#he imagines a story in which every little part of himself is something others must overcome and undesrtand | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

orphicrose · 2 months

Note

Are you still doing requests? Can I request Alastor x Wife reader who were married together alive an reunited in hell and while Alastor hates modern tech the reader grew on it and even started a life hack channel on voxtube of tricks from the 1920s and it becomes really popular and she gets sponsors and fan mail meanwhile Alastor needs Angel's help just to video chat her and one day she gets a 5 million subscriber mileage congratulations gift box (that all creators get bit hes still mad) from Vox himself

Old man and an Iphone

Requests are still open indeed.

I can definitely do my best! I’ve changed the dates around a little to better fit the technology advancements in the universe. This is set in the early 2000s

This is somewhat small, but i hope you like it.

----------------------

Years passed like turning pages since your husband had departed from you, in the cruelest ways that anyone could imagine. A fate that wasn’t even inevitable. That singular fragile piece of metal, shot from an unknown hunter, took him away from you.

You knew who he was, you knew what he was. Knowing that you’d end up in the same temple of horror one day that he has. His sins being your sins. That brought you some peace. Knowing you’d be reunited one day. Even if it was in the worst place imaginable. Hell. That day came sooner than you’d like to admit. Leaving behind your clueless grandchildren and your own hellish spawn.

The ground below you hit rather hard, not even knowing you were falling down the rabbit hole till the bottom came right to your face. You let off a grunt in response. Your body feeling light, all of a sudden. As if the age and wrinkles had just vanished, and you were young again. Legs feeling like they could run miles, and skin, well. Your new hellish form wasn’t much of an improvement from leather skin.

Knowing for years you’d end up here, it wasn’t too difficult to take in. Accepting your sins and your fate as a part of your journey. It wasn’t so bad. There was society, and structure down here. Immortality being the only true torture.

The other torture, you had no idea where your dearest Alastor had ended up. It had been almost 70 years since you’d seen him, god knows what he looks like now. Your reunion was sudden, after all, he was a well known overlord. Yet, it was still something out of a textbook romance novel.

Over the next decade or two, you two spent every second together. Refusing to be apart again. You sharing stories about your children, grandchildren. Melting Alastor's heart like he never thought you could. There was so much catching up to do. After time, you became infatuated with the media, creating your own channel. it was called "Hellish crafts", which started with a bunch of silly tips and tricks when it comes to house work. Alastor didn't understand, but it came with a hefty income.

After becoming tenants at the misguided daughters of hells hotel, you soon began helping with advertisements. Which grew the channel even more. From random life hacks, to advertisements, to smaller channels asking you for your help to grow theirs.

"Must you film me, dear?" his hand covers his face as the camera fizzes out of focus.

"Yes! Its for Charlie. Lighten up old man" You teased him, filming the hotel lobby. He smiled at your expression, resting a hand on the small of your back as you did your craft.

"Y/n! Y/n! Another letter for you!" Niffty ran over

Alastors hand dropped, snatching the letter from the little goblin.. Eyebrows furrowed. "This is the third letter in the passed three days, sweetheart"

"What can i say, my channel is a hit" One eye was closed as the other was pressed to the run down camera that Alastor insisted you used. Still walking slowly around the hotel, trying to get a good shot. Alastor stood in his place, reading the letter. "Another delusional fan" He mumbled.

"Don't worry! i wont let the fame go to my head" You swung around with the camera, getting him in frame. The static of his aura interfered with the lens and gave your brow a small electric shock. Jolting you backwards.

"I've warned you about that" He chuckled, hand returning to your waist and pulling you closer. His other hand with the letter, raising, and a fit of flames emitted. Turning the letter into ash on the floor, which nifty didn't wait to clean up.

Life was like this for a while, constant letters. Some weird, some genuine. But you never got to read most of them, as Alastor made it his duty to send them to another realm before you could. was he jealous? maybe, he'd never care to admit it though. That was until a rather glamorous piece of paper fell through the letter box on this particular day. Stamped with Vox's logo. You got to this letter first.

"What the fuck?" Your almost angry tone alerted Alastor, whose body materialized next to yours in seconds. "What's the matter, my dear?" his eyes briefly scanned over the letter before snatching it from you.

"What is a 5 million subscriber?"

"Its the amount of people who support my channel, i honestly didn't even know it was that big." you stared up at him, waiting for some sort of outburst on his face.

"That's... " he thought for a second "Wonderful dear! Absolutely wonderful!" his arms wrapped around you in an embrace, spinning you around. When you first started the channel, with his knowledge, it was more of a way to pass the time. So, for it to be as big as it is now was quite the accomplishment. What kind of husband would he be not to support his perfect wife, he thought. Whether she was practically paying vox or not. His quarrels weren't hers.

"I believe you have some type of reward, y/n" He spoke again, putting you down and giving the letter back. His sharp nail pointed at a fine print at the bottom. 'Visit the Vee headquarters to redeem your reward'.

You both looked at each other, brows raised and a concerned look in your eyes. "I'm sure it's not important. I don't need a reward"

He looked as if he was in deep thought. Contemplating everything for a second. "You should go" "But vox is your-"

"Hush, little woman" His finger covered your lips "This is important to you darling. I trust you"

The smile on your face made his bigger, making you deserving of the little peck he placed on your lips before adjusting his posture. "On the condition that my shadow follows your every move"

"Done"

A few hours had passed since your departure, Charlie offering razzle and dazzle to escort you to the large mansion on the other side of the pentagram. It was quite the journey, considering the traffic. And it wasn't long before Alastor began to miss you, wondering if you were okay.

"Ahem" static gave Angel a brief episode of tinnitus before he swung his body on the lobby sofa, met with the lanky deer.

"Waddya want, pimp?" his attention didn't last long, his phone having far more interesting contents than the demon lurking behind him.

"I need a favor" his smile made the question seem a lot more sadistic than intended. His body swiftly moved around the sofa, standing in front of the spider now.

"If you want my soul, I got bad news for ya."

"Your soul?" He was almost confused for a second "No, i need help with this" he lifted his hand, angels phone disappearing and reappearing in the deer's grip.

"Wh- hey! Give that back" Angel leapt to his feet, reaching up and snatching it back. "Why do you want help with a phone? Aren't you like, from the dark ages?"

It took Alastor a moment to be able to admit to it. "I'd like... to call my wife"

"Awww, is someone clingy" angels teasing didn't last long before radio dials appeared in the demons eyes, radio interference filling the air as quickly as it had disappeared earlier. "Okay, okay" Angels hands flew up in surrender, Alastor returning to normal instantly. "Splended!"

It took a moment for Angel to flick through the thousands of contacts he had, before he finally reached you. Pressing the call button and handing the phone to Al. Who held it like an old grampa looking at a meme. "What do i do now?" he squinted his eyes at the device in his hand. "Just hold it" Angels voice became frustrated as he readjusted the phone in Als hand.

You had picked up the call a minute ago now, on your way back to the hotel. Being greeted to the two boys bickering. "Helloooo?" you sung out, attempting to get their attention.

"Oh. Hello my dear!" Alastor noticed to and bared his teeth in an awkward smile. "I just wanted to see how my love was doing, is all"

"How sweet. I will be back soon." You had many questions to ask when you were back with the comfort of your person.

"Do hurry"

#fanfiction #x reader #request #reqs open #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction

426 notes · View notes

simpingland · 9 months

Text

Never Pretending// Jace Velaryon x Fem!oc. Part 1.

Anon request:Major fluff and angst and jealousy- I’m thinking childhood best friends into enemies after the driftmark fight and through episode 8 when they meet again.

Summary: Gaella Targaryen (Alicent's kid) and Jace Velaryon were friends long before they understood what green and black meant. When they meet again six years later, they realise that there was always something more to both the court and their own friendship. Part 2

A/N: This will continue. This request was beautiful but had spoilers, so I won't post it completely. Stay tuned for part 2!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a time when Gaella had dreamed of being betrothed to Jacaerys Velaryon, and though she had never told her mother, her childhood was a happy one because of him. Born in the same year, the servants could always see the little blonde and brown heads wandering around the castle. Jace likes to wake her up early to explore corners that they were already starting to see too much, but Gaella's imagination helped her to see everything in a new way. And so the years passed, walking side by side, while the girl told him the legends of the kings and princes before them. He was the one who dared to cross the areas forbidden to them by the adults, and she was the one who knew the stories forbidden to them by the adults. Everyone knew of this friendship, but few approved of it. Gaella was aware at an early age of the rumours about Jace and Luke, her brother Aegon told her plainly one day when no one was around.

She never had the courage to tell Jace the truth. His love for Harwin was tender, but he also admired Leanor, and he loved to show off Vermax. The last thing Gaella wanted to do was to dispel that happiness, to pull him abruptly out of the limbo his mother had put them in to protect them. What Gaella did dislike was that the Prince was never confused by his appearance, never asked questions, and participated so actively in Aegon's jokes, unaware that Aegon was one of the greatest spokesmen for his illegitimacy. A rift started when Jace began to feel confident enough to make fun of Aemond. Prince Aemond wasn't particularly nice to Gaella, but they shared a taste for studies and could hold entertaining conversations. So when they laughed at his desperation to get a dragon, only Gaella understood how cruel the joke had been.

"There was no need to make fun of something that is not his fault," Gaella said to Jace as they walked back to the castle.

"It was Aegon's idea," he tried to justify himself.

"You're not much better if you follow him after..."

That night, Jace didn't want to apologise to Aemond. But the next morning, knowing that he had irritated his dearest friend, he woke her up with a piece of cake hidden in a napkin. He gave it to her as an apology, and the girl couldn't stay angry much longer. Such was Jace, as sweet as he was unruly, much quieter than his brother Luke, but both had inherited the mischievous side their mother had been known for.

King Viserys might be the only one who smiled at the thought of seeing Gaella and Jace together. He loved to hear their daily scurrying on the other side of his door, reminding him that life was beautiful and innocent for some still, and that the enmity between his wife and daughter was being offset by the friendship between their children. But her mother, Alicent, despite trying to connect with her, always ended up scolding her. She scolded her when she found her disobeying her orders, yelled at her when she stained her clothes, and of course, always pulled her away from Jace every chance she got. At first, Alicent let her be. She was so small, and she could control her. But as she grew older, the arguments were no longer about rules or dresses. Some day, which would come sooner rather than later, Gaella would be a woman, a woman who must marry, and whose company must be kept from men. Whatever Gaella's feelings for Jace, what mattered was that no one should suspect anything more than friendship. The night Jace and Gaella made peace, the two of them left the castle, escaping to an abandoned tower where they spent the entire day playing and talking. She kissed him goodbye with a kiss on the cheek that left his face flushed, and Gaella went into her room thinking that this would be the end of the best day of her life. But when she saw her mother waiting for her, she knew it wasn't true.

"How is it that you are so smart, Gaella, and at the same time, be so dumb?" she asked. The girl made herself small before Alicent.

"I'm sorry, mother. It's just that we didn't have lessons today and we got distracted..."

"I don't care where you went, what I care about is who you went with," she interrupted her, raising her voice.

"It's Jace, mother. Nothing bad can happen to me being with Jace."

"Oh, how innocent you are, my love." She walked over and knelt down to be at her level, holding her hands lovingly. "I was close friends with your mother a long time ago, too... but they don't love us. Not really."

"Jace does love me, mother," tears began to well up in the girl's eyes, confused and hurt.

"You know well that Jace is not a Targaryen like you. That he who claims to be their father is not telling the truth. It is not right in the eyes of the Seven, and it is not right for the throne. And Rhaenyra knows it too, and soon Jace will. And all of this, Gaella, do you know what this means?"

The girl shook her head.

"It means we are in danger. Your brothers, me...you. Those with sense will refuse to bow the knee to Rhaenyra and her bastards and she will seek to annihilate any other option the people may have. And that other option is us."

"But Rhaenyra is my sister...and Jace is my friend and would never hurt me."

"That's what they think now. But when your father leaves us, Rhaenyra will want to keep you trapped, and she'll end up with us. Everything Jace does now is to try to use you in the future. He'll make you live a life in captivity, while he kills Aegon and Aemond, and any children they may have. And then you will see that this is all a big lie. They want us to cover for them while they lie to others. The only scenario in which you come out alive is the one where they use you to have platinum-haired heirs. Is that the future you want?"

Gaella didn't know what future she wished for yet, she just wanted to worry about her dinner and her soft pyjamas. But she also knew she didn't want to see her family die, no matter how long she might still be alive.

"No, mother," she whispered.

"Then you must resist, stay away from Jace."

The next dress she wore the next day was still blue, like the previous ones, but the headband that held her hair back was green. And that day she told Jace that she would rather go with Helaena to sew. It was a lie, and during the long hours of sewing, Gaella thought constantly of how much she missed Jace. Then she heard her mother's voice, and it all made sense again. Days passed, and Jace kept calling her, but she gave him little more than a smile. The prince made the most of the little time he allowed her, accompanying her wherever she went before he strayed, telling her a summary of the things that had happened in her absence. Lessons with him were still fun, but Jace became aware of Gaella's newfound ignorance of him. He said a secret farewell to the Prince as they left for Dragonstone. She wore no green anywhere and gave him a big hug in secret. She wept silently for days, only Helaena could see her.

By the time they were reunited at Driftmark, Jace's absence had become routine, and she bonded with Aemond. Still, he never wanted to go out beyond the library and would get angry when Gaella insisted on mischief. When she saw him at Laena's funeral, she was immediately happy. He looked sad, and the news of Ser Harwin's death had reached all the lords. And she went to comfort him when she found him holding hands with Baela Targaryen.It was silly, but the pain in her chest was so great that Gaella turned away, trying not to cry. Remembering the one time they had hold hands like that, she recognized the affection and curiosity in the grip between Baela and Jace.

Aemond was eyeing Vhagar, not paying attention to anything else, so when he told his sister he was going to claim her, she couldn't stop him, he was determined. Then the worst happened. Holding Aemond's hand as his eyelid was sewn shut, Rhaenyra deflected attention to the fact that someone had told the truth, that Jace and Luke were bastards. That night, she could see everything her mother explained to her and how lonely they could be. The next day, Jace tried to win a hug from Gaella, but Gaella, dressed head to toe in green, turned her back on him, without a word.

Six years passed, and Jace had sent a few messages that Gaella refused to answer. Every day, more and more locked up in her castle, more and more still, for the walks took her back to those precious evenings with her friend Jace. The only words she began to hear were those of Alicent and Aemond, Helaena's sadness when they sewed, Otto's speeches, and the unpleasantness of Aegon's presence, made an impression on Gaella. Rightly so, she was deeply saddened, but she was at ease with the routine and felt tremendously annoyed when they arrived back at court. Of course, it was Rhaenyra's first accusation of her children's origins, and it would not be a pleasant visit.

She could see him when she looked out the window. How much he had changed...Gaella never imagined that Jace could have been so handsome and that indeed, with his Strong features, his mother's genes made him look like a true prince. He could see her then, and Jace didn't know what to do, for he had long since given up on their friendship, yet there she was, peering out, dressed in green and not daring to approach. He could see her slip back inside within seconds of connecting glances.

