hauls his body and mind to face the pandemic until it is all gone. I think that is the lesson I learn from this novel about how people should never giving up and put effort into their life. COVID-19 is a horrendous mess, but so many people have been doing the best to make the worst seem better, such as all the nurse and doctor wrestling their life to help patients. I think no matter how small the action is like just wearing a mask, it still contributes to my community and my family health as revolting against the face of absurdity rather than waiting for the death to come.

COVID-19 seems to be an unreal event, as shown in the pandemic from The Plague by Camus portrait. People tend to have hope in the pitch-black time of how many times it strikes them just to make the actions stronger where the victory they celebrate lies among the falls of the dead one. All things will have the last stop, and it's the same rule with humans and the plague in which the cure is going to found, where life describes the moment people have, and death is the proof of people's existence. The takeaway I found in the novel through the character Rieux is always battling for my life even though it short, I can make it meaningful. Absurdity is something someday I have to accept, but before that, I will keep seeking purpose, meaning, and happiness in this universe.

Work Cited

Camus, Albert. The plague. Vintage, 1948.

Website:

https://books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=a8LBjVImeO4C&oi=fnd&pg=PA2&dq=the+plague+camus&ots=DZh_dqjcDA&sig=JXM5oavWf83xNB9Sgjis6sVoJfc#v=onepage&q=the%20plague%20camus&f=false

Neilson, Keith. "The Plague." Masterplots, Fourth Edition, edited by Laurence W. Mazzeno, Salem, 2010. Salem Online.

Website:

https://online.salempress.com

Thank you for reading <3333333

Khang V Sun

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