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jobean12-blog · 1 year

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The Road to Love

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader (Biker!Joel AU)

Word Count: 3,008

Summary: You work at the local bar and things are usally pretty boring and quiet until you get a new customer who appears to be a grump but when it comes to you it’s a whole different story...

Author’s Note: So Pedro’s new Esquire shoot nearly killed me but also inspired me and thanks to my lovely friends @beccablogsthings @laineyreads @justkinsey for sharing their amazing brains and thoughts I did my first AU with Joel. And thank you to my sweet Ali @flordeamatista for sharing some extra goodies with me to help! This one photo belong just screamed Biker AU, between the tight pants and leather jacket...I mean🥵Anyway, enough of my rambling! Thank you all so much for reading! Much lovel always! ❤️❤️❤️ Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you sweets🥰

Warnings: softness and fluff, lots of flirting and protective!Joel

Thanks to Esquire for the photo below:

Joel Miller Masterlist

“Why are biker dudes always so grumpy?”

You turn to your friend Jade and it takes you a moment to realize why she made her comment. You follow her line of sight to the small group of bikers that are playing pool at the back end of the bar.

“They look like they’re having fun,” you reply.

“Not that guy,” Jade says, discreetly motioning to the one sitting on the last stool closest to the pool tables.

His legs are spread wide under the bar top, his jeans clinging to his thick thighs like a second skin and his heavy black leather boots resting on the stool’s bottom bar. The leather jacket he’s wearing is tight along his broad shoulders and worn and soft looking in all the right places.

You don’t answer her and keep your eyes on him, unabashedly letting your gaze wander down his body and back up again.

When you reach his face he’s staring back.

And he smirks.

“Ok never mind,” Jade giggles. “He smiles but apparently only at you.”

You give him a small wave and smile before turning to your friend. “What?”

“Exactly,” she answers with a grin. “Do you know him?”

“Oh she knows him,” you other friend Dan sings as he whizzes by, precariously balancing several drinks in his hands.

“Who?” you ask, still lost in your haze of lewd thoughts.

“The biker dude…the one that only smiles at you,” Jade repeats. “Dan says you know him.”

“Dan…?”

Dan runs by again. “You know…your biker boyfriend that’s been coming in every weekend for the last month. Poor Jade has been missing out on all the fun because she usually works weeknights.”

Dan’s gone again before you can add that the hot biker is not your boyfriend. Unfortunately.

“Oh,” you exclaim as you move down the bar and grab empty glasses. “That’s Joel…and he’s not a dude. That, my friends, is a man.”

“Mm you’re right,” Jade agrees, grinning harder. “And you clearly have the hots for him.”

“What?” you say again, the empty beer mugs clanking in your hands.

“She so does,” Dan says, blowing you a kiss before he starts helping a customer.

“Is it possible for you to form a coherent thought when he’s in the same room?” Jade teases.

You huff and blow a raspberry in her direction. “It’s Dan’s fault. He keeps doing fly bys!”

Both you and Jade cover your mouths to stifle your giggles and Dan looks over with his own mischievous smile.

After cleaning up the bar and collecting any stray tips you slide up next to Jade as she fills some mugs.

“I think the biker dudes,” and you laugh after saying it, “need some refills.”

“Great, that’s all you babe,” she says. “I have to see this.”

You roll your eyes and saunter over to the pool tables, making your rounds and asking who wants what. When you reach Joel he leans back on his stool, one large hand still curled around his glass of whiskey and the other now resting on his thigh.

“Hey sunshine,” he says.

“Hi Joel. Can I get you another?”

Your eyes slide to his empty glass before settling back on his face. He studies you, his eyes glittering.

“How much longer is your shift?” he asks.

“Another hour or so,” you answer, raising your brows at his seemingly random question.

“Then I’ll have another,” he says, nodding his head in thanks.

You reach for his empty glass, your fingers brushing along his rough knuckles and you suck in a breath at the sensation, your lips parted when you catch his knowing smile.

You hurry off and try to brush past Jade but she follows you all the way down the bar with Dan in tow.

“He’s still smiling,” she says with glee.

“HE IS!” Dan squeals.

“Is he?” you ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yep,” Jade replies, popping the p.

With a new glass of whiskey you walk back to Joel, trying to ignore the feel of your friends eyes on your back and their distant chatter.

“Here you go, anything else?” you ask him.

“Thanks sunshine,” he says, eyeing you over the rim of his glass as he takes a long sip.

His neck muscles flex with every swallow and you watch the chords shift as he tilts his head back, finishing it in one long gulp.

“I’ll take one more,” he winks and licks his lips.

“You got it,” you breathe out and practically run off, forgetting to take his empty glass.

After serving Joel his third drink you check on the other guys before making the rest of your rounds. Once everyone has a drink in hand you start to wipe down the bar.

“We need some music,” Jade says when she starts to help.

Dan agrees with enthusiasm and you say, “good idea. I’ll be right back.”

You walk toward the old Juke Box and start to shuffle through the songs.

Just when you think you’ve decided on a song you feel a presence behind you and turn to see your ex smiling at you.

“Jeff?”

“Hey baby,” he croons, reaching for you.

You step out of his grasp and put some distance between the two of you.

He makes a face, his expression losing it’s smile and turning hard.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone mocking.

“What are you doing here?” you ask him, taking a step back for every step he takes toward you.

“Came to see you,” he drawls. “Missed you.”

“Jeff,” you warn. “It’s over. It’s been over. You need to leave.”

You don’t even notice that the bar’s gone quiet and everyone is watching the scene unfold. Jade and Dan rush out from behind the bar to go to you but Joel stands from his seat and motions for them to stay put.

Jeff reaches for you again, this time wrapping his large hand around your arm and yanking you closer.

“Don’t embarrass me baby,” he growls.

“Get your hands off of me,” you hiss, trying to pull away.

“You heard her,” a gruff voice says from bedside you. “Hands off.”

You turn to see Joel standing next to you, his expression cold and hard as he stares at Jeff.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jeff asks, looking Joel up and down.

“Doesn’t matter,” Joel answers, folding his large arms across his chest. “She doesn’t want you touchin’ her. Now get your hands off her before I break ‘em.”

Jeff’s grip loosens with his surprise and you rip yourself away.

Joel eyes shift to you. “You ok darlin’?”

You nod and take a step toward Joel.

“This your new man?” Jeff snarls as he clenches his fists.

“That’s none of your business,” Joel answers for you. “Now get out.”

Without warning Jeff lunges at Joel but he’s not quick enough and before you can even figure out what happened, Jeff is laid out on the floor, holding his jaw and muttering curses. The rest of the bikers are now standing behind Joel, their expressions menacing as Joel bends down and gets into Jeff’s face.

“She doesn’t want you anymore. And when a lady tells you to get your hands off, you get your hands off…you understand me?”

Jeff just stares at Joel with hatred, his teeth gritted.

“I asked you a question,” Joel growls.

Jeff’s eyes move to the rest of the bikers and he sits up, spitting on the floor.

“Yea, I heard ya,” he grunts. “She ain’t worth it anyway.”

