Listen I Think Kaeya Playing With A Cat Is Everything I Need And Everything I Want

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

* body language masterlist

* a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

* a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

* 550 words to say instead of fuckin said

* 638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

* some more body language help

(hope this helps some ppl)

"Mister Beckman"

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,113 Drabble

(Image Source a:)(Image Source b:)

Synopsis: The first mate of the Red-Hair pirates is attempting to relax and enjoy his evening with you, but is rudely interrupted by Shanks' tinkering and clanging within the Captain's quarters.

Themes: First-mate x crew, established relationship, lounging, drinking, smoking, gentle touches, sweet domesticity.

Notes: The Beckman brain rot got me. This beloved first-mate lives rent free in my head, and I adore him.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @feral-artistry

Echoes of clangs of metal meeting wood reverberated throughout the hallway of the Red Force. The ship shook against the metal banging, its source within the Captain’s quarters beginning to crescendo upwards in volume and the drawn out clangs became more erratic and frantic with each shattered bash. 

Benn Beckman sat on the wooden deckchair, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows at each of the beaten clangs ringing in his ears. Reclining against your own deckchair, your legs comfortably rested over his thighs and secured beneath the heel of his left palm. He drew up his right hand and pulled the cigarette from his lips, blowing the smoke away from you before slyly raking his eyes over your body from the corner of his eyes. 

Your brows knit in concentration as you read over the itinerary to be completed within the next port. He gave your calf a gentle squeeze before slowly dancing his index finger over your shin up to the point of your knee. Pursing your lips and arching your left brow, you refused to break your eyes away from raking them over the itinerary as he continued to trail his digits over the cap of your knee. 

“Mister Beckman,” your warning tone rising at the end of his name, your tongue clicking in a small reprimand, “I am trying to read.” His fingers end their small dance against your skin, his firm hand cupping over your knee as he leans forward. The clangs continue to pick up their rapidity and volume, before halting all together with a murmur of angry words strung into loose sentences.

Beckman hums in response, placing the butt of his cigarette within the glass ash-tray and pressing it beneath the pad of his thumb to extinguish it. He joins his right hand against your skin by cradling your calf and moulding the flesh beneath it. The angry vocal murmur continues to rise alongside the recommencing clanging and clashing within the Captain’s quarters. 

“Mister Beckman,” you sighed, turning over the page of the itinerary and glaring at the pages, “Are you going to check on our Captain?” He grunted at your question, a lengthy sigh pulling itself from his chest immediately following. Leaning down in a deep stoop, he placed his lips against your shin, cradling your calf against his chest as he drew his lips up. Pressing several fluttered kisses against your flesh, he continued to trail his lips upwards with his smile felt in each flurry. 

“Darlin’,” he muttered against your skin, “It’ll take nothin’ short of-.” A particularly loud clang of bashed wood meeting metal broke his words away from his lips, his head snapping over in the direction of Shanks within his quarters. 

“Beckman! Becks!” Red-Haired Shanks yelled at the top of his voice. The booming anxiety had Beckman removing your legs from his lap, and rising immediately to his feet to sprint towards the direction of the Captain’s quarters. 

You sighed at his warmth disappearing from beneath your legs, your ears pricking for any indication of the source of the clanging and banging.

Managing to scribe several notes over the itinerary, you glanced up to see Beckman re-emerging from the Captain’s quarters with a look of defeat over his face. Eyes closed, a deep frown found purchase against his brows, with his jaw both tense and slack at the same time. You could tangibly see the pulsation of a vein beating against his temple, his pulse elevated and aggressive in its rapidity.

He withdrew a cigarette from his pack and rose it to his lips, igniting the end and inhaling a deep gulping lungful of the nicotine-riddled tobacco. His exhale was heavy, the weight of what occurred within the Captain’s quarters falling from his exasperated breaths. 

Brows upturning with empathy, your lips pouted at the sight of the first-mate in such a sorry state. You rose to your feet, walking slowly over to him as he allowed a small hushed growl depart from his lips on his next exhale. 

“Why is it always me?” his raspy rumble mixed with his chagrin, prompting a small smile to elevate to your lips. You raised your right hand up to collect his left cheek, his eyes opening at the soft impact. The gruffness of his silver grained stubble danced with the softness of your palms as they drew his face closer to you.

“Because it’s what you do,” you offered him your response, gazing lovingly into his eyes, “And we all love and appreciate you for it.” He allowed a softness to dance in his eyes as he gazed into your orbs, the love dancing tangible within your rounded globes. He removed his cigarette from his lips and hung his hand limply to his side, stooping down to meet your face with his. 

“We?” His lip ticked up at the corner as he continued his descent to meet your face with his own. 

“Of course ‘we’,” you praised him with your wide and innocent eyes floating between half-lidded eyes, “But we know I love you most.” You gave him a small wink, prompting a rumbled chuckle to rise within his chest.

“Thank you, Darlin’,” he leant his forehead against yours, ensuring his cigarette was far enough from both of you to not dance its ignited end against your skin. You closed your eyes, humming at the kiss of your foreheads meeting, before pulling apart from him and gazing once more into his grey orbs. 