Over the years, Jace could get a sense of what had happened, and his mother had never told him otherwise. And he would not be ashamed to be the son of a man as brave as Harwin, but he had a right to his throne because he was ready for it. Still, it couldn't stop him from dreaming at night of winning back Gaella's smile. And he could not help but feel anger when he thought that she had already chosen sides in such a cowardly way. Now he saw her and did not know if he really recognised her in all that harshness. He searched the castle slyly for her, with Lucerys at his side. It was in the night time, prowling the gardens, that he could see her enjoying the cool wind.

"The castle has changed so much since I was here," Jace told her. The girl only gave him a sidelong glance.

"You've changed a lot too," she replied dryly.

"No, not really." He looked down at her green dress and the lack of smile on her face. "You have changed, even if you still have the same face as when you were little."

"You can not talk about what I am like when we haven't spoken for six years."

"It's not because I haven't tried to avoid it." Jace bristled, but she only stood up straighter in her place. "I've written to you and you never answered."

"I didn't say I disliked the lack of contact. I know very well what I have and haven't done over the years. And I'd like to keep things the same."

As Gaella turned to leave, Jace stepped in front of her, blocking her path and forcing her to look him in the eye.

"Do you really think I don't have a say about you? We were friends, thick as thieves." Jace was trying to recognize something in her face to keep faith.

"We were children together, but we've grown apart."

"We haven't grown that far apart, Gaella. Tell me, do you still enjoy stories about Nymeria? Do you still drink orange juice with honey biscuits in the evenings?" Jace watched as his friend's sparkle returned to her eyes for a moment. "You're certainly still sitting on the yellow rose bench in the garden. That hasn't changed."

Gaella did not know what to say. She shook her head and looked at the Prince before her. His broad shoulders and brown eyes looked at her with an affection she needed, genuine affection, not the familiar kind.

"You don't understand, Jacaerys. You cling too tightly to something that existed for too short a time. We can no longer be children, and we can no longer pretend that all will be well. Tomorrow you will be robbed of an inheritance you clearly do not deserve. So I'm not going to lie to you. I don't want to... I don't want to lie to you."

And with that, Gaella tried to walk away, leaving Jace behind, whose last words she heard echoing in the garden, leaving her heartbroken for the entire night.

"I've never pretended, Gaella. I've never had to do it with you."

The next day, Gaella's gaze didn't travel far from Jace. She couldn't help it, though he was good at it, only glancing back at her from time to time, not getting flustered, knowing that Gaella was caught between her brothers. But he would not let her have the satisfaction of knowing how much he cared for her. He'd already tried, and he'd already wasted his time. Besides, now he had to worry about Luke and about honouring his future wife, Baela. When the call ended bloodily, the night came slowly and stormily. A forced dinner, to please the old king.

Jace was talking to Baela, of whom he was somewhat fond, when Gaella came through the door. In a green dress, of course, but so beautiful that Jace lost the thread of his conversation. Her curves stood out, reminding him that indeed, much time had passed and she had begun to become a woman. A woman who gave Jace a rather dirty look, not really understanding why. Gaella almost left when she walked in and saw them together again. A beauty like Baela who made Jace smile and who would spend the dinner by his side. She instead sat next to her brother Aemond, who was silent and disgusted by the happy ending of the boy who snatched his eye. When their mothers apologised to each other, Jace pointed his glass discreetly at Gaella and immediately wanted to cry. He still didn't understand. Life was never that fair. And every time he and Baela smiled at each other, Gaella felt like throwing herself between them. As her mother had told her, Jace had only wanted to use her, and now that she would not be his wife, his attention was elsewhere. And when he asked Helaena to dance, she could see him glancing sideways at her, as if he felt the same pity for her as he did for Helaena. And as it now costum with the family, the scene ended violently.

Gaella walked to her sister's room to help her put her children to sleep, as always. She had put on her blue sleep dress with woven clouds. When Jace couldn't sleep, his shoulder sore from the fall he walked across the hall, where he recognized her voice. Gaella was telling stories with the passion that had entranced him as a child. And he waited for her to finish, enjoying the scent of his old friend. Little did she know that he was there, listening and smiling.

"You should go to bed. They'll put you on the ship early tomorrow," Gaella told him when she found him half asleep outside the room.

"Your voice has put me to sleep. As I suppose it has put the children to sleep."

Gaella tried to suppress a smile. She blushed as Jace ran his eyes down her dress.

"And now it's my bedtime," she informed him, still in her seat. Jace just smiled.

"Goodnight then."

She didn't move, she couldn't because he wasn't moving. She watched as he clutched his shoulder.

"Does it hurt?"

"Quite a lot. But I just need to move it a bit...forget that the bump is there." He moved his shoulder slowly, and his face couldn't hide the pain.

"That's not how you fix things. I think you learned that lesson today."

Jace just sighed, watching her face, the one he had missed so much.

"I should have asked you to dance too. You're a better dancer than Helaena."

"That's a lie... I was always stepping on your feet."

Jace laughed.

"True, true... but I liked you better. I liked dancing with you because I had an excuse to touch your hands." He could see Gaella remember and smiled slightly. He didn't know that Gaella felt electricity when they had danced as children." I see you, Gaella. And I'm more than willing to help you get out of here, where they have you trapped in green and sat with a man who barely speaks a word to you. Sometimes I see you so clearly... I know you are in there, beneath all that."

She stared at him, her eyes glowing with unwanted tears about to fall. And then Gaella shook her head, returning to his dark gaze.

"You should have asked your future wife to dance."

Jace watched again as her curly white hair moved as she turned her back on him once more, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway. The pain in his shoulder returned to Jace immediately.

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon x oc #jacaerys x oc #harry collett

247 notes · View notes

blackfeathercourt · 4 months

Text

Got Nocmos Brain Rot™ again and made a timeline to pinpoint the most important events of her life and to illustrate the way she's been changing and growing

Close-ups and some notes below the cut

weirdly cut because I didn't want images to be giant and long to scroll by x_x

Just a baby. Nocmos had a relatively normal early childhood. Definitely cast her first spell before spoke her first word.

Nocmos begins her studies when she's around 10 years old… and that's when her free time is done for. Almost every minute of her day now is dedicated to studying, with magic being most paid attention to, which is a given with her Telvanni background. Moreover, she was taught with the intention of her enrolling to Shad Astula, a prestigious magic academy near Mournhold. She wastes all her teen years being stuck in her family's tower in Sadrith Mora, barely leaving the settlement and having little idea of the world outside.

elves must hit their puberty later then humans, so she's still yet to grow a little

Alright, Nocmos makes it to Shad Astula. She immediately starts distancing herself from her family back on Vvardenfell, since now she's away on the mainland (kinda). She keeps her studies up, a bit more enthusiastically now since she can finally meet people all over the Ebonheart Pact and not be limited to the Telvanni bunch. Starts learning to socialise on her own, catastrophically at first, with accidental racism all over the place... But it's alright, she even manages to make some first friends.

Initial meeting with Endalwe occurs at around this time, somewhere on a field trip I suppose while Endalwe is adventuring around the region. Neither one of them pays much mind to each other at this point.

Nocmos (barely) graduates Shad Astula and begins her own independent research, albeit under Divayth Fyr's guidance. She becomes his apprentice, living in the same tower as him, assisting him when he makes her and accompanying him in his travels. She learns a lot during that time and finally gets to explore Tamriel a little, which inspires her greatly to continue her studies.

At around that time, Nocmos discovers her new special interest - tinkering and constructing, though still on a very early stage. She meets Endalwe again in Vivec, when she's completing the Morrowind story line, and spontaneously decides to assist her. That allows not only for them to develop deeper friendship, but also for Nocmos to become acquainted with a former Clockwork apostle, Barilzar. I imagine she does all the quests which involve him, which means she gets a peek of the Clockwork city at the very end of the storyline. And… she becomes obsessed! Barilzar kicks her out and doesn't really want anything to do with her anymore, so she takes matters into her own hands and starts exploring Dwarven ruins on her own, eager to study the nature of the constructs. She even tries to build something on her own, bringing home spare parts and tools, thinking Divayth isn't aware of her new hobby. He is.

So, this is the most crucial point of Nocmos's life. She completes the Clockwork City DLC! With Divayth's guidance, as he notices her interest and deems her worthy of such endeavour, but she does all the quests mostly on her own. After that, they bid farewell and he officially ends her apprenticeship. Nocmos decides to stay in the Clockwork City and later becomes an Apostle. This allows her to bring two of her hyperfixations together - she starts practicing some actual constructing and occasionally studying magic from Sotha Sil himself as she's now in a pretty favourable position, having rescued his life and everything. Yeah, that also makes her times more religious than before.

Another point of importance is that her design finally settles down. Her appearance doesn't change much past that. She gets that Apostle tiara, crafts some ear extensions to correct their shape, loses her arm in an accident and gets a prosthetic (along with her staff, but that happens a little later) from Sotha Sil, adopts local clothing style which she uses later independently and grows her hair out to its final length, not letting it get longer or shorter.

Some time later, Nocmos's Telvanni heritage starts calling out to her. She gets a permit to travel freely to and from the Brass Fortress, and returns to Tamriel, intent to make a name for herself as a Telvanni sorceress, just to spice up her life a little. Nocmos manages to get on Mistress Dratha's good side in Vos, and gets a permission to grow her own tower in there. Then she starts eagerly and deliberately climbing up the ladder, rising in ranks, using all means to get as high as she can - charisma, cunning, thievery, backstabbing, secondhand murder... whatever. She acquires all those necessary skills which help her later on in life. Of course, this process is a very long one, and goes on for decades, but eventually she manages to rise to the rank of Master and only then does she settle down.

Here she's pictured in a Telvanni attire from ESO, tweaked a bit to my liking, but I think she continues wearing her Apostle robes just to remind people who she is

This is the point in her life when she reunites properly with Endalwe and starts adventuring with her, along with Bliss and Tanarion. Endalwe lures her in by promises of an endless research material during their world-saving quests... and Nocmos doesn't need a lot of persuading, since she's herself eager to travel and explore, especially in the safety of the company of warriors. And since she likes Endalwe as it is, of course.

Okay, so I haven't developed anything much beyond that point. Nocmos and others does all those big chapter and dlc storylines... and that takes years and years because I absolutely refuse to believe that Vestige has to do everything on their own within the span of one year. They also have periods of rest in between them, when Nocmos either collects the data she's earned on their adventures and writes a paper or too, ooor comes back to her duties in the Clockwork city.

#my art #tes #oc: nocmos

88 notes · View notes

clusterbuck · 1 year

Text

when i think about you i touch myself

buck sends a dick pic, and eddie reacts the way every straight man hopes random girls will // 2k, E

Buck sent him a dick pic.

Which, Eddie supposes, does explain his caginess, and his surprise that Eddie was so open to it. Was he supposed to know? Was Buck using some kind of dick pic code that Eddie was supposed to understand?

Or maybe it’s a mistake. It has to be, right? Buck was trying to send him something else, and accidentally hit the dick pic instead. The camera roll preview squares are tiny, Eddie rationalises. Easy mistake to make.

He picks up his phone again, intending to tell Buck he’d sent the wrong picture. But it’s still open on his screen, and when his gaze catches on it Eddie can’t look away.

It’s—there’s something sort of mesmerising about it. Eddie hasn’t seen many dick pics in his time, but he’s heard the stories. He knows they don’t tend to be great works of art. But Buck’s is—beautiful, he thinks, and then wonders if it means something. That beautiful is the first word to come to mind.

Buck’s in his bed, probably propped up against the headboard. The photo starts halfway down his abs; in the background, one of his legs stretches out under a white sheet, fading into shadow. His other leg is pulled up, revealing the tattooed phoenix sprawling across his muscular thigh, and next to it, loosely grasped in his fist, is his dick.

It’s well-composed, Eddie thinks, half-hysterically. The framing is clean—Buck’s dick is nicely centred, and there’s nothing in the background to distract from it. The lighting is warm, a soft kind glow that makes the photo feel intimate. Buck must be using the lamp on his bedside table, Eddie thinks, then gets a little light-headed at the idea of it—the idea that at this very moment, Buck is stretched out in his bed, the room dark except for the bedside lamp, idly stroking himself.

It is, objectively, a good dick pic. But it’s also a picture of his best friend’s penis. His best friend’s very erect penis.

And Eddie can’t stop looking at it. Can’t stop wondering what it would be like if he could reach out and touch it, if he could replace Buck’s hand with his own. If it would feel—he knows what it feels like to touch a cock, but only when it’s his own. Would it feel different? Would Buck react? Would he make a sound, a gasp of surprise and pleasure?

Eddie’s never heard Buck like that, but he can imagine it all too well. The way his lips would part and his eyes would go wide, the way he’d draw a shuddering breath and—

His phone vibrates in his hand. well??? Buck asks. is it ok??

read it on ao3

#911fic #buddie #buddie fic #shush emma #emma writes #cw mentions of bucktaylor #dick pic fic

202 notes · View notes

soft-for-them · 1 year

Text

As warm as a dead man can be - The Captain x male reader

Summary: A small look into the life of you and the Captain.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: One of my favourite gay Ben Willbond characters, which there's a lot of...

It took a few decades to get over your own death, to come to terms with the fact that you’re forever stuck in the same house where you died, giant bleeding gash in your abdomen and outfit never changing.

Though through all it he’s been there.

At first he’d check in on you, minding not to stand too close, his posture stiff but his eyes shaped like hearts. He would watch on as you entertained Kitty, the young woman becoming a sister to you, his heart swelling with pure love he hadn’t felt since Havers, his hands itching to be held.

Then the check ins evolved into him sitting next to you whilst you stared off into space, the early nineties being the hardest for you because the sudden realisation that you’d never age another year age had dawned upon you. He’d sit close, sometime he’d tell a story to quell your nerves, other times he’d allow you to talk about the seventies and the hippy movement, about passed lovers, how for just a moment you felt a part of something bigger. However, one day when the skies cried out heavy thunderous rain, the other ghosts hidden away and quiet, you had flung your arms around him in the tightest hug.

Those hugs became frequent when eyes weren’t watching, your fingers always touching him when you walked passed and you'd always aligning the lapels of his uniform just to be close.

The Captain likes that you’re a very touchy person. Maybe it’s because he can't touch anything else with his hands, that the only thing that he can feel are the cold dead skin of the other ghosts.

The Captain loves to watch you dance with Kitty, the young woman always begging you to teach her disco dance moves, either that or she’s dragging you about the house like a hyper little child pointing at everything like she’s never seen it before. Just imagine the sight, you dressed in your flared jeans, cowboy boots and white shirt (not minding the blood stains) being twirled around by Kitty, your eyes catching the Captain’s with every spin, a giant smile on your face.

You’d get the courage to steal kisses from him years later. The first time it happened it must have been two thousand and four in late afternoon, you both were sitting outside watching the clouds in silence when all the sudden you leaned over, peck him on the cheek followed by fleeing.

The Captain had sat in the same place red faced for a half hour before Fanny came around disturbing the peace.