Jeff jumps to his feet and gives you one last disgusted look before striding out of the bar. Joel goes to follow him but you grab his hand, stopping him in his tracks.

His face softens and he closes his fingers around yours.

“You sure you’re ok?” he asks again.

“Where are you going?”

“He can’t talk to you like that,” Joel grits out, taking a step away.

“Please,” you say quietly. “He’s the one that’s not worth it.”

Joel studies you for a long moment, his gaze intense and when he sees your eyes start to water he tilts his head in understanding and gently wraps an arm around your waist.

“Alright sunshine. I won’t. But if I ever see him come near you again…”

“I give you permission to totally kick his ass,” you say, trying to hide your face as you wipe away a stray tear.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, pulling you away from the Juke box toward a more secluded spot. “It’s ok darlin. He didn’t hurt you did he?”

Joel glances at your arm but thankfully there are no marks where Jeff grabbed you.

“No, just scared me more than anything.”

“Ok then,” Joel says softly. “You ok to finish your shift?”

“Yea definitely. It’s a good distraction.”

Joel smiles and you lean into him, the smell of spice and leather enveloping your senses, and kiss his scruffy cheek.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime sunshine,” he says with a wink.

Once Dan and Jade are convinced you’re ok they both start swooning over how Joel stepped in and punched Jeff.

“I wish I could have seen it,” you say almost dreamily. “I was just so stunned by it all it never even registered.”

“Well, I saw it,” Dan says, “and let me tell you…it was HOT.”

You see Jade glance behind you and your eyes go wide.

“Will you two quit it! He’s going to think I’m crazy!” you chide.

The rest of your shift is uneventful and as you’re walking out of the back room, bag in hand, you search for Joel but much to your disappointment you don’t see him anywhere in the bar.

“He walked out while you were getting your things,” Jade says lightly, as if she can sense your disappointment. “I’m sure he’ll be back.”

“Yea,” you answer vaguely. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow night.”

You hug Dan and Jade before walking toward the door, your head down as you start to make your way down the street.

“Where are you runnin’ off to sunshine?”

At the sound of Joel’s voice you whirl around and find him leaning against his motorcycle.

“Home,” you answer, trying to keep your voice steady.

His legs are crossed at the ankles and his hands are resting along his bike. His mussed hair moves gently in the light breeze and his jacket is unzipped to reveal his tight black tee beneath.

He’s making it hard to concentrate.

“Let me give you a ride,” he murmurs.

Your eyes widen and he pushes off the bike, walking over and standing in your space.

He reaches up to take your hand in his, bringing it to his lips to gently press them against your palm. That’s when you see his knuckles, torn up and crusted with dried blood.

“Joel,” you gasp, flipping your hand to hold his and delicately grazing his knuckles.

He slowly follows your gaze, offering you a lopsided smirk before he assures you, “I’m fine sunshine. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“But you need to clean it and wrap it,” you tell him closing your hand around his.

“Let me take ya home and then I’ll get it taken care of.”

“I’ve never ridden a bike before,” you admit.

Joel dips his head, brushing his lips along your jaw before they meet your ear.

“Lookin’ forward to being your first, darlin.”

Your lips part with your inhale and when he brings his head back and meets your eyes you tremble at the heat you find simmering.

Joel tears his eyes away to grab his helmet from the handlebars and puts it on your head. He fixes the straps carefully and gently, like you’re precious, and it makes you feel warm all over.

“You’re gonna need a jacket too,” he says.

“I didn’t bring one. It’s usually warm when I walk home.”

“You can have mine.”

He shrugs off his leather jacket and rests it over your shoulders, the worn and soft leather molding to your body and wrapping you in his distinct scent.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him without a jacket or long-sleeved shirt and when you catch sight of the tattoos lining his sculpted arms it just about sends you reeling.

You breathe out a curse.

“You okay?” he asks with a smirk playing on his lips.

“I like your ink,” you tell him, reaching out to trace your fingertips over one of the pieces that covers his bicep.

“You should see the rest of them,” he simpers.

His muscle flexes under your touch and you instinctively dig your fingers into his skin.

“I’d like that,” you hum.

This time he mutters a curse and starts to help you into his jacket, zipping it up slowly and stopping just below your collarbone.

“That should keep ya warm enough,” he muses, looking you over.

“I like you in my jacket,” he murmurs, letting his eyes linger before he checks the straps on your helmet one more time.

Then he leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth before he turns and throws one long leg over his bike.

You tell him your address and get on behind him, having seen enough movies to know that much, and spread your legs wide to accommodate the large bike and his hips.

Unsure of where to put your arms you’re thankful when he grabs your hands and pulls them around his middle.

“Hold on tight, sunshine,” he says. “Tap my stomach if you need me to stop and watch the pipes, they get hot.”

He looks down at the large chrome pipes on the side of the bike.

“Okay,” you reply, your voice slightly shaky with nerves.

You bury your face against his back, the thin material of his tee shirt doing little to hide the muscles beneath but before you can really enjoy the feeling the bike roars to life and he pulls away from the sidewalk.

Your whole body vibrates with the action and the sensation makes you squeeze him tighter. You can feel his laughter just before he opens the throttle and takes off.

He takes the long way to your house and when he slows down and kills the engine you still don’t let go of him.

With a press of his palm to your hands you reluctantly let go, your legs wobbly as you try to hop off the bike. He quickly grabs your waist and helps you off, sliding one hand along your arm until he holds your hand in his.

“So?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.

“That was kinda fun…I’d do it again.”

At that, he gives you a real smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“That’s good sunshine. I’ll take you for a ride anytime you want.”

His last words come out like a purr and you’re glad for the hold he has on your hand to keep you standing upright.

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and lower your lashes, tugging him toward your house. You stop at the door and pull your bag in front of you, searching for your keys.

“I can’t seem to find my damn…” you start to mutter, ready to turn your bag over and dump it out.

With a frustrated sigh you turn to face him, finding very little space between your bodies. You realize there is nowhere to go as you press yourself into the door, Joel’s body almost touching yours.

The first thing you feel is the strength of his hand around your bicep and the other wrapping around your neck as he drags you closer and covers your mouth with his.

Your bag drops to the floor and you cling to him, the smell of him, the feel of his hands on your body holding you against him and it all overpowers you and you make a throaty sound you can’t control.

His hand at the back of your neck tightens and he groans low, the sound of it skimming down your spine. His kiss grows deeper and more demanding, long enough to steal your breath and you slide your hands over his shoulders and into his hair.

He breaks the kiss, pulling back only an inch to look into your eyes. His own are dark, his lashes lowered over them as he traces his lips with his tongue. His hands settle at your waist and he rests his forehead to yours.

“Joel?” you whisper.

When he lifts his head he gently releases you, his eyes washing over you with a slightly pained expression.

“I’m a gentleman,” he says with a wry smile. “Let me at least take you out first.”

Everything about him screams that he wants to kiss you again but somehow he keeps his distance.

“Right, a date,” you says breathlessly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his messy hair.