“You going to tell me what that was all about, Mister Beckman?” You asked him. His smirk danced over his lips, his hand collecting fallen strands from your forehead and hooking it behind your ear. 

“There you go again. Sayin’ ‘Mister Beckman,’ like it doesn’t rouse somethin’ in you,” his voice growled in a subtle purr down into ear, the follicles on the back of your neck rising to attention. He chuckled into your ear before rising himself away to press a chaste kiss against your temple with a small promise of, “I’ll tell you about it later. For now, let's go sit back down. I need a drink.”

“Aye, sir,” you offered him a two fingered salute, shooting a small wink at him before turning and walking back to assume your prior position reclining against the chairs. He sighed deeply, watching the small swing of your hips in front of him and shaking his head. He whispered below his breath to vocalize his thoughts.

“This is why I went grey before fifty.” You turned and glanced at him over your shoulder with a sly smirk dancing at the corner of your lips. 

“And what pretty grey hair you have, Mister Beckman.”

Shh- he’s sleeping.

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Another one made for this wonderful fanfic

Hey alexa play CPR by CupcakKe

On youtube: https://youtu.be/noVyCP6KNEA

It was supposed to be a compilation of audios from vines, but I got lazy :P But I do plan to make more of these (with BB characters!!) so stay tuned uvu

fear the rot

synopsis: a short study of geta's death following the death of his child. (782) contents: child death, murder, graphic descriptions of blood and gore, body rotting, some serious separation issues, angst, a whole hell lot of angst, mourning, a/n: the child will come back!! this is not her end, just a character study on how geta would react to his child being killed.

masterlist!!

her body was brought back underneath a sheet. thick, red blood soaks the fabric, the sheet sticking to her body. he cannot bear to peel it back, to see the lifeless eyes of his child peering up at him, to see the traces of terror in her eyes.

outside of palatine, war rages as his brother fights off the rebellion, molding the romans back into shape.

he should be out there, staying tall next to caracalla as they protected their city, their home. yet, as he sits near the rotting body of his child, geta cannot bring himself to stand.

it's been days since her murder, days since his brother had declared war against the rebels, demanding heads to roll.

he can still feel the shock in his veins, pulsing violently as he sits by the body, remembering the way her body rolled off of her chair, chest nearly torn to shreds by knives.

it had been a poorly orchestrated reenactment of julius' caesar's death, yet they succeeded in murdering his child. he had watched as she slipped out of the blood covered chair, knives sticking out of her chest like arrows as he raced towards her.

the rebels who had killed her slit their own throats, their bodies dropping onto the stone floor. they had taken the coward's way out, choosing to shrivel in fear when the consequences had been presented.

he was still in his blood stained toga, the blood from his child had gotten everywhere, somehow finding it's way into his hair.

the blood cracked and flaked on his skin, leaving his skin irritated as he sat across from his child, ignoring the putrid scent permanenting their room.

she had begun to rot, chilled by death. the stiffening of her muscles had passed, her body no longer straining against the sheet. instead, she had begun to bloat. he could see her arms, no longer small, instead red and blue, bloated to twice their original sizes.

he could see where the blood pooled in her body, making her turn nasty shades of blue and red as her blood settled, weighing her body down.

-

he was unsure of how much time had passed, no longer concerned with external affairs as he lied underneath the blankets of their bed, wallowing in his loss.

there was no light in his life. there was no reason to live without his child. why should he be allowed to live whilst she would never see the light of day once more?

he would never hear his child's laughter once more, he would never be called father again, he would never know the love of a child again.

his eyes drifted reluctantly over to the sheet shrouding his daughter. the image of her, peaceful yet so grotesque in her stillness, haunted him. he wanted to shield himself from the agony of seeing her ravaged form, yet the thought of turning his back on her was worse.

this was his reality now—clinging to the girl who would never again laugh or play, shackled to the incessant memory of her murder.

-

the bugs have gotten into their room. they buzz around her body, yet geta still cannot bring himself to leave the bed.

everything hurts. he thirsts for water, hungers for food, yet he cannot pull himself out of their bed. why should he be comfortable after his child suffered so?

-

caracalla stabs him in his own bed the next day.

his brother's nose is twisted up in disgust as the smell of his daughter's rotting body fills the room, skin and muscle beginning to slide off of pale bones.

geta can't even fight against his brother, stubbornly clinging to the bed like a toddler as the sword is stabbed through his chest. he can hear his mother screaming, can feel her hands on his face, begging him to stay alive.

all geta can do is hope that he will be buried alongside his child.

-

they're cremated together, ashes mixed in a golden urn. a statue is created in their honor, standing tall in the gardens, near the tree his child used to lay under.

rome mourns her more than they mourn him. festivals and celebrations are held in honor of their lives, yet they tend to focus on her life, her youth and her peacefulness.

caracalla has their room cleaned, yet refuses to remove anything, leaving the room untouched. eventually, it is walled off, and their room becomes inaccessible.

within the room, a smaller urn lies on the bed. it is held up by a small stuffed doll, a testament to his child's youth. the urn will stay there until palatine crumbles, as they are together, even in death.

little laurance and his friend ungrth