That very same day the Captain had the courage to ask for another kiss, for he was too shy to do it himself, which you did. Then you did it again. And again, and- well you get the picture.

His hands are as warm as a dead man could be, his fingers intertwined with yours as you relax in a quiet corner of the house. His jacket if off, though he can’t go far without it for it is a part of what he died in. Your hands are warm and so connected to his that they refuse to let go.

Pat would have described your hands like a stubborn knot that could only be untied by the best of knot tiers.

Your face leans on the Captain shoulder, his cheek pressed in the short crop of your hair, the seventies style jostled by the occasional kiss.

The radio plays in the background, radio four playing for it’s the best compromise between your music tastes, the long talking of the presenters lulling in the background almost like the two of you have left Button house and are sat in a nice café or park.

“It’s a nice day today.” you say as your eyes trail to the small window overlooking the large back garden, the radio mixed with the birds songs calming you down from morning filled with disorganised chaos and too many dead bodies.

“It is indeed.” he replies as you nestle into his shoulder some more.

“My Captain how I wish to stay like this forever.” you whisper as you take you other hand and cup his face, your fingers moving across his jaw.

The Captain happily hums almost like a purr, a thing he only really does around you, his body sinking closer to yours.

“Let’s stay here until the sun sets and everyone lays down to sleep.” you carry on.

“I would stay here forever if it was here with you.” Captain whispers, his voice so quiet that you almost miss it.

You smile and snuggle closer, the sun yet to set.

#not proof read #bbc ghosts #bbc ghosts x reader #ghost x reader #the captain #bbc ghosts the captain #the captain x reader #male reader #x male reader

213 notes · View notes

callsignspark · 8 months

Text

Mar[r]y Me - part seven

pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Mariella “M&M” Vertucci (fem!OC)

summary: A love story told through friendship, laughter, and food.

series warnings: 18+ minors DNI, discussion of insecurities, difficult family relationships, discussions of food and alcohol use, discussions of body image, conversations on what it’s like to be a fat woman trying to date in today’s society, extreme fluff, if you read these be warned that the last little bit will probably make you want to yell at me, ignore the fact that the mentioned tswift song wasn't out in 2021, warnings to be added as needed

word count: 4.8k

previous part | series masterlist | main masterlist

note: happy Friday!! it’s here! part seven!! I can't wait to hear what everyone thinks, I hope you all have an amazing weekend!! (side note: this chapter means we've almost hit 50,000 words on this story??? what!!! thanks for all your support!)

part seven - pasta e piselli

C’mon, pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

Bradley repeats the plea over and over again in his head, staring at his own stressed expression on the Facetime call screen. He’s not sure why he’s worried; she’s picked up every other time he’s called.

Which has been every day this week, so far.

He’s just about to give up, figuring she’s still busy at work, when Mary answers.

“Happy Thurs-” Bradley stops when he realizes she’s on the phone, holding a finger up.

“Just hang on one second, Zia! No! I-” She speaks rapidly in another language, surprising Bradley, before pulling the phone away and bending closer to her iPad. “Sorry, I just need like ten minutes to get her off the phone, and then I’m all yours. I can call you back?”

“Nah, that’s okay. I’ll just be here.” He returns her smile, only slightly distracted by the brief flash of lace he gets where her work shirt is unbuttoned.

Bradley watches her bustle around her hotel room, tidying up and throwing things in her suitcase as she talks on the phone. He gets comfortable on his couch, propping himself up on a mountain of pillows and letting the sweet sound of Mary’s voice wash over him. He’s pretty sure she’s talking to her aunt in Italian, based on the googling he did of the bits and pieces he was able to understand.

It’s sexy, he thinks, imagining what it would be like to have her whisper in his ear in Italian, even if he would have no idea what was being said.

“You would think the fact that she’s closing in on 100 would mean she would have less energy to talk, but somehow, she’s only gained strength over the years.”

His focus comes back to the screen, drifting away from the fantasy he was building in his head to find Mary smiling sweetly at him, her chin resting in her hand. “Hi.”

“Hi, Bradley.”

“You speak Italian.” She nods, saying something to him and laughing when he just looks confused. “What?”

“I said that you must have had a stressful day because your hair looks like your call sign, Mr. Rooster.”

“It’s not that bad!” A glance at his Facetime window tells him that his hair is sticking straight up. Of course, he can’t admit that it’s from running his hands through it during his minor panic that she wouldn’t pick up and then while dreaming about having her on his lap. “Okay. I’ve had better hair days. But back to you, Italian?”

“Yeah, my whole family speaks it to varying degrees. The first few generations - on both sides - spoke very little English, if any at all. My parents and their siblings are the first generation that you could consider fully fluent in English. I had older relatives that only spoke Italian live with my family growing up, so I was a bilingual baby.”

“Was it hard to learn English?”

“Not really? Our house was English first, Italian second whenever possible, so I picked both up pretty quick.”

“That’s so cool! I took Spanish in high school, but I really only remember how to ask about the library. Donde está la biblioteca?” They laugh at his poor pronunciation. “So, how was your day?”

“It was good! Very productive; with all the meetings today, I finally had enough time to finish my program review slides! So tomorrow, I can fully focus on outfitting the last three jets. The team up here understood the upgrade really quickly, which is encouraging. It means the training pipeline that Dave put in place is working.”

“That’s good. What uh- what are you doing now?” Bradley’s mouth goes dry as he watches Mary unbutton her shirt, slipping it off to reveal a white camisole that clings to her in all the right places.

“Some of the people I worked with in Florida are here for training and program review prep! And we finally all have a free evening, so we’re going to dinner! I want to wear that shirt tomorrow morning, and I don’t want to get makeup on it while I’m retouching.”

“That sounds fun.” He can hear how rough his voice is, heart thumping when he watches her eyes dart to his, a light pink appearing on the apples of her round cheeks.

“How was your day?”

He tucks an arm behind his head, watching her freshen her makeup and telling her about the antics the Dagger Squad had gotten up to without her. It had been a light day; everyone got grounded due to rain, so Cyclone had them act as guinea pigs for a new training regiment the Navy is considering. They had, of course, gotten too competitive about it and completely over-performed the expected standards. Admiral Simpson was so frustrated that he let them go early, banning them from his sight for the rest of the day.

“He really swore at you guys?!” Mary laughs, swiping something shiny over her lips.

“He did! And he did that thing where he gets so mad his face turns red, and it looks like that vein in his neck is going to rupture!”

“You guys are going to kill that man.”

“It’s Mav’s fault. He taught us the right buttons to push.” Bradley shrugs when Mary raises a doubtful eyebrow at him, a laugh threatening to break through.

“I only half believe that some of you are quite annoying all on your own.”

“Wow, hurtful.”

She giggles at his dramatic chest grab. “I didn’t name names; if you took offense, that’s your own fault. Does my makeup look okay? Any places need fixing?”

Mary holds the tablet up to her face, closing her eyes to show off her makeup. Bradley takes the quiet moment to admire her. She’s never really been one to wear much makeup, but every time she does, it just enhances her beauty.

“You look great.” He holds back all the compliments and praise he wants to shower her with, reminding himself they’re not quite there yet, choosing to add some helpful feedback instead. “You do have some mascara on your right eyelid, though.”

“Oh, thank you! I’ll clean that up when I change.” She walks over to the closet, pulling out two dresses. “Which one for dinner?”

“The red one.” He answers with zero hesitation. He loves red on her; the color always looks so good against her tanned skin.

She hums, holding the dress against herself and looking in the mirror. “Yeah, good choice. I’m gonna ch-”

Mary shrieks as a door flies open, and Harvard comes bursting in. “Are you ready yet?”

“Brigham! You’re only supposed to use that for emergencies!”

“I’m hungry, and I want to get going.”

“That is not an emergency! What if I was naked?!”

“I could hear Rooster’s big mouth; I knew you weren’t naked. C’mon! Get changed. I want to eat!”

Bradley sits there baffled as Mary throws the dress he didn’t pick at Harvard’s head, snapping at him to hang it up before slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Harvard does and then takes Mary’s seat, waving at Bradley with a big grin on his face, completely unaware of how Bradley is reeling inside. “Hey, man! What’s up? How’re you?”

He doesn’t break to let Rooster answer, rambling on about his week and the mentoring program Cyclone had sent him to work on. Bradley can only let it go on so long before he bursts. “How did you get in?”

At that exact moment, Mary reappears, the red fabric highlighting her tan and accentuating her curves, even better than he remembered it from the night they met. “We ended up with adjoining rooms.”

“We’re keeping them unlocked for emergency purposes, aka so I can make sure she actually has some fun while we’re here.” Harvard proudly announces.

“I was swindled; he’s got very convincing puppy dog eyes.” She ushers him out of her chair so she can slip her shoes on. “It’s like the little brother I never wanted.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

Mary looks at Bradley and rolls her eyes. “And yet he refuses to leave. Go grab your wallet and the keys so we can get going.”

They both ignore Brigham’s muttered complaints as he heads to his room, focusing on each other.

“You look beautiful, honey.” Bradley says lowly once their friend is gone, like if he’s quiet enough with his compliments, then their just friends for now promise won’t be broken.

She looks at him through her lashes, putting her earring on and answering just as lowly. “Thank you. You look handsome.”

“Even with my hair sticking up?”

“Even then, dolcezza.” She hums. A yell from next door interrupts them before he can ask what she called him. “I gotta go, or we’ll be late for dinner. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Have fun, be safe.”

“Hello?” Bradley grumbles into the receiver, not appreciating being woken up after it took almost an hour to fall asleep.

“I can’t see you, Bradley; turn the light on.”

He pulls the phone back, pleasantly surprised to find Mary staring back at him. She’s showered and propped her phone against something, her brown eyes looking sleepy as she snuggles under the covers. A wave of longing hits him; she looks so soft and sweet. He wants nothing more than to be there with her.

“Sorry I woke you up.” She apologizes as he flips the light on and stands his phone on his bedside table.

“S’okay. Did you have a good time with your friends?”

“Yeah…” She sighs, a lazy smile spreading across her face. “It was great! I haven’t seen them since I left last year. We drank so much wine, which happens every time we let Ron pick the restaurant.”

“You tipsy, honey?”

“Think so.” She giggles, burying her face in her pillow for a second. “But it’s okay. Brigham drove, and he made sure I didn’t twist my ankle in those sandals.”

“Did he complain about it?”

“The whole time, he’s a good guy.” She blinks at his annoyed grumble. “Are you jealous? It’s okay if you are, but you don’t have to be. He really is like a brother. Besides, you’re the only sexy Dagger. Like, you’re all ridiculously attractive - statistically, only one or two of you should be hot, and somehow you all are; someone should study the probability of that - but you’re the only one I think is sexy.”

Bradley feels his jaw drop at her admission. He wants to stop her and talk about the fact that she thinks he’s sexy, but she’s steamrolling ahead on a different topic.

“I’m so excited to get home! It’s Annie’s birthday on Saturday, so I get to watch her run around with all her little friends from preschool. It’s gonna be so cute!” She coos, her smile wide.

“You’re gonna need a few Advil after listening to all that screaming.”

“Probably, but it’ll be nice to see her have fun on her birthday.”

“Hey, speaking of birthdays. I was thinking we should do something for your birthday on Sunday since I’ll be gone on the actual day.”

“You remember my birthday?”

“Of course I do, March 14th - Pi Day. And if I did my math correctly, you’re going to be 34.”

“That’s right.” Her answer is just above a whisper.

He can’t describe the way Mary is looking at him; her eyes are big and glassy, and there’s something in her expression he just can’t quite recognize.

“I was thinking we’d spend an evening together - just the two of us - and I’ll make dinner for you.”

“That’s so sweet, Bradley, but I don’t know if I can accept. That’s a lot of work.”

“No, it’s not. Not if I’m doing it for you.”

“Bradley… that plan isn’t very just friends.” Her voice is quiet, shy.

“I know. But I promise, this is completely different than the dinner I promised you after I get back in May. It’s not a date like that’s going to be. So whatdya say? Gonna let me make you dinner?”

“Only if I’m bringing dessert.”

“Nope, it’s your birthday. You’re not bringing dessert.”

Mary’s eyebrows scrunch as she sits up to get closer to the camera, the covers slipping down to reveal her nightgown. Bradley swallows hard. He knows she’s not doing it on purpose - doesn’t think she is anyway - but the pink fabric drapes across her skin in the most tantalizing way. He watches the strap slip down her shoulder, feeling weaker with every millimeter it moves. It makes him want to give in to her, but he stays strong, insisting that she’s not allowed to bring food to her own birthday dinner.

“Fine. Am I allowed to bring wine?”

He thinks for a second. “That’s okay, as long as that’s all you bring.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Alright, smartass. Time for bed.” He lays back down, watching as she gets comfortable.

Mary hums, fighting against her eyes that are trying to slip close. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Course. Good night, honey.”

The last thing he sees before she hangs up is her pretty face, a sleepy smile on her lush lips, and her dark hair spread out on the white hotel pillows. “Night, dolcezza. Sleep well.”

The screen goes dark, and Bradley smiles back at his own reflection. It had taken some trial and error, but he had looked up what dolcezza meant while she was at dinner.

Dolcezza: Sweetheart or Honey (literally: sweetness; considered old-fashioned)

Mary’s anxiety has been eating away at her all day. From the moment she woke up, to getting ready two hours early because she was worried about being late, to this very second. The combination of nerves and excitement has her entire body vibrating. Her hand even shook a little when she lifted it to knock, thankful that she had tucked the wine safely into her canvas bag.

It’s just dinner with Bradley. There’s nothing to be nervous about.

She’s been telling herself that since accepting his invitation, but she can’t fool her own heart. Bradley inviting her over so he can make a birthday dinner for her because he’s going to be gone on her actual birthday? She knows this means more for them than just dinner.

More than just friends.

She’s beginning to regret asking that they wait to go on a date until he gets back from this deployment. He was so kind and understanding when she explained and had been taking everything at the pace she requested. But an itch is starting to form, one she can’t scratch by herself.

An itch that can only soothed by Bradley’s lips pressed to hers. By his big hands cradling her face. By his strong body pinning hers to the bed. By the two of them sharing a bed at night. Now that she’s had a slice what it would be like to be with him, she’s desperate for more. Just the thought of how he might taste-

You have got to calm down. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.

Mary follows her own instructions, trying to practice the Lamaze breathing she learned at Danielle’s birthing classes, the ones she attended when they weren’t sure what Reuben’s schedule would look like. She’s smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of her shirt when the door opens.

Why the fuck did I say we should be just friends for now?

Bradley looks gorgeous. There’s no other word to describe it. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed up and hugging his arms, the soft fabric stretched across his broad shoulders. He’s wearing her favorite pair of jeans, the light-wash ones that cup his ass just right. And he’s gotten a trim, his curls slightly shorter than the last time she saw him in person.

As a familiar aroma wafts past his tall frame, his flushed cheeks make her wonder if it’s because he’s been cooking or because of her. She hopes it’s because of her.

“Hi. Happy birthday, Mariella.”