Before you’ve fully recovered from the first kiss he has you pressed against the door again, his thumb tucked under your chin as his lips trail down the column of your neck. His hands slide lower, stroking your curves as his lips find the spot just below your ear and he whispers, “if I don’t go now…”

“Right…a gentleman…” you gasp, arching into him.

He pulls away, his eyes telling you everything he’s thinking.

Your knees are wobbly and you catch the doorframe with a sigh.

“Thank you again. For coming to my rescue.”

“Like I said, anytime sunshine,” he reminds you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow…”

It’s more of a question than a statement and for a brief moment you see a soft vulnerability flicker across his features.

“Of course,” you answer. “My shift starts at five.”

You lift your hand, brushing your fingers through his beard and then running them across the lines of his face, feeling the softness of his lips beneath your thumb. He reaches up and catches your hand, tugging it to his mouth and kissing across your knuckles.

“See you then sunshine and keep the jacket.”

@justkinsey @sstan-hoe @blackwidownat2814

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #protective!joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #biker!joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #biker au #joel miller au #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #esquire

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star-sparkler · 5 months

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(Found a lil drabble I wrote a while back that I wasn't gonna share outside of my buddies but you know what? Cute Brand New Papatello be upon you.) *

It wasn’t until he was cradling his daughter to his plastron, fresh from the tube she’d been grown in, that it occurred to Donnie he had never once in his life held a baby before. The thought was equal parts terrifying and surreally fascinating.

Distantly, he knew his family was losing their collective minds over the infant turtle mutant. He vaguely recognized a coo from someone - Leo? - telling the others to look at Donnie’s expression right now (“He’s a goner already.” An affectionate laugh. “You good, Dee?” “Shhh let him have this.” “Her fingers are SO small!”). But the longer Donnie looked at the baby curled into his chest, the less his family’s voices made sense.

Sound fell away. Hesitantly, Donnie brushed a hand - as big as she was - over the curve of her tiny shell. It was softer than his, the smooth leather surface still damp with incubator fluids. He could feel the ridge of her spine. The alien familiarity, the echo of his own shell, the smallness and fragility of her, the miracle that she was here and alive - a million thoughts and feelings simultaneously colliding - made Donnie’s breath hitch and a wave of warmth wash over him.

Donnie had already decided he cared about this baby, and his dum dum brain had already sent out all the dum dum hormones that filled him up with more dum dum affection for her than he knew what to do with. All the researching and the planning and the prepping and the step-by-stepping so that everything would be fully assembled to help her thrive and grow had been rigorously completed. And yet. And yet and….and yet….Donnie had never been so prepared while also being so helplessly lost and overwhelmed.

Words failed him.

His fingers were touching lightly over her cheek, her brow, hands so small they made his heart squeeze. She was incredible. She was the scariest thing he had ever beheld. And also the most beautiful. His stomach flipped. Instinctively, she searched for something to latch on to, mouth as toothless as a koi fish on the tip of his finger. The sound she made was an unmistakeable, Donnie’s-world-altering, high, sweet chirp. Donnie didn’t realized he’d clicked back automatically until an especially shrill noise of delight erupted from his brothers. With it, the vacuum tight bubble around himself and the baby popped.

Sound and smell and sight outside of himself and his miniature copy rushed back in. It was disorienting, but Donnie’s focus was resolute. He tried to ask for the bottle they’d prepared for her. She needed feeding and there was still some potential trial and error ahead in figuring out just what she would eat (baby formula? Turtle food? A Yokai recipe of some kind? Donnie had about a dozen different forms of nourishment prepped just in case. But he couldn’t manage to ask for a single one of them. The very thought of taking his attention off of her was absurd.

“How you holding up, Dad Man?” Leo asked with a laugh, the sound softer than usual. All of his family had settled down after Donnie came back to himself, maybe recognizing he was toeing the line of overstimulated, maybe just genuinely soft and happy themselves over seeing whatever it was they saw on Donnie’s face. He could worry about the implications of that when he reviewed the footage for his archives later. Right now however…

Replying should have been easy. Just string together a few coherent words, Donatello. Speaking was something he was perfectly capable of. He inhaled to do so. The rise of his chest for air, however, made the baby stir against him, peeping softly, and what little remaining rationale Donatello Hamato had flew out the window. Donnie was scooping her in closer, pressing his nose to the top of her head as he curled around his baby.

“Perfect.” He mumbled.

“Ha! Say again?”

“She’s perfect.”

Augustine Hamato, daughter of Donatello Hamato - his stomach flipped at the thought - was absolutely, two hundred percent…perfect.

#AugustineHamato #Papatello #this man is smitten ur honour I don't know what to tell you. scared senseless and overwhelmingly in love with da baby

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underratedandoverit · 2 months

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drain me of every memory

1,4k words hangman page/swerve strickland

im sleep deprived to hell and back but i couldnt sleep before i wrote this as i was finally struck with a vision i had to follow through. i also did not proofread this very carefully oops i have never written either of these two before so if they have terrible voices im so sorry also if this completely fucking sucks dont tell me please let me live in my tired ignorance lmao other than that i hope you enjoy it!! if its worth anything i'd love to know tho ;;

@midnightpretenders0 @stormbornpirate

on ao3

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The night had absolutely not gone how he would have wanted. It was a very small comfort in Swerve’s mind that Hangman hadn’t managed to win either, that he was the one suffering the big loss in tonight's huge three-way match, but it clearly wasn’t enough to satisfy the need. The hunger he had to see the cowboy suffer even more, making him feel the pain of those opportunities he snatched away from Swerve with his little tricks.

It wasn’t difficult at all to seek him out later in the evening. They had all stayed around until the end of the main event, everyone wanted to give Sting that one big sendoff together, and Swerve had spied Hangman in the crowd among the rest of the roster in the building tonight, easily. To say that the man looked uneasy and disappointed was an understatement, no matter how much he tried to hide it beneath the mask of a celebration in the moment.

Even past the mass of people between them, Swerve could see that those eyes still weren’t quite right, as they hadn’t been for some time now.

He didn’t even bother to knock on the locker room door, thinking the worst that he could do was catch Hangman changing. It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a locker room before, like he hadn’t seen almost everything this man had to offer, nothing that could faze him.

It wasn’t like they didn’t share an unspeakable bond created by a spur of a moment that they had to live with separately together with forever. A bond that was much more intimate than anything a naked eye could see.

A smirk tucked the corners of his lips as Swerve watched the confusion quickly take over the entire face of the blond, though the obvious anger quickly rose back on Hangman’s features. Maybe Swerve was able to see even a slight bit of embarrassment radiating from him, if he focused carefully enough.

“What the hell do you want?”

Swerve’s hands shot up, in both a defensive and calming manner, eyes never leaving Hangman and his obvious distress. “Calm down. I’m not here to wage more wars if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Yeah?” Swerve watched silently as Hangman stood up from his chair, staring daggers at him. “Well I’m not done with you, or afraid to kick your ass if I have to!”

“And fail at that task again? I doubt it.”

