i don't have an official request system! youâre free to offer suggestions, but i cannot guarantee i will get to them with my current routine and schedule!
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peter pevensie x gn!reader
â aslan help him.
⏠fluff!
⢠ha whipped
⢠boy oh boy who would have thought that rallying armies and talking to someone you fancy would be two entirely different battles.
⢠heâs painfully aware of how his High Kingâ˘ď¸ persona falters around you.
⢠he wants so badly to exude that regal composure and charm, but instead he's clearing his throat to stall for time to articulate properly after you hold his gaze for too long.
⢠heâs mortified and more than a little vexed. you think itâs endearing.
⢠truth is, between stumbling through wars and acting as the head of narnian nobility he hasnât had the chance to really court someone.
⢠lucy brings up the topic most often and he humors her by rolling his eyes and saying heâll cross that bridge when he gets there.
⢠(except he is now falling off that bridge.)
⢠he always held you in high regard and in the back of his mind he dreaded the inevitable moment those feelings softed into romantic attraction.
⢠now they have and it sucks. heâs conflicted and may avoid you for a bit because he's very aware of the implications of courting a king. the high king. of narnia.
⢠this kinda backfires on him though because the more he withdraws the more worried you get, and the more he can imagine you next to him in cair paravel.
⢠so finally â for once â he goes to susan.
⢠after hearing him out she tells him you might not even feel the same anyway dummy to stop being so serious about it. he may be high king but that doesnât mean he has to pressure himself into finding narniaâs next addition to the throne room. he has to decide if heâs even happy with the person first. (and to put a little more faith in you too. if thereâs anyone who would be understanding about the situation it would be you.)
⢠sheâs right so with that in mind he lets himself stare at you from across the courtyard more often.
⢠his attention has wandered to you on more than one occasion during council gatherings and heâll blink when someone finally asks his opinion.
⢠âis . . . his highness feeling al-â âyes â do continue.â
⢠now susan probably off-handedly told lucy, and lucy immediately told edmund. (god no.)
⢠edmund finds the entire situation beyond amusing and will proceed to raise actual hell for his brother.
⢠peterâs blood pressure is that much higher because of this.
⢠edmund will ask you to help look for something in a room he knows peter just entered.
⢠or one time in the middle of a social event after lucy complimented your newly sewn clothes, âi agree, the color is quite befitting. what do you think, peter? do you think the color is quite befitting?â
⢠peterâs glare would have been sharper if he wasnât coughing into his drink.
⢠gremlin behavior.
⢠if youâre on the quieter side he always gets the room to shut up settle down so you can share your thoughts;
⢠which doesnât take much because most of the courtesans consider you his betrothed anyway jfjdjd
⢠âyour grace was most eloquent during the meeting this morning.â âoh, thank you . . . but iâm not-â âroyalty? i beg your pardon; i merely presumed!â which leaves you oddly flattered and very confused.
⢠if you adjust the tunic of his armor, tap his visor, and wish him luck for a tournament heâll give you a tight-lipped smile before tugging it down and striding away to hide his warm cheeks.
⢠god help whoever has the audacity to smartmouth you around him. though not that anyone would, considering both your reputations among the narnians but also because if anyone did theyâd be in for a cold shot of english sarcasm.
⢠lucy thinks you guys are the cutest and heâs much more accepting of her comments compared to edâs teasing.
⢠but joke's on you because if edmund is in charge of teasing peter, lucy is the one poking you.
⢠âso what do you think of peter?â âwell, heâs brave, decisive, and-â âyes, yes, of course, but what do you really think of him?â
⢠sheâs all smiley when you avert your eyes and say you guess youâre fond of him.
⢠susan is just happy to have another level head around and thinks youâre good for her brother plus you donât put up with his shit
⢠youâre the only one he listens to.
⢠when he inevitably loses his patience with someone one disappointed look from you has him begrudgingly apologizing, and the siblings arenât sure whether to be jealous or impressed.
⢠cue them occasionally taking advantage of this because when else are they gonna get this opportunity?