She loves it when Bradley says her full name. His pink lips curving around the letters, the syllables effortlessly dripping from his mouth. He even develops the tiniest Italian accent, an unconscious effect of her name. Her heart pounds with the care he always uses with her name, the respect.

“Thanks, Bradley.” She’s momentarily taken off guard when he pulls her into his strong chest but is reluctant to pull back from his warm hug. “Whatever you’re making smells good.”

“Thank you! I think you’re gonna like it.”

Mary’s smile widens as he takes her bag while she slips her shoes off. “Yeah? What are we having?”

“Oh, that’s a surprise - you’ll just have to wait a little bit and see. Have a seat at the table, and I’ll pour you a glass of this wine you brought.”

She slips into a dining room chair and watches as he opens the wine, bobbing his head to the music coming from the record player across the room. He dramatically sniffs the cork, and the cheeky smile he shoots over his shoulder makes her laugh.

“Something funny, Miss Mary?” Bradley saunters around the counter peninsula, handing over a stemless wine glass.

“Nothing, just unaware I was in the presence of a sommelier. Did you taste the peach the label talked about?”

“I did; I also picked up on notes of lime. Very delicious pinot grigio you selected for tonight.”

“The Navy’s amazing reading skills in action.” She smirks at the confused tilt of his head. “It’s a sauvignon blanc, Bradley.”

He throws his head back as he laughs. “Shit! They all taste the same to me.”

“Me too.” She admits as he checks on the food, warmth blooming in her chest at the domesticity of the scene. All the anxiety from earlier suddenly seems ridiculous; she’s never felt more comfortable with a man. “Which drives Dani insane because apparently there’s a lot of differences.”

“Wine is wine! You know, like Mr. Incredible when he tries to do the math homework?” Bradley jokes as he sets salad and bread on the table. “Could you dish out the salad while I serve the pasta?”

Mary is slicing the loaf of sourdough when Bradley sets a bowl of pasta at seat. His chest brushes her back, and he squeezes her hip as he moves to his seat, murmuring a low thanks when she puts bread on his plate. She loses her breath as she sits back down, her heart racing when she sees what he’s made.

“Pasta e piselli?”

“It’s your favorite.”

“You remember that?”

“What’s your favorite?”

Mary perks up at the question, happy that Bradley is so interested in what she has to say. “Pasta e piselli, which is just pasta and peas. But it’s so good and filling and comforting.”

“Do you make it a lot?”

“I don’t actually, Amelia, even though it’s very easy to make.” She sends a conspiratory wink to her, getting a big smile in return. “It’s one of those recipes I break out for a special dinner or when I need a pick-me-up meal.”

“Special dinner? You ever make it for a date?”

The question stops her cold. She knows Amelia catches the way her face drops, a shocked expression she can’t quite control. One of her worst qualities, according to her mother. She can feel pity radiating from the young girl standing on the end of the cart, feeling sad for the pathetic thirty-three-year-old woman who can’t understand when a man just thinks of her as a friend.

Her throat feels acidic, swallowing the tears that threaten to show themselves. She feels so stupid, because up until that question, she would have sworn Bradley was flirting with her. She should know better by now. She’s not someone that men find desirable. She’s fat and awkward and bad at flirting.

Mary stutters out an answer, some bullshit about commitment, before focusing on Amelia, who interrupts to talk about cupcakes. She takes advantage of the distraction, using it to move them toward the cashiers and taking the first chance to get away from the siblings. She can’t help but feel even more heartbroken when Bradley offers to carry her groceries. He’s such a good guy. It’s not his fault she’s so pathetic and convinced herself a man like Bradley could want someone like her.

“That’s sweet, but I’ve got it. Been doing this all by myself for years now! Enjoy your pizza, guys!” She gives a poor excuse of a wave, her smile sad as she thinks about how true her statement is.

She has been doing it by herself for years. All alone - no partner, no roommate, no help - since she graduated college. Her best friends usually thousands of miles away, limited contact with her family in New York, only a few friends in Missouri. And then, in Florida, just when she had started to get friendly with people besides the admiral she worked with, she had gotten the job in San Diego and moved, leaving that budding life behind.

She should probably be thankful that Bradley didn’t press more after Amelia interrupted. That he didn’t ask her to help him make the recipe for whatever lucky woman he had in mind when he asked about making it for a date. Because she would have said yes, desperate to spend time with the man she had a crush on.

Well, that’s gonna stop now righ now, she decides as she sends one last small smile to Bradley and Amelia, trudging out to her Jeep and letting herself cry for a few seconds once the groceries are loaded. Driving home with tears leaking down her cheeks as her favorite sad Taylor Swift song plays on repeat.

“Of course I do.” His socked feet brush her own, and he reaches over to grab her hand.” You said you would only make it for someone who was committed to you.”

Her heart races at the implication of his words.

I’m committed to you.

“You asked if I would make this for a date.” Bradley nods. “This isn’t a date.”

“It’s not a date.” He confirms, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“It’s only been a week, I’m not-”

“I know, Mary.” He gently cuts her off. “It’s not a date; I just wanted to make something special for your birthday.”

She tries to swallow around the lump in her throat, overwhelmed by the sweet and thoughtful man sitting beside her. Compared to her previous relationship attempts, Bradley keeps surpassing her expectations by leaps and bounds. She knows it’s not fair to compare them, to keep waiting for him to act like them. He’s not them.

He is so much better.

Bradley is kind and caring. He listens to her, really takes in what she’s saying, doesn’t just nod as the words come out of her mouth. The slightest brush of his skin against hers sets her on fire. He makes her feel safe; she’s never once questioned his intentions or felt uneasy while in the car with him.

Logically, Mary knows the beautiful man in front of her really does care about her, but it’s still hard to believe they’ve gotten here. That they’re here, having this not-date that is so clearly a date. That they’ve confessed their feelings.

“Try some.”

Her stare lingers on his face for another minute, committing his soft expression to memory, before looking down at her bowl.

“It really does look great.” She doesn’t let go of his hand, scooping a bite with her right hand and blowing to cool it down. Bradley’s eyes twinkle as she takes the first bite, his pupils dilating at the involuntary sound that escapes as the flavors melt in her mouth.

No one had made this meal for her since her grandmother passed away twenty years ago. It's like a taste of childhood between the fresh peas and the sharp pecorino cheese.

“Is it good?”

“Well, it’s not Nonna Romano's pasta e piselli, but you did a great job, Bradley. It’s delicious.” She smiles as his face drops in relief, a wide smile replacing his nervous one.

They spend dinner talking and laughing, their legs constantly brushing together as they discuss which post-program review happy hour mixers they should attend. Then, after the leftovers are packed up, Bradley ushers her onto his balcony and plops the two of them on his wicker loveseat, ignoring her protests that she could do the dishes.

“I’ll do them later. Just sit here and relax with me, would ya?”

“Fine.” Mary huffs, shuffling closer until she’s tucked into his side, warm and content under the blanket he grabbed.

The two sit in comfortable silence, cuddled together as they listen to the sounds of the street below and watch the last rays of the sunset slip away. It’s not until the few stars that are actually visible through San Diego’s light pollution appear in the sky that one of them moves.

“I’ll be right back.” He says, chuckling at her tiny, displeased whine when he pulls away. She watches him walk into his apartment, appreciating the long lines of his body.

When the door slides shut, she takes a second to just breathe, the crisp evening air filling her lungs and cooling her warm cheeks as she tries to calm herself down. The butterflies in her storm are waging a war against her, but not in a bad way. It’s not nerves or anxiety that’s making her stomach flip.

It’s happiness.

It’s Bradley.

An involuntary laugh escapes at the realization. Mary presses the blanket against her face, muffling the excited giggles she can’t control. Giddy like a schoolgirl with her first real crush. She brings the blanket down at the sound of the door opening; her cheeks are sore from smiling so big but they stretch even more at the sight in front of her.

Bradley walking towards her, singing Happy Birthday with a slice of cheesecake in one hand and his phone in the other. He carefully sits back down, handing over the plate to light the candle.

“Happy birthday to you!”

Mary can’t look away from the man sitting next to her. Her heart is so full she could cry. She’s never been one to make a big fuss about birthdays. Usually spends the day working and enjoying her colleagues' happiness at the treats she brought to share. Treating herself to dinner out and maybe some dessert before calling her best friends to chat and catch up, laughing through their awful rendition of Happy Birthday.

The effort Bradley has put in has her on the brink of happy tears. Not only did he remember her favorite dinner months after she mentioned it once, but he put in the time to actually make it. He’s done all the work himself and hasn’t let her lift a finger. Something she appreciates more than he could ever imagine. Growing up, there was never a day where she was allowed to not help. Every special day of her - birthday, graduation - ended with her in the kitchen, putting leftovers away and washing dishes while her brothers got to have fun. And on top of all that, she knows he asked Dani or Reuben for help because he’s stuck a candle in a slice of chocolate raspberry swirl cheesecake - her favorite.

His soft voice interrupts her thoughts. “Make a wish, honey.”

I hope we never get tired of each other. I hope we grow old together. I hope we love each other forever.

She keeps eye contact with him as she blows the candle out, hoping he understands she’s wishing for him.

For them.

Bradley stops recording and drops his phone on the table without looking, scooting closer to her with a hungry look in his eyes. It’s clear as day how much he wants her, even in the low light of the balcony, and it sends shivers up her spine.

“What did you wish for?” His voice is rough compared to a few seconds ago, like there’s gravel in his throat.

Mary’s eyes flicker between his lips and his eyes, unable to decide which one she wants to look at more. “I can’t say, or it might not come true.” His mouth wins the battle when his tongue peeks out to wet his lips.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that. Would we?” Her heart kicks into overdrive as he leans closer, his right hand pushing hair out of her face while the other slips around her back, tugging her closer.

“Thank you for this, it was perfect.”

Mary leans in, her breath hitching when the tips of their noses brush. Her free hand runs up his chest, appreciating the soft sweater before dipping into his curls. Bradley presses in even further, the small dessert plate between them the only thing keeping them apart.

“Of course. Happy Birthday, dolcezza.”

if you would like to be added (or removed) from the tag list please send an ask!

fic tag | credit for dividers here

#top gun maverick fic #top gun maverick au #top gun maverick imagine #top gun fic #top gun au #top gun imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw x oc #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster imagine #DSS universe #MM fic #elle writes #mar[r]y me fic

44 notes · View notes

tristayranambrosio · 2 months

Text

"Flirt/Casualty" Day 1 - February 18 DWC

(This short story is told from the perspective of a former band Mate and how Trist and He met. You know before Trist was all Star-Void-Elfy. Enjoy <3: Note that its a little steamy and about a very tormented Orc who struggled very much with being himself until my Bard stumbled into his life) I nurse the sour ale in my tankard, I despise the flavor and would much prefer the tang of citrus and sweet mixed with some honey wine that I see the softer fellows in this den can be seen enjoying. Not me… no I have to sit and watch as the Crimson Curtain comes to life at the arrival of its star lutist. He is like a feast for my starving eyes, and I imagine if it was his lips I drank from… even this piss-water would taste like bliss. Instead I see him lean over a table and flirt with one of the affluent patrons and my tankard groans in protest under my white knuckled grip. Luckily for me an Orc bitterly suffering through the sorry excuse for a drink and scowling at this brazen display of flamboyant softness isn’t out of place here. In truth I crave the comfort of its magnificent colors, and the beautiful staff… I want to drink their sweet scents, roses and citrus… to bathe in them to bask in the relief it’d be just to live in their embroidered silks, rather than the oppressive Leather plates and spikes the Chief insists I have to wear to attract the attention of some she-orc to bear my sons. I snarl into my tankard and take a long furious gulp and attempt to swallow it with the revolting thought of using some poor female like that… knowing my mind would wander back to the laughing eyes of the Rose scented lead that has started in flirting with a fellow across the bar from me… Seeing how the soft beauty of an elf lightly squeezing the other Mercenary's arm and admiring the build sends my blood on fire and I briefly contemplate making the bastard another casualty of my fuming jealousy… No one else should be allowed to touch my Rose… none of them are good enough… fel neither am I… And yet… I flash back to the bright curtains while he grips them as tightly as I do my tankard. I imagine him screaming my name under my palm as I make him stifle it lest his boss hear what I’m taking from him… I imagine how it’d feel to pull his hair until he was panting and spent just so I could kiss his shoulder and tell him everything. That I’d never wanted someone as badly as I did him… I’d had my share of elven males, loved their tender perfect bodies for the pleasures they were to touch, this one though, he haunted me ever since I heard him sing… play… on Nestor’s old wine stained stage. He laughs again at something the jackass across from me says and I’m out of my Stool and about to storm over and yank my Rose away from this-this-... I halt when the Bard meets my eyes, struck with an overwhelming sense of terror, rage, and desire, with no idea which of those is reflected in my eyes. He’s unafraid, meeting me stare for stare, only in his Light Pink eyes I see… amusement, he’s not intimidated by the growl that I didn’t even realize was escaping me. “Easy, big guy, if you’re looking for a fight I’ll oblige, but Nestor told me you wanted to meet.” He extended a hand smiling… at -me- and I feel my face twist with glee and fury with a focus, that Bastard Busybody Ring-master I will kill him, “I’m Trist’Ayran Ambrosio, a pleasure-”

The way his tongue rolls over the last word has my body at attention and my nostrils flare… my anger at the meddling Cabaret Director temporarily dispelled as I’m being offered a hand I’d imagined on every part of me and I am once again glad that armor and leather doesn’t have much give as a rule and my state isn’t betrayed to be what it was, fixated entirely on this little Rose’s hands… eyes… lips… I grunt and force down my thoughts of how I’d like to hear him speak around parts of me I’ve only ever shared with soft sweet males like him… He waits patiently, his hand held out to what he must see as a brute of few words and even fewer kind ones. I make a show of crossing my arms and sneering at the Cabaret and despite loving every inch of it growl, “Did the Fop? Figures he’d send the Tavern Flirt at me. I’m -not- interested.” My body revolts and rails against my statement, the lie it was… I wasn’t just interested, I was obsessed… I had been for weeks… months… Trist withdrew his hand smoothly as if I’d not just looked at him with the well practiced disdain I leveled all openly true people with, and he smiled, “No one’s twisting your arm, big guy, not that I could… but you play?” I huff and keep my mask on firmly, indifference, disinterest, annoyance… even when within I yearn BURN to feel him -in- my arms… “Drums.”

Trist beams… and my heart slams so hard within my ribs I swear I feel it trying to burst from me into this Bard’s hands, like it was trying to escape, fly to him from the moment I heard his voice, then saw his face… Rose Quartz eyes and the most magnificent Autumn Maple hair that framed his perfect features in waves and curls that smelled like the Roses that haunted my senses ever since. “Well I’d love to see what you’ve got for me, Big Guy, but it’d be nice if you could give me a name… Otherwise you’re just gonna be some generic ‘big guy’ and if you’re joining up… well I’d like to be able to introduce you as you…” Oh what I could show him… what I had for him was a lust so intense it was making my blood power anything but my mind, and again I delayed my reply assailed with the image of showing just what I had for him… and hearing him say my name, “Jezza” My voice is a growl that I hope is intimidating and not giving away where my thoughts had gone… I needed to get a hold of myself… have this damned bard, and then put him from my mind forever. It wasn’t healthy, and if I can’t repress this need… this weakness for him and what he awoke in me, I was never going to be able to face my Tribe. It was not as if I could sire on him… but, Ancestors help me, my body certainly seemed to wanna give that a go with the urge building in me by the moment, not to mention the restless nights that showed my supposed lack of interest or virility with proposed brides was simply a product of them not being this soft bard… Get it over with, get him out of your head… this is not normal. “Jezza.” My breath stopped. My heart seized… say it again… I willed him. “Jezza…” He tasted my name testing the sound on that damnable tongue, “Handsome name for a Handsome Brute.”