His calm demeanor was clearly agitating Hangman further, but the joy Swerve took in just watching his struggle to keep his emotions in check and his words coherent was immeasurable. Just seeing the small visual cues of Hangman’s eyes wandering as he tried to collect himself, hands squeezing into fists and opening up again, the way he almost, just almost wanted to start pacing the small room to calm himself down.

It was all almost too much, too good to be true. Too good to be a real thing he was witnessing with his own eyes, let alone causing.

“Well,” Swerve chuckled quietly, his low voice softly rumbling off the empty walls of the room around them. His hands dropped down again, finding comfort in the pockets of his jacket. “At least I’m not the one who lost that match out there. I think that gives me room to speak.”

That was the right button to push clearly, as Hangman’s eyes shot towards him again, narrowing almost dangerously as he closed the gap between the two men with just a few quick strides, both hands grabbing the front of Swerve’s jacket. He didn’t even flinch, just watched with a smirk as Hangman shook him slightly, his eyes burning with clear anger and frustration.

“Listen here, you little shit!” He wasn’t even trying to control the level of his voice anymore, the frustrations of the entire night pouring over in one fell swoop, manifesting out with a string of incoherent curses and hands trying to wildly shake the other man, whether to intimidate him or bring him to his senses, Swerve wasn’t sure. All he knew was that neither of those ideal options was working.

All Swerve needed to do, was to lean just a tiny bit closer to his face, to freeze Hangman on his tracks, quieting down, the sudden realization of how close they were washing over him. His eyes fixated on Swerve, who quite honestly looked like he was anything but hating this whole ordeal that he had once again managed to cause. Hands on him, his jacket, holding, pulling him close.

His first reaction was to look away, but Hangman clearly wasn’t done with him yet as the hands remained in their place, he just needed to collect himself to figure out how to proceed from here. Seeing his opening though, Swerve didn’t give him much time to think, soon a hand reaching for Hangman’s face, almost forcefully gripping his jaw, turning him back forward.

A soft blush dusted over the blond’s features. Just as Swerve had thought he briefly saw.

“What’s the matter?” His voice was taunting, clearly trying to push it even further than things had already advanced to. “I thought you said you weren’t done with me yet, cowboy.”

Hangman clearly struggled for words, mouth opening and closing without anything going in or coming out of it. His hands still had a tight grip of Swerve’s jacket, keeping him close even if neither would have wanted that, almost as if he was aware that if he let go, the situation would likewise disappear, slip away from his grip.

Swerve could see Hangman’s eyes wandering on his face, glancing down to his lips as Swerve licked them, almost as if giving him visual clues. Giving him ideas he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to act on them, to chase them, to realize them.

Thankfully there were two of them in the situation, as Swerve quickly closed the gap, pressing their lips together. Hangman let out almost a surprised gasp at the sudden touch, but it didn’t take a lot of persuading to pull him deeper into the feeling that he wasn’t going to admit that he had longed to feel for a while now. The blond’s grip almost tightened on Swerve’s jacket, just holding him close, holding his breath as he felt the pair of soft lips against his, first just as a peck, slowly going for something deeper, more meaningful.

As the curious tongue slipped into the mix to lick over his lips, any thoughts of resistance were officially gone from Hangman’s mind as he gave into the temptation, the soft, deep kiss of a cursed rival.

Hangman still held him close by the front of his jacket, afraid of letting go, of potentially wasting this opportunity. Opportunity to do what exactly, that he wasn’t so sure about. Swerve’s hand slipped from his jaw, up along it to brush a coil of rogue hair behind Hangman’s ear, finally slipping up his neck into his hair. He balled a good amount of his coils, giving it a firm, almost commanding tuck.

Hangman could feel Swerve smiling against his lips as he moaned quietly.

And almost as fast as the moment had begun, it was already over. Swerve pulled away with ease, leaving Hangman breathing heavily and chasing after those lips he wanted back onto him, but all he got back was a chuckle. The hand slipped away from his hair, grabbing a hold of his hand, still somewhat gently ripping it off from his jacket.

Hangman almost jumped as Swerve leaned back closer, lips brushing against his ear. A hot breath sent shivers down his spine.

“Maybe next time,” Swerve whispered to him, clear amusement in his voice over the state he had managed to put the other man in, “You actually try if you want to go for the gold.”

Hangman didn’t get a word out of his mouth, just watched, still stunned over the events that had transpired as Swerve finally fully pulled away, ripping himself away from the blond’s grip. Hands finding their way back into his pockets like before, Swerve just turned on his heels, heading out of the locker room without another word, without getting any resistance back.

At least Swerve had the mental victory over knowing whose name was living rent free in Hangman’s mind for the rest of the night.

#fic #character: hangman page #character: swerve strickland #ship: hangmanswerve #aew fanfiction #wrestling fanfiction

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hellish-hyperfixation · 9 months

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rainy days | seo changbin x male reader

genre: hurt/comfort (is that even a genre?)

Sometimes, rain fell from the skies and you didn't have an umbrella or a roof over your head to protect yourself from it. And sometimes, that rain led to a flood that consumed your very being. Luckily, Changbin is there to help you remember how to swim.

requested

word count: 1.2k

warnings: mentions of self harm, vivid description of a panic attack

a/n: i am back! and will hopefully be able to finish the final request and make all the changes i want to by tonight. this fic was entirely based on my own experiences, so it may not be accurate or relatable for everyone, but i hope you can enjoy nonetheless.

reblogs and comments are always appreciated:)

Life is… Not always fun, to say the least. Whether it’s a single big event ruining your life like a plane crashing into the middle of the road, or a collection of small problems overwhelming you like a house with a hole in the roof filling up until the family inside of it drowns, life gets tough. Today is no exception.

It started like any other day. Wake up, morning routine, and a seemingly endless list of responsibilities ready to be fulfilled and disposed of. Only, it wasn’t like any other day. From the second you woke up, it was going awry. Being late for work, thus yelled at by your boss; getting the wrong order, but not wanting to inconvenience the employees; it started to rain when you hadn’t brought your umbrella, making you and your clothes get soaked; among other slight inconveniences that felt larger and more irritating the more they built up.

The roof was blown off by a hurricane by this point, and the only reason water hadn’t spilt over the side was because you weren’t home yet.

But the moment you got home, they flooded, and they flooded hard.

You threw off your shoes and slumped down on the floor, warm tears already streaming down your face as a stark contrast to your now cold cheeks. Your clothes stuck to you like a second skin, and you wanted for nothing more than to grow claws and rip them to shreds. Any bare skin that showed stung and felt overworked by the rain that pelted down on it, and no matter how much you wiped it just wouldn’t dry.

You sat there on the floor in front of the front door, pulling your legs to your chest and burying your face into your knees. At some point — you couldn’t tell when — your lungs began working overtime to fill your brain with oxygen that was never enough, and your throat let out sobs and whines and shudders in an attempt to rid your heart of its massive burden. Your head blamed your lungs for not working hard enough because it felt cloudy and foggy and not a single coherent thought was going through your mind because the only thing left in there was dizzy, dizzy, dizzy and the occasional throb, throb, throb that pounded against your skull like a semi truck with tires made of oil.