⢠âpeter said i shouldnât ride side saddle!â âwhat? peter, why?â âbecause sheâs more likely to fall off that way.â âyour sister has endured a lot worse than falling off a horse, pete.â âsee?â âoh, alright.â
⢠even susan, âi think we should make camp by the stream.â âyes, but the trees provide more shelter from the wind.â âflowers grow close to the stream.â she says it like it's obvious. his finger taps his sheath. heâs looking at the water. âyou could give a flower to-â âfine.â
⢠he did give you that flower. it was purple and you liked it a lot. what you didnât notice was lucy giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up from behind a bush and susan elbowing ed for rolling his eyes.
â con amor; drink your water or iâll find you <3
you shift in your seat. the worn cushion is a sad formality that does nothing to prevent your tailbone from grinding into the wood frame beneath.
itâs becoming a pastime at this point, trying to get creative with new positions that provide more comfort than your usual three. but your back hurts too much to slouch and if you flop across the arm rests youâll probably fall asleep, so you settle on the most . . . not-uncomfortable position you can think of.
it makes you wonder how he can stay in one for so long. your thighs would tap out after 10 minutes.
âif you're tired you can go to sleep, you know.â
his quiet voice in the dark draws your gaze to where he sits, like a perched bird as usual, or a discerning owl.
his eyes are fixed on the live feeds. light and his father sleep in their respective cells and you can only assume misa is doing the same, chained to a plank and all. you bite your cheek, a habit you picked up once the case was well-established, to keep from debating the morality of it all. in a situation as unique as this, morality is starting to feel like a luxury.
the thought is comforting enough to let you sleep.
speaking of sleep. ââm fine. i'm not tired.â
his deep eyes spare you a brief glance before returning to the monitors illuminating the room. âthat yawn five minutes ago says otherwise.â
you thought you did a good job hiding that one.
âwell, a second pair of eyes never hurts.â you shift in your seat again, harder this time, and grit out, âand whoâs gonna keep you from drowning in frosting?â
his mouth quirks once, though his eyes remain focused. âappreciated, but staying awake yourself wonât make me any less tired.â he nips his nail as if to conclude his point. youâre a day away from buying a spritz bottle. âat that rate weâd both just end up groggy in the morning.â his voice trails off, like heâd rather not entertain the thought.
âit is the morning,â you murmur half to yourself, then pause. you eye him. âare you tired?â
he doesn't answer. instead, his gaze flits across the screen and you hush. light just stirred in his sleep.
âget some rest. iâll be fine.â
he's either superhuman or not human at all. you sigh. thereâs no point arguing with him . . . and you feel another yawn coming on.
âare you sure . . . ?â you manage to ask, before it sweeps up your words and stifles them.
when your mouth shuts gracelessly behind your hand his sidelong look is coy.
âshut up.â
âi didn't say anything.â
you drowsily haul yourself upright to stretch â okay, you are tired â and entertain the part of you that likes to argue with him. uselessly, of course, but he makes it fun to lose. âif itâs not productive for me to stay up then why have me stay to begin with?â on good days you convince yourself you can outwit him.
âbecause someone has to run to the coffee machine.â he puts a light emphasis on someone, barely perceivable as jest, and youâre ready to roll your eyes and drop it when he continues, âand because i enjoy your company.â
you blink.
that wasnât the response you were expecting. surprise and tentative flattery begin to settle in place of your prior mischief. youâre not sure why. heâs been forthcoming with his thoughts before â much to matsudaâs chagrin.
âthanks.â your intonation wavers. you're not sure what else to say. heâs blunt, yes, but it rarely involves his own sentiments.
âyouâre welcome.â if he's aware of your predicament he doesn't show it. he crosses his ankles. âthe rest of them will be up in a few hours, so i would make the most of it.â
âright.â
your creaky chair pierces the quiet when you finally make the effort to stand. your sedentary muscles are slow to engage, and he fixates on the spot where your socks meet the floor.
you try not to stare. maybe it's the time of night, the dimness of the room, or your sleep deprived brain, but he looks . . . softer. less of the level-headed, renowned detective and more of a twenty-something nursing a cold coffee at an ungodly hour.
you shuffle, moving to say something to occupy the silence. âwell then . . . ânight.â
he pulls his gaze from the camera feed for the first time in what feels like hours to regard you considerately.