He was- “Are you MOCKING me runt?” I nearly roar. “Nah. Just flirting. Lets see what you got.” With that he sauntered up… and tucked a pair of Drumsticks under my belt… and I could swear he did it to glance under the hem of my leathers… but I was too distracted by the proximity… how he somehow smelled even better than I imagined, and how my eyes nearly rolled back in their skull knowing just how close he was to me. It was over too soon. He pulled away and swatted my hip, “You coming?” The bard brandished his lute as he sauntered to the stage tilting his head to the Drum set in the back, but I was almost rooted to the floor. Staring at this brazen… cocky… magnificent -thing- that I was going to -make- mine. I rumble and to myself, “Not yet… but you’ll see to that soon.” I stormed up to the stage all bravado and seething outrage… but I play… and Oh… I bask in the first time my Rose really sees me and feels me in the beat. The novelty will get stale… and my Life will start and I’ll leave all this behind. Maybe after a few more songs.

@daily-writing-challenge

#moon guard #roleplay #world of warcraft #wow oc #bard #warcraft rp #short story #trist'ayran #daily writing challenge

14 notes · View notes

cooliofango · 1 year

Text

Strength of the Ancients

[BOTW! Link x F! Reader]

Prologue Part 1

[Next Part]

A little author’s note before I start! This is a bit self indulgent and part of an idea I’ve been holding onto for a while now that I wanted to try writing out and I’ve decided to start on this platform! If it goes well then I may reach out to other platforms, but, for now, it shall remain here! This story is supposed to branch out throughout the three games and then some both before and after them based from my own imagination, so hopefully we’ll be in this for the long run. Also, the name for Link’s sister will be Alona in this story since she was never given a name in this game. All we know is that if she would’ve been an actual character in the game, she would’ve been a remake of Aryll or that she would’ve had a different name-- which I tried to make a little similar. For the names of Link’s parents, I will be getting them from the Sound and Drama CD which names Link’s father Banzetta and his mother Loretta, as well as Zelda’s mother who appears to be named Seline. Im choosing for the reader to be female for this story, though, again, if the story is liked enough, I will be happy to rewrite it with a male reader if requested. The picture was cropped and found on Picsart!

Masterlist to access the rest of the story!

The steps of the two Hylians, a father and a son, echoed loudly in the castle, the lights pouring in from the crystal-like glass that lined the walls of the hallway. The ceilings rose high above them, the light glittering against the stone on the lower parts of the arches with the aid of the torches that remained lit beneath them. Every now and then, they would pass a guard who stood attentive yet unmoving in place. They simply watched as the king’s guests moved on.

The son appeared to be a little anxious, though he kept quiet as he looked around this rather foreign place. His father was a blacksmith who provided weapons and armor for the royal calvary while him and his younger sister tended to the farm at home in his absences-- although they would often get help from their father if he wasn’t working. The closest the young boy has ever been to the castle was the town below its walls where his father worked and where he and his sister would travel to to sell the goods they grew. The castle was always something he and his sister would admire from afar, yet he never guessed that he would be going inside it.

“Chin up, boy,” The gruff voice of his father reached his ears, causing him to look up at the elder man.

“Yes, sir.” The boy muttered, straightening his posture and looking ahead. They approached large double doors, to which more guards stood at. However, upon noticing their presence, they moved to grab the handles of the door and pulled them open. The doors creaked on their hinges at the movement, though only because of how large they were rather than if they were old or not. Beyond the door way was a large throne room. The ceilings rose even higher than the ones in the halls do-- something the young one didn't not think was possible. In the middle of the back wall, overlooking the whole room, were the thrones that sat underneath a large stained glass mural of the symbol of Hyrule shaped into it. There were three of them, the largest being in the middle, one just a little shorter than it on the left, and a smaller one on the right. The king sat within the middle one. The boy felt himself tense under the king’s intimidating presence alone, feeling his gaze burn into him and his father.

The father stopped a few feet away from the king and knelt down to bow with respect. His son did the same not long after upon noticing his father’s movements. “You’re majesty, it’s an honor to make your presence,” the father spoke up once more in kind greeting before careful getting back to his feet.

“The honor is all mine, Banzetta. You’re presence here was greatly anticipated,” The king looked at the boy now, sitting up in place, “And this must be the boy, correct.” Upon being addressed, the young one quickly got to his feet and straightened his posture-- he hadn’t realized his father had stood up already and was still kneeling on the ground till now. Rhoam stood from his throne and made his way down the steps towards the child. “Let me see your hand, boy.”

And he did just that, not wanting to appear to be disrespectful before someone so powerful. The nervousness still remained as he held out his right hand to him. Though the boy didn’t know the full extent to the markings on his hand just yet, he already knew that it was what the king wanted to see. It was the sole reason why his father brought him here. On the back of his palm rested an ancient symbol known as the ti-force with the bottom right triangle highlighted against his skin. He didn't know what it meant-- but being here was a hope to get answers.

The king knelt down before the boy and took his hand to inspect it. The king’s hold was gentle and he slid his thumb over the triangle shape imbedded in the boy’s skin. “So it’s true then. The Hero of Courage has been reborn.” King Rhoam spoke knowingly. It was hard to tell whether he was in shock or if he was relieved by his tone and this expression didn’t change except for the slight narrowing of the eyes.

The Hero of Courage was someone mentioned in a story the boy had heard from his mother before she had passed away years ago. A hero from the sky, clad in green, who took on an evil being of Power named Demise to save his dear friend and Hyrule from destruction. From then on out, the three wielders of the tri-force continued to be reborn-- Power causing destruction, Wisdom allocating knowledge to the land, and Courage protecting the land. The boy didn’t think the story to be real at the time, mostly because of where the hero seemed to come from. If Hyrule used to have islands in the sky, then where were they now?

“Hylia...” Banzetta muttered with his own surprise. Unlike his son, he did know the story behind the never ending battle between Courage, Wisdom, and Power right away. Although the appearance of the Hero of Courage was one to be celebrating, it also foretold the near future of Hyrule. Hyrule would fall into war once more at the hands of the Calamity and the monsters it brings.

The king stood up from the ground, looking down at the young boy. “Link,” he spoke the name of the boy as he remembered it from the letter, “Do you understand the responsibilities of the Hero of Courage?”

Link held a soft frown and directed his gaze away in thought. If he were to believe his mother’s stories to be true, then-- in a way-- he did have an idea of what the Hero of Courage’s duty was. “Yes, sir,” Link nodded hesitantly along with his words, looking back up at the king as he did so.

“Do you accept this responsibility to protect Hyrule and fulfill the destiny given to you by the Golden Goddesses of old?” The king urged with hope, holding his hands behind his back as he waited for an answer.

Being the reborn hero was hard to believe and yet there was something in the back of his mind telling him to take this chance. It was a call to adventure screaming at him to accept this role. If he was really the Hero of Courage, then he needed to be the one to defeat the wielder of Power that intended to destroy his home. It’s only ever been the Hero of Courage who defeats this evil in every story he’s heard about from his dear mother.

“Y-Yes,” although he stutters, his face shows determination.

The king visibly relaxes, turning back to sit on the throne. “Very well,” he sits down on the throne with each arm resting on the arm rests beside him. King Rhoam turns his attention to Banzetta.

Father and son shared a gaze. The nervousness still hung in the air, yet something new had sparked within the boy. A will, you could say. Banzetta expressed worry, but, upon noting how his son accepted this weight, said nothing. Instead, he looked to the king.

“Banzetta, it would be ideal to keep Link here with our ranks. He will need to start training as soon as possible,” King Rhoam looked to where a couple guards were on the left of the throne room and nodded, to which they both made their way to the pair standing before him.

Banzetta tightened his lips into a straight line. “A-... A week. I’d like to request that he return here for training in a week,” he requested in hopes to give Link a bit of time at home before leaving so suddenly. The boy, in turn, seemed to already agree with this. He loved his sister dearly, after all, and he didn’t want to just leave her on her own without an explanation.

The king huffed to himself as he considered the request. There was time. According to the sages, the Calamity shouldn’t arrive for another half of a decade. They had five years to prepare-- five years to build an army.

“Very well. Return in exactly a week, no time later, no time less.”

Banzetta sighed with relief, “Of course. Thank you, your majesty.”

The king nodded and returned his focus back to Link. “And thank you, young one. Hyrule will forever be in your debt. Guards, please escort these two to the palace gates.”

#reader insert #loz #loz x reader #botw #botw x reader #botw link #link x reader #age of calamity #aoc link #loz botw #loz aoc #legend of zelda #legend of zelda x reader #the legend of zelda #breath of the wild #loz totk #tears of the kingdom #totk link

83 notes · View notes

miss-mania · 5 months

Text

Alan Wake is a game that asks a lot of questions.

Vital, existential questions like "what if Twin Peaks was written by Stephen King?" and "is a possessed combine harvester a good idea for a video game boss fight?" and "is a possessed combine harvester a good idea for a video game boss fight that happens three times?" and "what is an ocean if not a very big lake?"

Below the cut I'll talk about Alan Wake Remastered, a game I played in preparation for Control and Alan Wake 2, which I imagine I'll also write little reviews for. Lots of spoilers ahead.

The main character of Alan Wake is Alan Wake, a writer; we know this from his gruff monologue at the very beginning of the game in which he says "my name is Alan Wake, and I'm a writer." More specifically, he is a best-selling crime-thriller author who is somehow recognized by everyone he meets when he arrives at the small Washington town of Bright Falls at the beginning of the game for a vacation with his wife, Alice.

These two seem pretty annoying at first, but it ends up not being much of a problem as basically every character you are introduced to from here on out will be successively more annoying than the last. Alan is an asshole; he is standoffish and rude to almost everyone he meets, and holds with a particular contempt his fans. He likes to escalate confrontations astoundingly quickly, which we learn after he has an argument with his wife at the lakeside cabin where they're staying. His wife is almost immediately partially-refrigerated when she falls into the lake, and Alan dives in to save her.

The next thing we know, Alan Wake...wakes up next to a crashed car at the bottom of a cliff, and the first level begins much in the same way nearly every level will from now on; by showing you a distant landmark you must get to, and making you trek through miles of spooky woodland while being accosted by what appear to be the shadowy specters of angry lumberjacks. Two things quickly become clear; first, something is very wrong in Bright Falls.

Second, Alan Wake is an abysmal writer. This is very unfortunate for us, the player, as we begin to piece together the story through pages of a manuscript written by Alan that he doesn't remember writing; a manuscript that seems to predict his future. Every manuscript page is a paragraph or two long and sucks badly. In one page reminiscent of a reddit 2sentencehorror post, Wake writes:

"I was finally out of the woods and things were looking up. That's when I heard the chainsaw." Manuscript pages are constantly telling you "look out, there's a chainsaw guy up ahead" or "some CRAZY story thing is about to transpire". In rare moments of actually serving a narrative purpose other than the most direct and literal foreshadowing possible, these pages describe events happening outside of the scope of the player's experience, off-camera interactions between the various characters. Unfortunately these are still written (and read aloud by Alan) in the same utterly tedious prose as the rest.

This is a very good example of an amusing thing this game feels the need to constantly do; justify its own schlock, lampshade its own game-ness. After the fourth or fifth time Alan has fallen off a cliff for the purposes of transporting himself to a new part of a level or depriving himself of his weapons, he literally narrates: "I had fallen off so many cliffs lately that it was ridiculous." He wonders aloud why the police chasing him have flashbang grenades, a weapon that proves to be very effective against the aforementioned shadow lumberjacks. He asks the player "who designs these things?" of the baby's-first-puzzle-game labyrinth he has to navigate to shut down a power station.

It's ok though, there's a reason for all of it: Alan Wake wrote it that way. It turns out that during a week-long fugue state between his wife being maybe kidnapped and him waking up at the bottom of his first cliff, he wrote the manuscript you've been finding pages from; you see, the lake in Bright Falls is magical and makes anything he writes come true. It is also home to a "dark presence" who has taken his wife and forced Alan to write a story in which it frees itself from its lake prison to...possess lumberjacks, hunters, and other men wearing flannel shirts. Presumably it had bigger plans after that.

With the help of the lake's previous tenant who had first unintentionally freed the dark presence, Wake is able to write an ending to the story in which he saves his wife and defeats the dark presence, but insists through his narration that the story has to have a logical and satisfying progression and have stakes in order to work. He is never given any reason to actually believe he can't just write "and then Alan killed the dark presence and saved Alice and they totally fucked, the end", but he has to believe it so that the story-within-a-story that constitutes the bulk of the gameplay can take the most contrived form possible; that of an action video game in which you have to kill ghastly country folk while traversing the dark woods wherein the presence has the best chance of killing you.

Alan Wake is a game with a philosophy. It doesn't play by the rules of most over-the-shoulder 3rd person action games of the xbox 360 era. Imagine, if you will, a game where you don't win by just going from checkpoint to checkpoint shooting guys with a gun until they are dead. Instead, you have to shine a flashlight in their face for 3-10 seconds before shooting them with a gun until they are dead. "Great", you might think. "A game that does something different." You fool. You absolute fucking buffoon. Throwing flashbangs and flares to disintegrate the people possessed by the dark presence has little functional difference to annihilating the droves of gangsters thrown at you in Max Payne. Every enemy merely has a "shield" that you have to break down using light before you can blast one of the five enemy types with one of four weapons the game provides you with. This isn't a fun little gimmick that exists for one level; this is the whole fucking game and it is excruciating.

The light-shining and gun-shooting and puzzle-navigating is confusingly punctuated by bits of exploration, wherein you might collect more manuscript pages, or collect coffee thermoses that don't do anything other than serve as a nod to one the game's clear inspirations, Twin Peaks. Occasionally you are asked to drive through the actually very scenic Pacific Northwest countryside to get to a faraway location. You can get out of your car during these segments to collect more thermoses, manuscript pages, or even just...commandeer one of the many cars that are apparently left with their keys in the ignition for you to take should you accidentally ruin your own.

The action does escalate throughout the course of the game, new variations on enemy types are introduced: you have the fast, skinny guys who close in on you, the slow tanky guys with big axes who take longer to whittle down with your flashlight, guys who throw their axes at you from a distance, and finally the guys with chainsaws who take much flashlight and many bullet to put down. I suppose it is unfair of me to say there are only five enemy types; you also have to scare away flocks of possessed ravens with your arsenal of lights. Sometimes, inanimate objects are brought to life by the dark presence to hurl themselves at you again and again until you whittle down their darkness shield. Sometimes, in reverence to some of Stephen King's most coked-out work, these inanimate objects are tractors or harvesters or in one case, an evil monster truck.