You were drowning — your entire body submerged in thick, murky water, with weights pulling you down at your ankles and wrists. Oxygen was a privilege, one you apparently didn’t earn. Your fingers clawed at your arms, digging into them tightly enough to leave moon-shaped crevices in the skin — some even going as far as leaving tiny droplets of blood that made the water even muddier. You didn’t know how long you sat there, overstimulated and stressed and wishing it would all just end already—

“–be! Baby, come back to me. C’mon, deep breaths now. We practiced this, remember? In, 2, 3, out, 2, 3”

Your boyfriend. He came home. He’s home. And so are you.

You followed his instructions, taking slow breaths as prompted, and slowly but surely you managed to clear parts of the fog in your mind. He sat with you on the floor, hands grasping yours and squeezing in time with the breaths.

“Can you tell me what day it is for me?”

You have to think for a moment, wading through the murky swamp of information to get to the day of the week, then you relay the information to him. You look up to meet his face, and a relieved smile graces his lips. Your heart aches at having created the need for such an expression in the first place, but it also sings with joy at knowing he’s there for you even at these low points.

“How are you feeling?”

You sniffle and let out a wet laugh, nodding.

“Like shit. But better. Thanks, Binnie.”

He smiles in response to match your attempt at one.

“Good. That’s good. Up for taking a nice bath?”

You shake your head this time, suddenly feeling aware of the stickiness on your skin again.

“I think I’ve had enough water on my body for today. I’ll just have a quick rinse.” You slowly stand, and Changbin helps you up with strong, steady arms. “Could you get some dry clothes ready for me?” You ask, somewhat timid at needing more help. The radiant smile on his face washes it away. How could someone be so willing to be there with you every step of the way? Asking for nothing in return?

“Anything for my man,” Changbin teases, and you chuckle despite yourself.

“Cuddles in the bedroom after?” And you know before you even ask that the answer is a definite yes.

________

After your quick shower, you change into the clothes that Changbin left for you on the bathroom sink, and feel every muscle in your body melt at how comforting it is. It’s one of his oversized hoodies, which means it consumes you whole with your boyfriend being so much more buff than yourself, one of your best boxers, and a pair of your favorite sweatpants. They were all warm, meaning they must’ve been fresh out of the dryer.

When you get to the bedroom, you’re met with Changbin already laying in bed, tapping away at a laptop. Soft music played from one of the speakers on his desk, wrapping the room in a comforting blanket. He looks up at you as you enter, greeting you with a slight grin.

“Feeling better?” He shuts his laptop and places it on the bedside table. All of his attention was on you, and he made sure you knew it. You only nod in response and flop onto the bed, arms wrapping around his torso. The sleeves of your hoodie rolled up at the action, revealing parts of your arm to him. He placed a gentle hand on it, pushing the clothes even more up to reveal more skin and let tender fingers skim along its surface. Your fingernails must’ve left their little moons behind.

One glance solidified your suspicions. Scattered across your skin at random intervals were bits of skin peeling off. Looking closely, one could see healed scars showing pain from the past. You looked away.

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, clutching on to Changbin just a little tighter. “I know I said I’d stop, it’s just—” You sniffled, feeling tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.

“I know, baby. It’s okay. You did what you had to.” Changbin wrapped his arms around your shoulders, giving a tight squeeze. He then leaned down to leave a silent kiss on your head.

You laid there for a moment, allowing the warmth from Changbin’s body and his hoodie to give your body the much needed relaxation. You closed your eyes, listening to his soft breathing and the music playing in the background. Comfort. Warmth. Love. Safety. The storm was over, and you could sit in peace knowing that you survived. There would be more to come in the future, but you knew that Changbin would be there for you every step of the way of this arduous journey.

#seo changbin x male reader #stray kids x male reader #x male reader #kpop x male reader #tw: self harm #tw: anxiety attack #tw: panic attack

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joys-of-everyday · 8 months

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So er... how does the cultivation work actually?

Firstly, a meta point on soft vs hard world building. MXTX’s novels lean more towards soft worldbuilding, building on existing tropes and leaving details to the imagination. I love soft worldbuilding. It’s fine if it doesn’t make sense! As long as its internally coherent, you can have wonderfully magical, realistic worlds that make absolutely no sense on inspection. As for SVSSS, the worldbuilding is meant to be shitty. That’s the joke.

Oh and something something, I’m not a history person, nor an economics person, no this is not thoroughly researched (this was an afternoon with too much time on my hands), take my words with a pinch of salt.

So phew, caveats aside, let me jot down some thoughts on how the cultivation world might work.

Two key questions:

Where does the food come from?

Who builds the roads?

1. Where does the food come from?

More generally, where do cultivators get goods from? Like clothes, paper, the rice LBH is making his congee with, the oil they are using for papapa, important things like this. Now either sects produce their own goods, or they procure it from outside.

In the first case, they own land. If they own lots of land, then they employ people to work this land. They have factories and manage communities and things like this. And before you say ‘sects don’t care about secular affairs!’, official sect business and getting revenue for the sect can be two different things. Look at any religious institution anywhere. As a good example, Buddhist monasteries (which is very loosely what cultivation sects are based on right???) have historically owned vast amounts of lands. They received a proportion of harvest in exchange for protection against external threats.

In the second case, there’s a cushion between the peasant and the sect – some power which organises all the goods that the peasants produce and hand them as a lump over to the sect. We have indication from this in text – i.e. the existence of prominent families.

So rich families exist. Why are families rich? Because they own resources. Usually, the form this resource takes is land. On the other hand, we don’t see those families becoming regional powers – local lords and things like this (unless you count Huan Hua Palace???), and in fact they seem to have almost no military power at all. Having resources isn’t all fun and games – this stuff needs protecting. So a reasonable system to have in place is that prominent families and sects have deals – protection in exchange for goods. (This is basically the same system as above, except with the prominent families as buffers so that sects have less boring legwork to do.) An alternative to all of this is some central power which collects taxes and redistributes goods appropriately, but we see no indication of one so lets leave that aside.

Overall, it’s probably a mix of the two and depends heavily on the sect.

Example: maybe Cang Qiong relies on a bunch of deals with local families (e.g. the Ming family and their tea fields), while Huan Hua is more heavily invested in managing their territory. A very small sect on the other hand might have its members working the land as part of sect duty.

2. Who builds the roads?

The whole point (arguably) of central power is its ability to do things on a scale that individuals cannot. This includes building works: roads, canals, flood controls, defensive walls etc. And also things like enforcing law, setting standards for trade, defend against external threats, etc. etc. all that fun jazz.

Now the world of SVSSS is fractured into regional powers, so that makes coordinating all of this quite hard.

For small things – patching up a bit of road or building a bridge or whatever – the people who own the land can probably do it themselves. Off the track sects and villages would struggle a little, but maybe they had the cultivation equivalent of GoFundMe or something. Cities seem to have their own governance (Jinlan had a city governor) so they can deal with day-to-day law. If this seems a bit laissez-faire, remember that governments being so involved in everyday life is a more modern thing.