âgood night. and thank you.â
you nod. the dark shades of his eyes are almost obscured by the harsh monitors and you turn to walk away before your sleepy brain can finish a very bold thought.
note: aah this has been in my drafts forever don't know how i feel about it. love the bird and hope this picks up anyone who needs it haha. can be taken any way u like :) photo not mine!
the abrupt smash of his claw against the table you miserably stand on makes you jolt. you catch your breath as the shock and fear coil into an irritated anger.
âwhirl-â
ââwhirlâ, what?â his optic narrows. âyouâre really gonna go and let âem get to you?â
heâs towering over your small form on the comparably massive table like he can intimidate an answer out. itâs very whirl of him.
you gather your shoulders and sniff hard, swiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. you muster enough energy to level him a glare, and while it doesnât smolder much behind tears itâs worth a shot.
ânot all of us can punch our problems away, whirl.â you almost regret saying it once you do.
itâs a low blow you know, but you could do worse. youâve taken worse from him. it was what initiated this odd . . . relationship in the first place.
months ago, any underhanded response wouldâve been enough to prompt an explosive reaction out of him. you had relished it if you were being honest; the resident psycho riled to violence by the untouchable liaison. it was a morbid outlet, a singular semblance of control you possessed on a ship of titans in outer space. magnus as always ensured your safety, and if it wasnât for his colossal size, your tiny self wouldâve been reduced to a puddle of blood on the cold floor, indistinguishable from a spilled drink.
today, he lets out a static scoff.
âyou piped up, didnât you?â he lays off and pulls himself upright. his gold optic glimmers. âif thereâs anything better than throwing the last punch itâs getting the last word.â you hear the cheeky tint in his voice and you know heâs real proud of himself for that one.
you roll your eyes. ânot like it did much,â you mutter, half caring whether he heard.
you donât get it. if you could befriend whirl of all bots, what was the problem with the rest of the crew? not skids or velocity or anyone, no. the rest of the shipâs crew that runs and inhabits the damn honker of a ship. sure â having a mouse of an organic on board to be wary of stepping on is a nuisance, but jeez they could keep it to themselves at swerveâs. you had to hide your dejection behind a glass of preserved orange juice. itâs not your fault youâre human.
âbesides,â whirl continues, waving a claw and interrupting your thoughts. âno one asked for their half-baked input anyway. assuming we wanna hear it or whatever . . .â
he goes on muttering about botsâ audacity and you feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. he mustâve remembered what you told him about 'cookies.'
âuh huh.â you watch him pace. âand you were one of them sharing a half-baked opinion of me a few months ago, were you not?â any prior annoyance has now tempered into amusement.
he hears it and goes silent. you struggle to keep your face neutral as his optic spirals to examine you. oh, youâve started a game.
âyeah sure . . .â his shoulders slouch and he lets his gaze meander, âbefore i realized how fun you are.â and then heâs up in your space again, extending his absurdly long neck in your face like a space flamingo until youâre forced to either step back, stare right into his lens, or push him away with a snort. not to make you smile, oh no, but to flex his aggravating ability to pry a reaction out of you. payback.
sticky dried tears stain your cheeks, but you pull an indignant face at him. your smile finally breaks the façade.
his optic flashes behind glass and his stance shifts. ha. you lose.
note: honey the way i ran after posting this. i blame a jason derulo song for making me think of his noodle ass again ok,, GIF not mine!
he's doing it again.
you try your best to discreetly watch him from over the top edges of your book. deeply preoccupied, he hasn't noticed that any prior interest in said book has been abandoned in favor of watching him pace.
it helps him think, obviously. but it's just that ever since you picked up on the habit of his you couldn't help but feel itâs so . . . him?
his lanky form passes in front of you again, and you flick your eyes back to the page. you've been on the same one for 10 minutes.
he's always been expressive. creative and excited with a need to put it somewhere. it makes sense his movement is as abrupt and grandiose as the ideas that appear to him on a whim. you've had to duck on more than one occasion to dodge a sweeping arm illustrating his latest innovation.