I'm gonna be straight with you; the boss of the game is a tornado of junk and cars that you have to shoot with a flare pistol while you are accosted by birds. It is certainly a creative choice.

If this sounds entertaining to you, that's because it actually is. Despite my griping I found myself often enjoying the spectacle of it; as the darkness grows stronger, whole set pieces begin to become possessed; Alan has to shuffle his painfully slow ass across bridges tearing themselves apart to kill him and dodge through forests where the trees groan and collapse in an effort to squash him or stop him from progressing. The scale of it as it escalates is undeniably cool.

I don't think Alan Wake tries to understand its own most striking influence; only a couple games I can think of have tried to capture the vibe of Twin Peaks, and both this and the other one, Deadly Premonition, are in my opinion worth playing in spite of their many flaws. That said, Alan Wake often forces me to envision a nightmare world in which Twin Peaks: the Return totally fucking sucked. Can you imagine if there was a plot twist where it turns out the Log Lady was the one leaving the caches of shotguns and grenades for Dale to kill the spooky woodsmen with? Can you envision a Twin Peaks where David Lynch and Mark Frost felt it was necessary to explain how and why the fish got in the percolator, or decided to have cheesy flashbacks to Dale and Diane's relationship? Thanks to Alan Wake I can and I fucking hate it.

It does a much better job of evoking Stephen King. Like much of King's catalogue, Alan Wake is not a particularly scary example of the horror genre, but it's not really trying to be; it's trying to tell a fun story of "what if everything a guy wrote came true" and fill that story with a bit of horror, but action and romance and humor and a Pyrrhic victory of light over darkness. Despite its clumsiness it's charming and I can see why people like it even if it's not really for me.

If you like third-person action games, you should play it. If you like games that are spooky but not too scary, you should give it a try. Just be prepared to roll your eyes at some corny dialogue and maybe sigh in resignation when you see that it is once again time to trek a huge distance and juggle your flashlight, shotgun and road flares through some fairly unique but repetitive action. Hell, you might even end up being charmed by it like so many others have since its release. I know that despite all my complaints I'm looking forward to seeing what weirdness the second entry has in store.

7 notes · View notes

heliads · 1 year

Text

So, Before You Go Chapter Four: War on the Spinning Wheel

Hellas is gone; so too is your life as a cartographer. You and the Darkling must quell Alina Starkov’s attempt at an uprising in order to protect the Grisha of Ravka. However, your gods are not as dead as they seem, and that which you have taken for granted will soon prove to be quite unpredictable indeed.

previous / series masterlist / next

Not quite at the start of it all, but very far from today, the race of man was far past saving. The king of the gods, Zeus, told a rare good man named Deucalion to save himself and his wife from the soon-to-come end of days. After nine days of flooding, all was destroyed, and Deucalion barely survived in his ark atop Mount Parnassus. One race of men was destroyed and a new one took his place, an entire population remade from stone. Sometimes, when the world does not suit you, you must make another. A better one. One who knows enough to fear you.

You can hear whispering whenever you shut your eyes, and when you open them, too. It is a familiar sound, voices you recognize in dreams and memories, but not here. Never here. Never here, until you saw one of them at sea and another in your own home, and suddenly nothing was safe at all. You have screamed to the empty, derelict heavens that you do not fear the ghosts of your past, but they know enough to not believe you.

Aleksander is tense. So are you. You’ve finally gathered enough information to know with certainty of Alina’s survival as well as her location. She’s collecting allies like gemstones, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned from centuries of warfare, it’s that it’s best to nip things like this in the bud before they grow too quickly. It would not do for Alina Starkov to rally an army. You would rather kill her while she is still killable, even if more and more people are clamoring by the day that her Sainthood is not to be questioned.

You don’t fault Alina for the title, though. The urge to imagine yourself as something wondrous is astonishingly powerful. No matter how much she says that all she wants is a quiet life with her tracker from the orphanage, there will always be some part of her that lingers over the gold threaded keftas, the shouts of her supporters, the thrumming need to be important. We all have it. Alina is no exception, even if she’d like to be.

You and Aleksander plot your attack carefully, thoroughly, leaving no room for error. There are too many places for things to go wrong, and you will not have this attempt foiled. You have allies that would die for your version of what Ravkan Grisha should be, you have Aleksander’s merzost creations, and you have your spells. All good things, all capable of tearing Alina’s resistance to shreds.

The timing of it all is a different story. You need everyone there but distracted. The Ravkan soldiers should be tipsy, they should be distracted at their watch. No one should know you’re coming until you’re already there, until their base runs red with blood. Only then will you be able to end this.

The perfect bit of information reaches you soon enough. Alina may have found a strong ally in Nikolai Lantsov, younger son of the Ravkan king and infinitely more wily, but she is hemmed in by the other Lantsov brother, Vasily. Vasily, who is smarting every second that he is in the same hiding place as all of them, who cannot avoid the fact that his brother is a thousand times better at everything than him.

Vasily has spread invitations to esteemed Ravkan nobles, encouraging them to all travel to a place called the Spinning Wheel for the engagement party of Nikolai and Alina. Given that sort of occasion, it should be quite the spectacle indeed, the perfect opportunity for you and Aleksander to strike.

You watched Aleksander’s face as one of your scouts relayed the news of Alina’s engagement. It was a surprise; you expected Alina to never leave her little tracker, but you suppose politicking is important, too. This is a superb union. A saint and a prince? You couldn’t write a better story yourself.

He’s surprised too, you think. Aleksander. He prides himself on knowing Alina better than she knows herself, but you don’t miss the way his hands clench at his sides. It makes your stomach turn, and when you force yourself to switch the topic of conversation to war planning again before either of you can make a mistake, you swear you hear Hera’s cold laughter in the back of your head.

You leave in the dead of night, nichevo’ya in tow and ready to kill. A combination of your spells and Aleksander’s living shadows is all that is necessary to cover your presence; on a cloudy night like tonight, with all eyes fixated on the festivities within, no guard is looking hard enough to spot you. Even if they did, all they would see would be shapeless shadow, not the killers within.

It is an easy, easy thing to break inside. Almost like opening the unlocked door of a friend’s house. A slow grin crosses your face as you descend. You can see the scene playing out: a blond prince’s perfect poise transforming to panic as he realizes what his brother has done, an elder brother making a nuisance of himself for that one final chance to get in the last word.

And then there is the shatter of breaking glass, the piercing din of screams, the thick, heavy scent of copper in the air as blood is shed. Aleksander’s merzost creatures snatch up the elder Lantsov prince with ease, ripping off an arm before brutally killing him. Some of Alina’s Grisha attempt to fight off the shadowy monsters, but they’re stopped by thick cords of emerald magic. You have not had the chance to fight like this in a long time, and your spells revel in the chance to take control at last.

Aleksander’s eyes flash to a hallway on the opposite side of the grand chamber, where you can just see a small crowd of Grisha tugging Alina to safety. You shout for him to follow her, and he disappears in a flash, walking calmly after them like a predator pursuing limping, bloodied prey. You have seen Aleksander hunt before, both at his side and as his target. He does not let anything escape him, not when he craves it like this.

That leaves the rest of the enemy Grisha and First Army as your victims. You descend upon them in a storm, a symphony of shouted spells and raised hands. They never stood a chance. They will fall easily, easily.

Just as your confidence is certain, though, you see something. Someone. It comes in flickers, so slow you half think you’re hallucinating until you see it again. There, across the room, the flash of an ancient bronze weapon, the style of which hasn’t been used for centuries. There is a Heartrender currently trying to kill you, and when his kefta rises with his raised hands, his exposed shins flash with greaves. A moment later, they’re gone. Then they’re back, coming and going until you slice off his legs and they vanish for good.

You look up and the signs of it are everywhere around you. The woman you’re fighting has eyes of coal, and she laughs when she dies, she laughs like a madman drunk on all the violence you’ve created. You see plumes of red horsehair rising from bronze helmets. The waving scarlet strands spatter and bend like blood, popping up in every corner of the room.

An Etherealki marches towards you, spear leveled towards your chest. No, not metal, water from their gift, but you cannot tell the difference. You send a spell spiraling at them and they block it with a shield. There’s a head fastened on the front of it, the visage of a monster with waving snakes for hair and fangs jutting from its lips. You kill the Etherealki and the shield clatters to the floor, gone in an instant, but you cannot stop the dread from creeping over your heart like stone.

It is too much, all too much. The ghosts are everywhere, threatening to choke you out. No matter how you look, where you turn your head, you get the sense of someone standing just outside your peripheral vision. A man, leaning against a wall; walking out from around a fallen table; peering at the dead with a grim sense of satisfaction: Ares. Of course he of all the gods would be here to witness this sort of destruction.

The thought makes you sick with fury. How dare he come here, to mock you or try to stir you from your path? How dare any of them think they have the right to affect you? You prayed for hours, days, when the last of them died. Why is it that they only come to you now when you’ve finally grown out of your need for them?

You spread your arms, feeling your power surge. It occurs to you that you have a say in this too, who shows up to see you. You don’t want any of them anymore. They can crawl back to their Underworld to live out their deaths without bothering you ever again. The scream starts in the back of your throat, building in intensity until you can’t tell whether the walls are shaking from the force of your spell or the magnitude of your voice. No more, you declare, no more. You shall have no hold on me, nor anyone I love. Go back to your deaths. You are gods no longer, only brittle bones to break under my feet.

There’s a ringing in your ears when you finally open your eyes. You’ve sunk to your knees, although you don’t remember the fall. Your pulse leaps, remembering the fight, the danger you should be in, but no attack comes your way.

The reason for that makes itself known soon enough. There is no one left to fight you because there is no one left alive. Scanning the room, you see only broken bodies, arms outstretched and faces locked in horror. You killed them all, slaughtered them like insects. Like the outsiders slaughtered your own people. This is a death like you swore would never happen again.

Yet it did happen, and worse, it happened by your own hands. Didn’t you pledge to Aleksander that you would make a new, better world for the Grisha? Didn’t you promise that you would protect every last one of them? Looking at the fallen bodies, how their blood darkens their clothes and keftas, the terrible thought strikes you that perhaps Alina was right to want you dead. If she had succeeded in murdering you on the sandskiff, all of these Grisha would be alive.

There’s a girl at your feet, eyes wide even in death. She must have been just like you, without a family save for the other practitioners of the Small Science around her in this refuge, and you killed her. You killed all of them. How does that make you better than the ones who murdered the Hellenids? How does this make a better, safer world?

You stand slowly, brushing someone’s blood from your sleeves. Your head is shockingly empty of voices or whispers. Perhaps your attempt to scare them off actually succeeded and the gods can no longer reach you, or perhaps they are so horrified by what you’ve done that they have given up on ever trying to save you.

Aleksander is standing in an empty room, staring at a caved in section of a wall. You take it by the lack of Sun Summoner that Alina and her friends escaped again.

He speaks without looking at you. “I will find her. I will scour the land until I do. She cannot be far.”

It takes everything in you to stand up straight and keep yourself from breaking apart. You wonder why it is that Aleksander is still so fixated on his revenge that he cannot notice that. Didn’t he tell you that he always knew you best? If he did, then why can’t he tell that something is very, very wrong with you?

Aleksander is silent, and you realize that he’s waiting for you to respond, to agree that you’ll hunt Alina down to the ends of the universe. Right now, though, you are tired, and unhappily aware of the fact that you may be doing something wrong.

Instead of giving him the answer he wants, you sigh and tell him otherwise. “I’m going back,” you say, and offer no explanation.

That seems to confuse him, but your expression is resolute and he must be able to tell that he isn’t going to persuade you otherwise, so he nods and says his farewells.

You make your way to the base once more. The few Grisha who dare to look you in the eyes (they fear you and Aleksander both, but even still, the news of your attack on Alina has brought them new worries) give no sign of their current mood regarding your sudden arrival. They won’t know what happened at the Spinning Wheel until you say it, but you think you’re content to let Aleksander break that news. Who knows what twist he’ll put on it. You doubt if even you will know it was a success until he decides that it was.

You decide to take the longer route to your study, the one that takes you outside instead of through the twisting inner passages. On your way over, you turn a corner to see Genya standing before her. One glance past her reveals Baghra hidden in the forest beyond, evidently waiting for the Tailor to follow her to safety.

Genya remains stock still, absolutely petrified. They must have seized the opportunity of you and Aleksander being away to escape their cage. You cannot blame them for trying; since their arrival here, Baghra has lost a finger and Genya has been robbed of her beauty. This was their only chance to find freedom.

You look from Genya to Baghra again. The elder woman’s back stiffens, and her eyes regard you without fear, only curiosity as to what you’ll do next. You’re somewhat ashamed to admit that you haven’t been to visit her once since she was installed at your hideaway. It’s almost as if you knew she would be able to talk sense into you that your gods couldn’t.

Briefly, you remember what had happened when you arrived at the Little Palace months ago, under the guise of Y/N Stassov, resident cartographer and friend of Alina. You had revealed yourself to Baghra almost immediately, and in return, she had protected you from her son. What have you given her in return except for suffering and a life of fear?

You turn back to Genya, and jerk your chin towards the forest. “Take the southern bend around the river. Baghra knows the way. If you stick by the cliff face, he shouldn’t find you. You have time now to avoid him if you hurry.”

Genya stares at you with shock, but when you refuse to attack her, she takes your advice and runs. Baghra remains a moment longer, looking at you with that same cool gaze. She nods slowly at you once before melting back into the trees. You stand there for a long time, even after they leave, but you feel no pang of regret, no sensation that you’ve done the wrong thing. In fact, one thread of guilt seems to unravel itself from your gaudy tapestry. You may have done wrong tonight, but at least it wasn’t by them.

Aleksander comes back some time later. You wordlessly show him the empty cage, and watch as he storms about in rage. He does not suspect you in the slightest. Technically, you were not the one to free them, but you could have brought them back. You didn’t, and he cannot see through you enough to realize that.

Again, you wonder how he could have known you for so long but still be unable to read you when it matters the most. There’s a chink in your armor if he would only look, but instead Aleksander condemns himself to his rage, his revenge. Not yours. Never yours.