For big things, that was probably what sect conferences were for. We see all the sects came together to defeat Tianlang-Jun, and probably for SQQ’s trial. These conferences were no doubt absolute chaos, but having four (4) major powers probably subdued it a little. So overall, all locally managed, until the issue is too big for local management, in which case it is thrown into an Endless Meeting (we’ve all been in one of those haha).

To wrap up, we have that the cultivation world is this blob of different regional powers interacting with each other, generally managing their own affairs and occasionally coming together to deal with the Big Problems.

This seems... horrendously unstable and likely to descend into a chaotic war within generations lol

Anyway, all just stray thoughts. If anyone else has other ideas, would be interested in hearing!

#svsss #svsss ideas #mxtx #worldbuilding #gcse history level economics lets go!!!!

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sentientstump · 2 years

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I know it’s been like, the hottest of minutes, but I’d love to hear more about your TC deity au

...whoa greetings there, you're right its been awhile (im even surprised someone remembers it "xD ) Now lemme think about it for a long time

thinking is still in the process but i think I've got something coherent now:

Whats the setting?

A pretty small patch of land. If you stand in the middle of it you'll be able to see its borders on the horizon. Probably 15 km (or 9.3 miles) in radius. Fields, a river, small clumps of trees, forests, many lakes, river hills all around the perimeter. No powerful human technology, small villages of 25 houses, quiet surroundings (idk the specific age but it can be any tbh, TC have been there for a long time before humans anyways) (also this is heavily inspired by the folklore we have here, the general one that is widely known by the public, and the landscape of my homeland)

What are these strange seasons?

There's only 3 guys in Team Canada so i didn't want to use our 4 seasons that we currently have. One season would have been either blank or had another deity and i was like no

Tranquility season is when nature slows down and humans are sitting in their warm homes perfecting their crafts by the heat providers. The season starts with a layer of snow that did not melt the next day after. •(based on the myth of The Bull of Frost that gradually loses its horns one by one and then the head ->) People have a certain myth where The Snow Fox takes off his winter clothes because its getting too close to a warmer season. The winter coat goes first, then his hat. People also say that he takes off his scarf too, but no one saw him without it•

This season is ~5 months long. Cold weather, sometimes powerful winds, a lot of snow

Restoration season is when nature starts to wake up from its long slumber. Lasts for 4 months, from first revealed patches of old grass to mushrooms in the green forests. Weather gets gradually warmer, thunderstorms and crazy cloud formations are not rare

Harvest season is when nature provides with many gifts. Vast spaces of hay grass, field onions, berries and mushrooms of many kinds, fish and wild meat. Humans grow their own gifts as well but not as much as their southern neighbours. Constantly changing weather, many rains, many clear skies

What is a deity?

It's a being that is not the embodiment of the current season but an extension of it, a helpful spirit that takes care of the yearly balance. Humans here have a lot of respect towards them, so in exchange deities provide with nature gifts, fishing and hunting luck, great health for their livestock, etc etc

How do they interact?

Usually, in-between the seasons two deities exchange their news and stories. The seasons do not overlap in three. But their duties are. Sometimes another deity joins the conversation as well

When Etho and Pause meet they are not in their prime. Etho has to uncover his face due to the warm weather and Pause is still in the process of growing his antlers again. They often talk about Beef's hybernation schedule

When Pause and Beef meet they discuss the status of the living beings. Etho is still lurking in the forests but humans are unable to spot him. He sometimes visits the other two

When Beef and Etho meet they talk about the annual races against time. People need to prepare their foods for the long Tranquility season. Sometimes Pause shares information about forest resources and how humans collected them

so thats the current lore i guess xD too much words but hey, i tried my best to compact ^^"

here's the differently worded but with the same information twitter thread. here's the inspiration for this pauses design :D

and heres some of the development doodles i had:

thank you for reading this far lol, means a lot to me :,D

#ethoslab #pauseunpause #vintagebeef #team canada #tc deity au #the tag i guess :o #artstump

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undiscovered-horizon · 2 years

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"Kiss me more" - TASM!Peter Parker x Reader

SUMMARY: A collection of small moments when you and Peter share various kisses. Cute stuff, 'tis all.

I am ✨soft✨ for this boy

[Check out the 500 followers special!]

Kisses on the head

"Can we have a break?" you mumbled. It was the fourth hour of you and Peter doing chemistry exam-style questions. Your brain was evaporating.

"Come on, it's just three more," he answered in an absent tone, already reading the next one. The excitement science incited inside him was adorable, although now you couldn't help but hate it.

Tired, you let your head fall on his shoulder. It wasn't a conscious movement that he rested his head against yours. Peter has done this so many times it was, quite literally, muscle memory. Maybe he hasn't even noticed his little habit.

"Peter, my brain is a smoothie."

He laughed at your serious statement and your head lightly bounced on his shoulder.

"Then go take a nap," he whispered before kissing the top of your head.

"Only if you're coming with me."

To your pleasure, Peter didn't need much convincing.

Forehead kisses

"My God, Peter, it's like you're trying to get yourself killed," you mumbled under your nose as you measured the good length of bandage to cut.

"I have it all under control."

"You surely do, babe," you answered unconvinced and put the bandage over the cut on the back of his shoulder, running your hand over the adhesive edges to make sure it's stuck well.

You got up from the bed and Peter was about to longingly grab your hand and ask about where you were going, when you gently grabbed his bruised face and gave his forehead a long, affectionate kiss.

"I'll get you something to eat," you whispered against his forehead before kissing it again and leaving your bedroom.

Cheek kisses

Only when Peter sat down across from you, did you look up from your book. The dining hall was filled with students, their loud voices and laughs nearly drowning out any coherent thought your mind produced.

With a bright smile on his face, Peter set a small paper bag down on the table.

"What's that?"

"For stitching up my arm."

"I'm taking care of my boyfriend for free."

Sometimes he still got giddy hearing you call him "your boyfriend".

"I know."

You got up from your seat, leaned across the table and kissed Peter on the cheek. Then you opened the small paper bag only to see a few of your favorite French pastries.

He really knew you like the back of his own hand.

Finger kisses

You opened your mouth to tease Peter back when the police radio in his pocket buzzed and rustled before a female voice quickly spoke:

"All units, we have a report of a 499b in upper Midtown. Suspects are driving a black sedan on Michigan numbers."

"I think you're needed, Spider-Man."

Peter looked at you with an apologetic expression, his eyes somehow wider and eyebrows slanted. You could tell he wanted to say something, let out a waterfall of words that would, hopefully, earn your forgiveness. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel neglected as if his spandex alter-ego was more important to him than you.

He brought your hand, which he was already holding, up to his lips and whispered before kissing your fingers and disappearing into the night:

"Wait for me."

Pecks on lips

You heard a soft knocking on your bedroom window and almost tripped over your own feet running into the room. Peter was, as you expected, on the other side of the glass, waiting for you with a grin on his face.

The cold night air hit your face when you opened the window. It felt refreshing. A police siren wailed in the distance and you could only suspect Peter had something to do with it.

"Hey," he said quietly and kissed your lips.