at this point you're pretty sure pacing is more a conductor of his flow of thought than a method of focusing it. for how loudly his creativity manifests â in wicked riffs and hopping hammer-ons â it also unfurls quietly, making him uncharacteristically silent.
and right now in the cramped living space of the tent, he has to think it out.
you sneak a look at him from your huddled spot on the bed, a vantage point, slouched against the wall with your knees bent up to your chest. your book is your camouflage.
his arm is tucked tight under the opposite elbow, a hand lingering near his mouth as a stray index finger taps the corner. he halts. stormy blue eyes light up . . . then his brow furrows again and he pivots on a heel to cross the room with a shake of his head.
you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. though knowing him, if this goes on much longer he'll end up losing sleep to it tonight.
(âInnovation never sleeps!â)
occasionally you wonder how often heâs up staring at the ceiling when you're not awake to tell him to get some rest for
âOnceâ.â
âyeah?â he jolts and freezes wide-eyed like youâve caught him in an act.
amused affection tugs a smile out of you, and the reminder that his quiet tangents are welcomed prompts his shoulders to relax. pulled back to reality and left standing in the middle of the bedroom-kitchen, his eyes now search yours curiously.
you ask despite knowing it will open the floodgates, tone mildly incredulous. âwhatâre you thinking about?â
oh boy. you can only watch as he registers the question and his eyes begin to sparkle with that damn near contagious excitement and his grin is still widening and yep here it comes-
âalright listen- you're gonna love it, i promise- just, hear me out. what ifff . . . â
ah yes, his dramatic pauses.
you blink. âwhat if . . . what?â
he steps closer like he can convey the sheer genius of it with proximity. âwe dyed them?â
âdyed them?â
âdyed them.â he nods proudly.
you consider the idea of dying a nonsensically colored product with another nonsensical color. what shirt compliments a neon orange thneed? hm.
meanwhile the excitement is spilling out of his body, and he lightly bounces on the pads of his feet awaiting your answer. he looks too giddy to say no.
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note: tbh writing this didn't feel particularly romantic OR platonic,,? somewhere in the middle? both. why not. GIF not mine!
rin as you know him is a conglomeration of dualities.
from his seat beside you in the library the tap tap tap of his pencil eraser on the mahogany tabletop is accompanied by the second prolonged sigh that night as he tries to recall the prayer that would sanctify a dagger of pure silver.
you try to focus on your own hastily scrawled notes. (yukio was so brisk during lectures.) tap tap tap.
still, considering his origins as a half-human half-satanic being, you figure it isnât so hard to accept that facets of his personality wouldnât adhere to such straightforward qualities. his most well-meaning advice and declarations of support are bitten out with abrasive passion, and demonic canines pierce through an angelic smile.
another sigh.
out of your peripheral, a student seated down the table drags a tired look rinâs way, and you wonder if it slipped past him or if he simply refused to acknowledge it.
like his mood, his actions â his reactions â his choice of character is as varied as the stimuli prone to change it.
he manages to be both a hormonal rascal and defender of the girlsâ honor outside the locker rooms, throwing down with some creep who tried to sneak a look through the door ajar. heâll fight bon for the last bottle of ramune at the shop, screeching nonsense profanities, then turn and offer it to his brother instead.
yukio sticks with water because of course he does.
heâll incinerate another rogue demon let loose in the building, a trickle of blood dripping down his forehead, laugh during cleanup, and ask if youâ
âwanna get food?â
his voice yanks you back into the world of conversation. you blink and look over at him.
he's drawn his head up enough to regard you with bleary eyes. his pencil had been left abandoned long enough to roll off the paper, and his arms and shoulders drape idly off the back of the stiff chair. his eyes are diffused red and heavy with resignation.
heâs tired.
you feel your mouth quirk up. times like this you forget he's the product of hellfire.
struck down and defeated by coursework, handsome face illuminated a dull yellow by the old ornate desk lamps, and tapered ears concealed behind mussed navy hair, he looks more human than people give him credit for.
his gaze focuses and he lifts his head upright. the library is quiet, and the footfalls of departing late-nighters echo on hardwood through the bookshelves. his brow begins to raise and before he can open his mouth to ask whatâs up you flick your notebook closed.