The slow, unhappy thought occurs to you that this is another beginning, not of a start but of the end. Pity how the good things never last.

series tag list: @britishbassett, @rogueanschel, @hotleaf-juice, @mxltifxnd0m, @kaqua, @nemesis729, @imma-too-many-fandoms, @cleverzonkwombatsludge, @yourabbymoore, @nemtodd-barnes1923, @heyyitsreign, @ponyboys-sunsets, @slytherinsssss, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lakeli, @darlinggbrekker, @rosesberose, @w1shes43, @fairyeunji, @cryinghotmess, @rainbowgoblinfan

grishaverse tag list: @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000

26 notes · View notes

catchyhuh · 6 months

Note

What would their reaction be after seeing some particular fan art / fics about themselves, if you know what I mean ;)

see i told you we were inevitably gonna reach stuff like this!!! you can never fully divorce lupin the third as a franchise from Sex !!

not really nsfw but… pretty suggestive talk below the cut

lupin:

oh he loves it. he pulls out a bingo sheet to check off if certain things come up multiple times, keeps a tally of when people give him abs and when they don’t, all that shit. probably bought like four body pillows of himself just for the hell of it, and has given each of them dumbass names like “lupin the 3rd and a half” and “lupin the 3rd the 2nd.” just make your portrayal at least semi-flattering, and he’s all onboard for it

honestly the way people treat him IN franchise, especially in more recent parts, i wouldn’t be shocked if it existed even within the story, and i feel like his reaction would be the same as it is ANY time the public speculates and gives him attention: a strange, almost giddy delight, followed by joining in himself. he’s a weird little man. for god’s sake he’d probably pose if asked and everything. i cannot stress enough that he is the opposite of uncomfortable with this

i gotta say, if we’re being completely transparent with ourselves, if anybody outta these guys would ACTUALLY use stuff like this t-- no, no, maybe that’s a little excessive to say. funny, but excessive. you get the idea there

jigen:

confuses him more than anything. why would anyone wanna see. he kinda gestures vaguely at himself. all this? like, he gets WHY porn exists he’s not in any kind of denial about the appeal of all that. i mean he is not immune either lmao but. but honestly. him? people want to see him? it must be some sort of bit. not that jigen has any self esteem issues like that, he very much is fine with the person he is and how he presents himself, but… THE IDEA OF TOTAL STRANGERS BEING SEXUALLY ATTRACTED TO HIM IS STILL INCOMPREHENSIBLE TO HIM

very critical. like writing columns of analysis critical. this is supposed to be him, and he imagines he knows himself better than anybody. so out comes the red sharpie, ready to make corrections. sit down, he’s gonna be here with you a while: he’s got more hair than that. he’s got less hair than that. he only leaves his hat on if it’s funny, not all the time, c’mon man. he’s not that loud. he’s not-- okay, well, he WOULD bottom in certain occasions, but not every damn time! you think just because he has a track record with huge guys means he can’t top? reassess your preconceived biases about sex and relationships, i mean honestly jesus christ people!

overall has more of this weird. not distaste but contempt? i guess? for art as opposed to writing. if it’s writing, the sins are less obviously apparent. usually. don't prove him wrong

fujiko:

relatively passive about the concept, but interested in the finer details. she’s had many different looks, y’know, and it’s interesting to see which specific hairstyles and colors really stuck with people enough for them to go out of their way to include them while drawing something like that. she kind of subconsciously doesn’t even see whatever is being depicted as herself, so she kinda sees it the same as… any other kind of sexual content? it’s just a novelty that the woman presented before her is SUPPOSED to be her, and it’s weirdly fascinating.

fujiko is very blase about sexual matters in general, so really, i don’t think the idea phases her much. she knows she’s hot shit. she’s planned multi-million dollar heists that hinge SOLELY on the fact she is hot shit. of course people would desperately crave the closest thing they could get to getting a piece of her i mean damn! who wouldn’t! however she would disagree on a factual basis in some instances, as after all, some fic writers don’t seem to understand that reproductive organs don’t work like that at all, but that’s her main beef with it. you want to impress fujiko mine, you have to a. do a little googling or b. get some bitches and take notes. not offended by inaccuracy to her, but inaccuracy to the process and (ironically enough given who we’re looking at here) anatomy

goemon:

buh? huh?? wait. what?? huh? him?? guh? his?? his p

the initial reaction (as for everything even slightly romantic or sexual with him) is baffled, stunned silence. again, he’s not alarmed by the idea of people creating/reading/viewing art like that, but. really? he has to assume people… enjoy seeing him that way, and that adds another layer of embarrassment, but also a weird sense of un-acted-upon duty: this person could be moderately attracted to him, and he’s never even properly spoken to them. he believes the word is “parasocial” (fujiko told him about it recently) and he doesn’t want people putting him on an unrealistic pedestal! or putting. specific parts of him on an unrealistic pedestal either for that matter!!

again, (you may be noticing a trend here) he will only Allow it if it feels realistic enough in his mind. he’s not all “NO! NOT PREMARITAL HANDHOLDING!! ANYTHING BUT THAT” but he DOES feel there should be a level of actual companionship present for it to “work.” if it’s him and some random who tried to kill him for a week two decades ago, he’s will make his lack of appreciation known. silently. because god he is not ever, EVER going to be discussing this with ANYONE, no matter HOW MANY TIMES THE OTHER THREE KEEP BRINGING IT UP

zenigata:

cuts you off before you can even fully explain it. nope. hm-mm. aht aht aht. not becoming aware of this. because if he starts becoming aware of it, toooo many things are gonna start popping up in his head, so NO, HE’S NOT AWARE OF THIS (except for the fact he very much is)

the only one to not have this weird mental notetaking relationship with it, because inaccurate or not, just the fact it’s here in front of him is enough to shut his brain down. the often ignored sensible part of him looks down at the computer and goes “what?? no, that’s not-- using actual police handcuffs would just be a bad idea all around. that’s why they make different ones specifically for this purpose so nobody gets hurt. and besides that, i just wouldn’t do that” but. the zenigata part of zenigata is red in the face all the way down to his neck, only focusing on the fact that that’s… not a bad idea, which he immediately backtracks on in horror at himself, and thus, the self imposed principle: I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THIS.

#this may be controversial. maybe. i can't say i've actually ever read anyone else's take on their stances on something like this #but knowing the fact that everyone in the franchise is some level of sexually insane this makes a bit of sense. to me #lupin #jigen #fujiko #goemon #zenigata #asks #if we get enough down the line i might add some kinda NO KIDS ALLOWED type tag but it depends. goes without saying NO KIDS ALLOWED RN

7 notes · View notes

depressedhatakekakashi · 7 months

Text

A Little Gift

Words: 1,466

Iwa Gai Au: Book

Pairing: Kakagai

Characters: Maito Gai

In all of his years, Gai had never seen a book in such terrible condition. Even Kakashi’s precious copy of Icha Icha Violence, which he carried with him everywhere he went, still had its cover intact and a spine that looked like it had barely been bent.

The same could not be said about the tiny notebook that his lover had just shoved into his hands with a hushed ‘Happy Birthday’ passing from his lips before he vanished into thin air.

The spine was cracked beyond repair, barely hanging on under the pressure of all the weight contained inside of it. Just sitting in his hand the spine threatened to crack under the pressure of the whelming weight it was forced to contain.

A smile cracked across his lips as he weighed the book in the palm of his hand. “You really are something, Rival.”

Staring down at the cover, he chuckled. It was nothing special, just a simple brown cover with a Henohenomoheji drawn in the bottom right corner. Were anyone else to look at it they would think there was nothing important about it.

Just another notebook to add to their bookshelf at home.

To Gai, though, that plain cover was everything. It would fit in perfectly among his small collection of books back home in his apartment, but the Henohenomoheji would set it apart instantly when he pulled it out of its hiding spot.

A tiny signature from the man who was never able to sign his name on anything that he’d given Gai over the years.

“This must have taken you a long time to make,” he whispered, opening the book so that he could examine the contents once more. At the front there was a simple plane white page with a little doodle of what he could only assume was Captain Yamato, judging by the flower sprouting from his head, with the words ‘Short stories’ written across it. “Simple and to the point, as always.”

On the next page, there was an index, but rather than being a part of the book like every other page, it was a small piece of paper that seemed to have been placed into the book at the last minute to provide an idea of what the contents were. It was no wonder the book was barely holding itself together.

He wondered what else Kakashi had added between the pages.

“Short stories,” his eyes scanned over the titles that Kakashi had written on the index.”When did you find the time to write all of these?”

His imagination flared to life at that moment, painting pictures of Kakashi huddled under a tree waiting out a storm with his little book balanced perfectly on his knee writing out whatever beautiful story had come to mind.

“No,” he chuckled at his imagination. It was nice to think that Kakashi had him on his mind during missions, but he’d seen his lover when he was in mission mode. The only thing on his mind at those times was the job he had to complete. Even if his mind was cruel enough to come up with story ideas at those times, he would most likely ignore them.

The only thing that came over the mission to Hatake Kakashi, was his precious people. No story would ever distract him from completing his work, no matter how beautiful it may have been.

“Then,” another image came to mind. This time in a bright hospital room with Kakashi lying in a bed. There was a table that could be moved over the bed where Kakashi would have his book, and he’d bend over it working diligently on his story.

That was when he knew Kakashi would write.

When there was nothing else to do.

In those precious few moments, his mind was free to roam, creating wonderful new worlds and committing them to paper so that one day he would be able to shove all of those beautiful stories into Gai’s hand.

Today was that day, and Gai couldn’t help but feel the warmth of Kakashi’s love crawling out of those worn pages. It clawed its way out of the pen ink and seeped into his skin, holding onto him with such love that he could almost trick himself into believing that Kakashi was still standing there with him.

“How much work did you pour into this?” He asked, taking a moment to flip through the pages. Every page was chock-full of words, and some of them even had a picture taped to them, giving him a small hint as to what the story might be about.

On one page there was a picture of a hill full of cherry blossom trees, the grass covered in bright pink petals. The next picture was of one of Kakashi’s students, Naruto, with a giant grin across his face and a Konoha headband proudly held out in front of him. Behind him Gai could see someone else, someone he didn’t recognize, running toward the poor unsuspecting student with an angry expression on his face. If Gai was to guess, he’d say that the angry man was the owner of that headband being so proudly displayed in the picture.

“Well,” flipping back to the front, he smiled when the Index page began to slip free of its confines. Before it could escape, though, he managed to capture it between his thumb and forefinger. There, once again, the titles stared at him, calling for him to read them. “I guess I have a few minutes.”

Ten minutes, to be exact. If he wanted to be back at the village in time to avoid raising any suspicions he’d need to start heading back within ten minutes, and even then it would be cutting it close.

Onoki-Sama might still grill him about his tardiness in returning home and he’d have to come up with a well-thought-out lie about getting lost or having to stop to help a civilian in need. His old teammates might even be waiting at the gate for him with offers to take him out to dango and light jabs at his unusual tardiness.

He could handle all of that, though.

They would shake their heads, accept his reasons, and move on. They always had, and as long as he proved himself to be a loyal friend and shinobi they would continue to do so.

So he had Ten minutes.

“Which one,” scanning through the list, he smiled when one of the titles sprang out of the page toward him, demanding his attention. “Captain Tree’s Adventure”.

There was no doubt in his mind about who this story was about. One thing Gai had learned a long time ago was that his lover was a tease, and one of his favorite victims was his friend Tenzo, who Gai had learned went by the name ‘Yamato’ just a short while ago.

His current name didn’t matter though, because it was never something Kakashi used to refer to him. Instead, he’d often stick with calling him ‘Tenzo’, but on special days when he was feeling particularly bratty, he’d call him ‘Tree’ in much the same way he liked to refer to Gai as ‘Turtle’.

A nickname that only he could use, full of affection that was reserved for only a few special people in his life.

“What did he get himself into this time?” he asked, already feeling excited about the story as he began flipping through the pages looking for the matching title. “I hope it’s something wonderful.”

Even if Tenzo continued to hate him, Gai found himself only ever wanting the best for the man. Whether it was because he was Kakashi’s friend, or because he genuinely cared about the strange Konoha shinobi who swore over and over again that he hated his ‘Iwagakure guts’, Gai wasn’t sure.

All he knew for certain was that Tenzo was a good man. A good friend to Kakashi, and someone who deserved to have something wonderful happen in his life.

He wasn’t sure if that ‘something wonderful’ was guaranteed to happen in a story written by his bully of a Senpai, but Gai was known to be a dreamer and as his eyes spotted the title and his hands settled on the first page of the story, he couldn’t help but dream of a fantastic story of adventure, love, and accomplishment.

‘Ramen lay across the ground, the warm broth seeping into the ground as Naruto clung to the Captain’s leg crying over the loss of his lunch’.

Bringing the book up, Gai used it to cover his mouth as he fought back a laugh. “I should have known,” he whispered, unable to stop himself from snorting when the mental image of Kakashi’s student clinging to Tenzo’s leg sprang to mind.

#Iwa Gai Au #KakaGai #Maito Gai #Au-Tober #Au-tober 2024

7 notes · View notes

gaily-daily-musings · 10 months

Text

This is an outline for part 3 of my obimaul fic in which it started out as nasty throne sex on Mandalore that somehow turned into fluff and a plot. Here is the link to the series on ao3. Please enjoy this rough draft that concludes the story!

It takes a while for Obi-Wan to calm down from the revelation that the Chancellor is Sidious. But once he does they begin to prepare for his inevitable arrival. It doesn't go very well. They disagree on almost every plan they can come up with before they truly land on something.

The key to victory, Maul insists, is getting Sidious to come to them. Maul is convinced that to confront him on Coruscant would be disastrous. Obi-Wan disagrees. He thinks they should inform the Council. But Maul has no intention to inform the Council. Fuck the Council. Even if it worked, they would immediately lock Maul up and take Obi-Wan away.

Before they can come up with a unilateral decision, Anakin shows up with Ahsoka in tow. Their guns (sabers) ablazing. It's been a full week since Obi-Wan had been captured and (against the wishes of the Council) the two had snuck off to rescue Obi-Wan. Ahsoka tagged along because she wasn't gonna let Anakin have all the fun playing Hero.

They're ready to knock heads but when they arrive on Mandalore they find Obi-Wan having breakfast at the table with Maul and Savage.

Anakin rushes in causing a scene. Clearly they have brainwashed Obi-Wan! In the ensuing fight Obi-Wan plants himself between both parties, holding out his palms to stop the madness. He tells Anakin straight up that Sidious is Palpatine. Anakin doesn't believe him. He adamantly denies it and says that Maul has warped his thinking.

Maul sneers. "I knew we couldn't count on Sidious' new pet."

"What was that??" Anakin hisses.

"He's been grooming you since you first met! You're too far gone to be of any use to me, Skywalker!"

Anakin brandishes his weapon and everyone begins shouting again. Ahsoka is able to help calm Anakin down. Obi-Wan explains in a soft voice that Palpatine really was Sidious. He tricked them all. They need to fight.

"You will see when he arrives." Maul sneers. "You will all see."

Eventually Anakin believes Obi-Wan (sort of) but he doesn't trust the two Darksiders.

"We can take him on our own! We don't need these two!" Anakin snarls at Savage and Maul who both snarl back at him.

Anakin doesn't like this. Not one bit. Anakin and Maul continue to hiss like loth cats at each other. Obi-Wan has to painstakingly bring Maul and Anakin together without letting one kill the other. It's a massive headache.

Then Maul gets the idea that perhaps Anakin can be of use after all. With the "chosen one" here (he says this with the utmost sarcasm) perhaps they stand a chance of overwhelming the Sith Lord.

Anakin very maturely sticks his tongue out at him.

In order for their plan to lure Sidious to Mandalore to work, Anakin must mask his force presence. He HATES this plan. He doesn't want to wear the inhibitor cuffs. For peace of mind, they give Anakin the key so he can take the cuffs off anytime he wants.