"Hey," you answered, smiling into another kiss. Without a problem, Peter crawled through the window into your bedroom, still exchanging pecks with you. His hands went into your hair and around your waist. "How's your night?" you asked.

It took Peter a few deeper kisses to finally answer:

"A lot better now."

_____

@restingbitchsblog

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ddarker-dreams · 2 years

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Hi,

I'm asking you this 'cause you are one of my fav writers on this app and I'm too embarrassed to come off anon.

I used to be confident in my writing a year ago. The words used to flow into my head freely as I write and not even once I felt like it was a chore to me. I didn't doubt or fuss over stuff I write until one day I got criticized very badly. I received a huge feedback on how much my writing sucked (literally a page).

Now, every time I sit to write stuff i love, i fall into the pit hole of self doubts and start to loathe the style of my writing.

I know it sounds pathetic that one bad criticism has changed my mindset. And, writing stuff is my only outlet....

Today, I run a small blog on this app and so far the response for the stuff i write is so positive yet I can't shake away this insecurity and it is starting to take a toll on me.

How do I overcome this? I would appreciate any tips on getting better at writing and finding a unique writing style. Please ignore this ask if it makes you uncomfy tho. Again, I'm so sorry if I troubled you.

hello anon!!

aa… i'm really sorry to hear that this happened to you, unsolicited criticism can already be discouraging, but that sounds infinitely worse ?? i don't think you sound pathetic, it's pretty natural for people to remember negative experiences over positive ones. it just sticks in the brain longer. i'm a pretty sensitive person myself so i can see where you're coming from. i think one of the things that's helped me a lot is basically going 'so what lol' whenever i'm confronted with stuff like that. we're writing self-indulgent stories for fun (and free!), it doesn't need to be this generation's war and peace. it's okay for your work to be 'messy'. writing is like any other hobby, what matters more is enjoying the creating process rather than arriving at a super polished piece that's-100%-without-flaw-god-tier-ready-to-be-accepted-in-the-canon-of-the-bible level stuff. there's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting what you work on to be good, i absolutely strive for that myself, but when it feels more like a chore and i'm agonizing over it, i take a step back.

i didn't feel right giving you a watchmojo top ten tips to improve your writing reply in response to this. i was too busy going >:( at the thought of an absolute troglodyte thinking their silly one page of feedback that no one asked for was warranted. like. the world is on fire. we're seeing a surge in cash grabs that have absolutely zero soul behind them. creativity is constantly shoved to the side for a quick buck (hbo max flipping off their animators, ZA/UM booting the minds behind disco elysium who spent literal decades working on the game, the list could go on forever). create what you want and what you love, if someone tries to come @ you with rude feedback, that's cringe. 'you forgot to collect the homework' type energy. zero bitches. lame. zzzzzz.

all this to say . i want to encourage you to not feel burdened that you need to improve your writing PRONTO, because if that's hovering over you, it'll sap away your joy while writing. the thought alone makes me sad. there is no person on the planet who has experienced the exact set of circumstances that you have, meaning you have something to contribute that's entirely unique to you. you can describe things in ways people could never think to because they aren't you, you can infuse your distinct personality into your work, create something from nothing. you already have your own unique writing style; everyone does.

i'm sorry if this isn't coherent or useful, i just ended up getting heated HJTKEMG please keep writing anon!!! but remember that it's okay to take breaks when the negatives outweighs the positives during the writing experience. in fact, it's perfectly normal across the board for any hobby. i'm wishing you the best of luck.

#answered #Anonymous

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oftincturedwords · 1 year

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Title: Ties Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Star Wars : The Bad Batch Rating: T+ Chapter Warnings: ¡Spoilers! Crying , Grief/Mourning , Implied Canon Character Death , Angst , Nightmares , Explicit Nightmares , etc. Characters: Crosshair & Omega Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort , Brother - Sister Dynamics , Holding Hands , Crying , etc. Timeline: Based off of Star Wars : The Bad Batch series three trailer ; scene with Crosshair & Omega in cells beside each other Pairings: Gen. None. Word Count: 3034 Overall Summary: Crosshair doesn't allow his gaze to drift towards the cell next to his, the open slates between them allowed him some view of the entrance and within the cell the kid usually occupied. It was too great risk for familiarly to be used as leverage against them. But he can't remain distant when he knows something is wrong. Chapter Summary: Crosshair wakes in the middle of the night to hear Omega crying. He tries his best to help. A/N: These ideas just sprang to my head once I heard of the scene between Omega & Crosshair in the Star Wars Celebration trailer , thus add my apparent enjoyment of causing turmoil for my favourite characters , I couldn't help but write this ficlet up. I wrote it & the next chapter ( which will be posted in a few day ) up in a single night because of the inspiration so here's to hope it's coherent & in-character as I think it is ! Thus consider this a small collection of interconnecting one - shots of Crosshair & Omega whilst they are held on Tantiss. If more ideas come to mind , the chapter count will go up & the tags will be updated. I have no beta this all mistakes are mine. Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Star War : The Clone Wars & Star Wars : The Bad Batch. Neither am I associated with Lucasfilms , Disney+ , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. I make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes. Read On : ao3 | under the cut

Wakefulness came instantaneously to Crosshair. Much like the times when on a mission he would be woken to take his turn of the watch, a near silent whisper of his name from one of his brothers and he was roused enough to fight if it had been needed. The instincts and habits born during combat, or from combat training, hadn't lessened any in the countless weeks he had spent as a prisoner. For his eyes were open and mind alert before he knew exactly what had woken him.

Drawn from the depths of sleep by the softest of out-of-place noise. A breathy, hiccuping sound that was familiar in the sense he had heard it before. Although the memory of it was distant, it had happened years ago in what seemed like another life, and any recollection was immediately dismissed when it registered that the stifled crying was coming from the kid’s cell.

Tensing at that realisation, Crosshair listened a moment more to the muffled sniffles and shallowly exhaled sobs from the cell directly next to his. They were quiet in a way that was deliberate and purposefully, yet desolate and grieved sounding to the point, he knew there was nothing the kid could have done to stop crying altogether. They were the tears of the emotional wrought, which never heeded logic nor yielded to restraint or threats, they wouldn't stop until they were spent.

Normally, Crosshair would have left the kid alone. He knew he wasn't good with words of comfort at the best of times and the barrier separating their cells, despite the slats that were vented through the durasteel and allowed them to see into each other’s room, it still physically barred any actions of comfort he could offer. Not that they had much to offer in way of amenities anyway, but he could have at least added his blanket to hers or sat beside her until her tears ran dry as he had done before for his brothers.

However, he wasn't sure if it would even work for her if he had been able to do that.

But after what had happened only a handful of days ago, Crosshair wasn't going to leave anything to chance with the kid if he could help it. Just because he thought he knew why she was crying didn't mean he could be wrong, he had been intimately shown that he could and had repeatedly been wrong before. Thus he, quickly yet equally as quiet, turned on his cot until he was laying on his belly and could look towards the apertures between their cells.