Now with Anakin hidden from both Light and Dark users, Maul announces his rule to the rest of the galaxy. That he's taken over Mandalore and intends to begin his own little coalition of planets. It's all over the holonet. Now all they have to do is wait for Sidious to take the bait.

With nothing to do the next two days the group gets bored. In the meantime Anakin and Ahsoka play card games. Savage practices his forms. Obi-Wan wants to free Satine but Maul immediately refuses. He will free her only after the deed is done. Obi-Wan relents.

Later Obi-Wan slips away to go visit her. Maul follows him. True to his word, she'd been left alone in her cell since that first day. Alone to imagine all the horrors Obi-Wan was suffering on a daily basis.

She brightens when she sees him approach. Obi-Wan smiles at her. Like she is the sun come out. Maul hates her. He hates everything about her.

Satine thinks he's come to rescue her at last. Obi-Wan shakes his head. He explains that Anakin and Ahsoka are here and that they have a plan with Maul to defeat the evil Sith Lord Sidious who is actually the Chancellor. It's a lot for her to take in.

He tells her that he has promised not to turn Maul in after they take Sidious out. In exchange for his continued freedom, Maul will step down from Mandalore's ruler and reinstate Satine as Duchess.

"How do you know you can trust his word? What if the moment you kill Sidious he turns on you?"

"Well, the simple answer is that I have Anakin and Ahsoka with me."

"And the not so simple one?"

Obi-Wan hesitates. "I think…I think I can trust him with this. Gathering power, taking your throne, it was all to intimidate Sidious. With him gone there is no need for it anymore."

"But what about you, my love? I fear for you."

Obi-Wan presses a palm to the glass. She reaches for his hand. Pressing her own against his.

"I will be fine. I promise."

"Come back. Come back to me always."

Maul turns away. He's heard enough.

That evening they get ready for bed. Anakin and Ahsoka have insisted on staying with Obi-Wan as they keep watch the past two nights. Maul catches Obi-Wan on his way back from Satine and drags him back to his own room.

Maul locks the door behind him. He wants to hurt him. He wants to make him wither and scream the same way his heart does. How dare he even talk to her! How dare he look at her when he was not allowed!

"Strip." He snaps.

Obi-Wan blinks up. "Good evening to you too."

"Strip! Now!"

Obi-Wan frowns but does as he's told. He didn't have to. Not anymore. Skywalker was here with his little Padawan. More importantly, the inhibitor cuffs were gone. Obi-Wan could fight back if he wanted. In fact he had expected the other man to do just that. But he's not doing what Maul had expected at all. He's getting undressed just as Maul ordered. He should be telling Maul to leave. He should be clenching his fists and standing his ground. Maul would have responded by shoving him backwards. Then Obi-Wan was supposed to yell and call for help. Maul would get in a couple of punches before the welps came in and saved their precious Master from Maul's monstrous appetite.

But Obi-Wan sits on the edge of his bed. His chest is hairy, filled with scars from many battles past. He is a great warrior. And even for all his battle hardened skin, his heart remains open and soft. His eyes remain a bright blue. No gold to be seen.

Before he can truly register what was happening, Maul has undressed himself and climbed into Obi-Wan's lap. He wraps his arms around his neck. He breathes in his scent. His sweat.

"Fuck me." He demands petulantly.

Obi-Wan smirks. "Is that an order or a request?"

"We both know you'll do whatever you want either way. What does it matter?"

Obi-Wan does not push him off. He does not deposit Maul on the floor where he belongs. Obi-Wan's fingers trail down his stomach to his nethers.

Maul cannot stop himself from stiffening at the initial touch. The breach pulls up unwanted memories from his boyhood. He tries to swat them away. His shoulders start to shake regardless. Obi-Wan kisses his brow. He seems to understand Maul's need to keep going. He didn't want Obi-Wan to ask. Didn't need him to slow down.

Obi-Wan keeps fingering him, slow and steady. It's irritating.

"Just do it." Maul growls.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Why not?" Maul snaps. He should. Obi-Wan should want to hurt him.

"Because I don't derive pleasure from bringing others pain."

He repositions Maul back against the wall and settles between the vee of his legs. Obi-Wan presses in. At first it's stinging pain and hot flesh splitting him open. Obi-Wan's hands do not let go.

"Stay with me, darling." He says.

Maul swallows.

Obi-Wan shifts and his cock slots into place. Oh. Oh. That was–that was actually nice. Really, really nice. He…

"Fuck." Maul pants.

"That's the idea, love."

Their breaths mingle together. He moans loudly. Marveling at the pleasures he never knew existed.

Tomorrow, one or both of them may die. But tonight, this man was his and his alone. He curls close into his chest and kisses him.

In the morning at breakfast Anakin and Ahsoka aren't speaking to each other. They had a huge fight last night. Anakin doesn't want Ahsoka fighting with them against Sidious. Obi-Wan is inclined to agree. Ahsoka looks at him, betrayed. With both her Masters forbidding it, she is benched to the sidelines. But they compromise with her. She will wait outside, only coming in to help if they absolutely needed it.

Sidious takes the bait. He arrives the following afternoon. He is eager to dispose of the loose end of his former apprentice. Obi-Wan had not fully believed it until he looked upon the Chancellor's twisted face. It is ugly in his hatred. Palpatine looks at him with only minimal surprise. His mouth twists up into a cruel smile.

"A team up then?" He laughs darkly. "It will do you no good."

"They're not alone." A voice calls out.

Palpatine freezes. At last he looks unsure of himself. He turns to see Anakin Skywalker as he frees himself from the cuffs. They fall to the floor with a thud.

"Anakin my boy,"

"Save your lies, old man." Anakin hisses. "I don't want to hear them anymore."

Palpatine turns his angry gaze back up to Maul who smirks down at him.

"Something wrong?" He asks. "Did you think I did not know about you grooming your new apprentice?"

Palpatine attacks. Lightning spewing forth from his fingers.

The battle rages. It shakes the entire building with its force. Palpatine's saber flashes and plunges itself into Savage's chest. Maul screams and goes to his side. Savage's ragged breath wheezes in agony.

"I'm not like you brother. I never was."

With Maul distracted Palatine means to sever him as well. But Obi-Wan attacks, sending him back. Then Obi-Wan advances, thinking he's got him on the ropes. But it was a faint. Palpatine lashes out, wounding Obi-Wan on his side. He falls to the floor.

Anakin shouts, knocking the Sith Lord back. He puts himself between Obi-Wan and Palpatine, anger clear in his gaze. Maul jumps back into fray.

Together, the two fight Sidious with a ferocity even the dark lord of the Sith cannot match. Desperate, Sidious conjures lightning to his hands. He unleashes it in the direction of a helpless Obi-Wan, still clutching his side on the floor.

"Master!"

"Kenobi!"

Both men move. Maul is faster than Anakin. He pushes Obi-Wan out of the way, taking the full force of it. He screams as his skin is cooked from both inside and out.

In the end it is Anakin who delivers the final blow. Slicing Palpatine's head clean off his shoulders. Sidious is finally gone.

Obi-Wan crawls over to where Maul lies. Obi-Wan holds him to his chest, cradling him in his arms. Maul reaches up, running a hand over his cheek. He coughs as blood splatters over his chin.

"Tell me…are you–?"

"I'll be fine." Obi-Wan's lips brush his fingers. "Just hold on now, help is on the way."

Maul struggles to breathe, his hand curls into Obi-Wan's beard. He's been struck with force lightning before, but this was of a different caliber. Sidious had been aiming to kill, not maim.

Obi-Wan huffs, not unlike a laugh. "You saved my life." He says with incredulity. "Did I manage to finally teach you something about compassion after all?"

Maul wheezes, snorting gruffly. "Don't be…an idiot. The only one…allowed to kill you…is me."

He exhales and closes his eyes. It was over. It was finally over.

#i left this ambiguous on purpose #cuz i want ppl to imagine the ending they want #personally i prefer the one where maul dies #but you are free to assume he doesn't!#he's just resting his eyes!#a few years from now he'll pop back up like the cockroach he is #and then claim Obi-Wan once and for all #obimaul #fic drabble

19 notes · View notes

hexfloog · 2 years

Note

henlo. how do you headcanon evil cone starting? like when his presence first starts making itself known?

Hi :D!! *waves*

Short answer: I imagine Conan’s emergence-- particularly that of a vile, evil thing-- to be a gradual, slow burn.

Long answer: Below the break :)

I like to think that he comes into being the instant Shinichi commits to the lie.

As soon as he cooks up the name Conan Edogawa and deceives Ran about his identity, they split - if only because the act of assigning himself a pseudonym for the reasons he does effectively commits him to consciously sequestering his “real” self from every part of his new life going forward. Conan must now be introduced as an entirely separate person henceforth and, whether he intends to or not, this starts giving his creation legs to stand on... but it’s innocuous at this point. There is no active hatred of this other self (although you could argue there is, at the very least, a passive dislike) and so Shinichi-- let alone Conan himself-- isn’t even aware that he’s there. They cooperate together as a single entity, thinking the same thoughts, acting on the same instincts, etc. etc. etc.

Since Conan’s existence is reliant on Shinichi-- from the scale of the lie surrounding “Conan Edogawa” to the way he thinks about him-- he only starts to really emerge the longer the bit goes on. Another day goes by and Shinichi perpetuates the lie to yet another person, hates himself just a little more for it. Maybe some days he has to lie a lot, has to make up an additional story or another fake person to supplement it, and then he despises that people remember the lie-- that it was Conan who's marked these people’s lives rather than his true self, Shinichi Kudo. Each day adds another fleck to Conan’s impending self-awareness, even on days where Shinichi tells no lies - because not telling the truth is still lying.

I like to headcanon the (noticeable) start of the split in Coffee Shop Murder Case:

(Definitely not because of the way Shinichi is portrayed as completely separate from Conan during Shenanigans... definitely not. I’m pretty sure even the JP dub for this one has Shinichi-- rather than Conan-- speaking for his own thoughts a few times, the thing that's the norm for the Funi dub?? Hello????)

His behavior is obviously being driven by a combination of jealousy and denial for romcom laughs, but he also really fantasizes about mauling a complete stranger, which... well...

Not that I think he doesn’t already tend towards violence or anything sksksk (Episode 1)

As early as the first episode Shinichi is already established to be both reckless and... at least a little violent, to put it mildly (frankly, I think he’s more desensitized than anything, and so his threshold for acceptable violence is completely fucked), which really just lends itself to the slow-burn-nature of this AU.

(In this AU, canon proceeds pretty normally up until around... ehh... The Desperate Revival? with small, off-kilter details here and there being the only indication up until then that something is... awry. From there, canon returns back to normal but the divergence is on the uptick... something weird happens in one episode that maybe gets dismissed as a fluke... then it comes back twofold in the next and stays... wash, rinse, repeat... until the whole thing eventually forks off into its own canon.)

I guess what I’m getting at is that Conan’s emergence starts as the barely-perceptible, merely more frequent tendency towards brutality or impatience or any number of negative traits which Shinichi usually has a handle on, and that I interpret whatever rascal behavior he exhibits going forward as just that: the slow reveal of Conan. Shinichi doesn’t notice when it starts happening (nor would he be able to) because it’s so gradual and creeping: maybe a violent thought here, an angry thought there... They should be punished, he thinks one afternoon on a case. They deserve to be punished, he thinks on another.

An outsider looking in-- if they even notice-- would likely dismiss the shift in demeanor as coming-of-age behavior. And even if they don’t, whatever it is is hardly insidious, just as the sometimes-entertained thought that Conan and Shinichi could be one and the same in the first place is absurd. “Does Conan seem different to you, lately?” No, no, he’s merely growing up, they’ll say.

Why is Conan so violent? Why would he be so hateful, why is that the indicator of his presence above all else? It’s not necessarily the only indicator, but he is the receptacle for all of Shinichi’s lying, all the unspoken-- but apparent-- self-loathing for feeling like he has to lie in the first place, and when the base personality is already proven to be prideful and somewhat zealous...

So just as Shinichi’s lying continues unbroken, so do these these bouts of uncharacteristic behaviors. Little by little they become more frequent, more severe, more strange, and by the time Shinichi inevitably notices something’s wrong, Conan is already entirely self-aware... though not necessarily evil. There is no defined moment when it happens, no specific point where you can draw a line in the sand and declare that this is when Shinichi was still fully in control, and this is where Conan starts to take the wheel. Shinichi has a hard time really knowing whether he’s still calling the shots or if he’s just a passenger in his own body. Is the sound of his own voice only in his head? He doesn’t remember doing those things... Is he still even making any decisions? ...To which the answer is yes; Conan is separate, but still cooperative in the way a younger sibling looks up to and listens to his big brother, but switching between them is such a seamless, effortless process that the resulting ambiguity only hastens Shinichi’s habit of othering Conan as something lesser, something to be hated.

And indeed, Conan eventually swinging towards evil intentions is entirely fed by and triggered by the progression of passive dislike into active hatred. Time keeps ticking and so far Shinichi has told no further truths, so Conan-- the lie-- is still technically gaining power (and this is why his abilities are technically limitless - the lie becomes so big that no-one really knows how deep it goes). By the time he “takes over,” he’s already fairly well-anchored in the real world, and Shinichi knows-- at least on a subconscious level-- that he’s marked too many lives, good and bad, for there to be any easy way back... so on top of believing him to be an “inferior” version of himself, he’s also being replaced by said “inferior” version. People aren’t necessarily remembering Conan in place of Shinichi (the Detective Boys, for example), but as the fabricator of the lie, in his mind... being forgotten is the same. Nobody can know they are two people, but they’re also no longer a single person, either - how can he not project his grief onto Conan, who has committed the great sin of existing?

This gets especially bad during the few times he transforms back into his adult self. These are the only instances (prior to the physical split) in which Conan is definitively caged in the back seat, and so under the spell of some false sense of security Shinichi has a tendency to cast away his inhibitions and tell him how he really feels, so to speak. Conan is not unaware that he is disliked by his maker, but as the part of Shinichi which wants to impress is also present in Conan... he extends the olive branch at just about every turn anyway, regardless of the sustained animosity between them, the worst of which manifest in dreams.

The nightmares-- which are shared-- escalate alongside their increasingly strained relationship. Shinichi dreams of losing loved ones-- specifically Ran-- to the Other Him... Conan dreams that he will disappear suddenly, and forget the joy of living... Shinichi dreams that Conan will grow into his identity (a la OVA 9)... and Conan dreams that Shinichi was right all along and that he will be revealed as a monster, which finally breaks him. “Enough,” he seethes. “If it’s a monster you want, it’s a monster you’ll get.”

There’s no reason for me to put this here, I just really like this vibe and it’s appropriate skdjfskjdf (Movie 4)

A N Y W A Y

I think I may have overanswered but this is pretty much how it plays out! I’ve thought about this a lot (apparently) and am always excited to share to anyone who asks or will listen ;; Thank you for allowing me to indulge my headcanons <333

#ask #anon #dcmk #evil conan au #kudou shinichi #edogawa conan #internal screaming hours #i think this counts...#long post :D

46 notes · View notes