The lighting was dimmed to the point of blackness, aside from the red glow the shielding of their cell entrances gave off, but Crosshair had zero issue with seeing that the kid was sitting up on the bunk. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and she had her head buried into her folded arms, all but consumed by the sole blanket they had all been issued that she had lain and tucked over herself.

He could visibly see the blanket shift with every hitch of her breaths and jolt of her small frame. The greyed fabric quavered with the strength of her trembling in-between every jarring sob she fought to restrain and quiet.

“Kid.” Crosshair called out in a whisper, which caused an instant cessation of the repressed sobbing and a stillness to overcome the kid as if his voice had physically froze her on the spot.

Seeing such a reaction had Crosshair’s lips twisting moreso into a frown. The response had been a fearful one, instinctive to the point it was nearly innate. Although, he wasn’t surprised at it given how Kamino raised its clones and their current situation as captives to scientists of even less compassion than those who bred them to begin with. It felt wrong to see, and sparked at that bitterly simmering anger that always burnt within his chest.

“Crosshair?” Came her choked whisper, thick with tears and broken between the syllables of his name, as if she had spoken in the middle of a sob, whilst she tilted her head up a fraction to see over her arms and from under the blanket she had draped over her head.

“What is it?” He asked in way of an answer, his voice a sibilant murmur.

His words again had an instant effect upon her. And he could only watch as she swallowed back another sob, a pair of crystalline tears falling from her reddened eyes and slipping in twin rivulets down her already damp cheeks before she shut her eyes tightly and shook her head in the negative repeatedly. Dropping it back into her arms whilst her whole body shuddered, he heard her give a gasping breath that was only muffled by how vehemently she was pressing herself against her mouth to silence the noise.

The split second all that had taken to occur had sent a lancing of panic through Crosshair’s chest. His mind involuntarily conjured up the images of days prior and brought forth the very same helpless terror he had felt then, thus he’s shoving down his blanket without caring where he lay and throwing his legs over the side of the bunk to get up in the next instant.

Soundlessly crossing the short expanse of the room in hardly the time it would take to breathe his next breath, Crosshair came up to the adjoining wall of their cells that held a small space between it and the end of his bunk that he could crouched down by yet still see through the lower ends of the open slats on the wall. It was less conspicuous to any passing guards if they happened to walk by or check the cameras since it would afford him the sparse few seconds to return to his bunk or appear to be anything other than talking with the kid.

He moved automatically, an ingrained habit to conceal and hide that hadn't left his muscle memory from the years he’d spent in the main barracks on Kamino before he and his brothers had been given their own privately shared quarters. Yet if something were dangerously wrong with the kid, his secrecy wound proved unneeded for he would ensure the guards brought medical up and to her if she needed it. After last time, he doubted he would have to make much of a racket to get them to obey.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, his harsh whisper laced with a steeliness that sharpened his tone, the underlying of heightened concern was buried beneath its acerbity.

The only answer he received were the chocked sounds of her muffled weeping.

“Omega.” He called, an urgency within the sole whisper of her name that held every ounce of worry and tension he was feeling.

“‘M not hurt,” She finally answered after a stretched handful of moments, her words a tad garbled by her tears but understandable enough, “Or sick. Just, just had a nightmare.”

Crosshair felt himself practically wilt against the wall before him, a relief it wasn't anything more serious and potentially life threatening washed over him with an immediacy that left him feeling shaky. But he simply breathed out the stress of the last several minutes in a muted exhale, willing his mind away from the images his memories held of a few days ago.

Pausing only a moment to contemplate her words further, nothing physical was wrong, but it didn't make her distress any less. It'd been a few years since Crosshair had helped any of his brothers with nightmares of this extent. Since leaving Kamino they had all dealt with them differently than they had as cadets, never alone still, unless any of them professed the want to be alone after them.

But it was more of waking them if they couldn't on their own, then offering a sip-pack of filtered water and sitting nearby until the haunting images faded enough for them to return to sleep. If sleeping again wasn't an option, then staying up till the terror or ill feelings weren't so pressing. Or so Crosshair had always done. He wasn't one for many words, nor comfortingly eloquent, and so he didn't offer much assurances that way. Actions usually spoke louder than words anyway.

Thus Crosshair simply turned around from where he knelt and shifted so he could sit down, cross legged with his back against the thin openings between their cells.

Leaning his head back against them, he quietly turned to sit on the durasteel flooring. It's coldness seeping through the fabric of his trousers to chill the flesh along his legs and arse, but it was negligible and not an unfamiliar sensation since he had camped out on the deck beside bunks and berths multiple times throughout his eleven years of life. Slept even on worse surfaces.

He couldn't be there next to her, but he could still sit with her as close as he their physical confines allowed him to. Attempting to offer her the silent comfort he had afforded his brothers numerous times before; the voiceless succour he’d provided hunter whenever he had migraines so painful he was entirely incapacitated yet couldn't be left alone, the same quiet amity he lent tech whenever his brother would narrate the process of a complicated project whilst he verbally worked through the issue, the soundless presence he had given the reg whenever he sat with him on his bunk during sleepless nights.

With Wrecker it had been less about crosshair offering a silent support and more about rising to meet his older brother’s energy, engaging in and initiating contests and games that they routinely fought for place as victor. It was usually Wrecker who worked to be the calm and steady company whenever Crosshair had needed it.

He wasn't certain what would best work with the kid. His options were limited as is, he knew, especially given there were eyes upon them more often than not, but perhaps this would grant a modicum of solace? If anything he would remain awake alongside her, she wouldn't be alone.

A modified silence reigned around them. No noise except for the distant humming of the buildings’ systems, the air vents cycling and the low humming that always came from the multiple glowing shields that held them all within their prisons. Only accompanied by the smothered hiccuping sobs and wet snuffling that came from the kid as she continued to quietly cry.

“I dreamt of that day on Eriadu,” He heard her speak up suddenly after several minutes had passed, explaining the reason for her upset in a subdued voice, softly heaving a stuttered breath thereafter, “The, the day that Tech...”

Crosshair stiffened at hearing her admission, startled by the onslaught of heartache hearing his little brother’s name had shot through his core. Eyes closing on their own accord, he strove to keep his own breathing even. Measured and counted.

He had been informed of what happened by Hemlock. The kriffing bastard had brandished the remains of Tech’s shattered helmet to him as if it were a trophy meant to be shown off and smiled at with revenance.

Later when he had been returned to his own cell and saw the kid was in hers, looking worriedly over at him, he had whirled on her once the guards had left them alone. Not shouting nor anywhere near loud, but demanded he did. Low and severe, he relaid what Hemlock told him to her and pressed to know if it was true. Yet he hadn't needed any verbal confirmation from her since the expression on her face and the welling of tears in her eyes had told him everything.

Shuddering, Crosshair drew a slow breath against the icy-grip of grief that reached out from his heart to clamp vice-like around his chest, intertwining its talons between each and every rib. It strove to stutter his next inhale and constrict the rest to nothing.

The ire he had initially felt when he had found out had tapered, he couldn't remain angry long enough to stave off the tide of grief anymore these last several days. Extinguished by a resurgence of memories, likely brought up by exhaustion and grief, from their years as cadets and from their graduation onwards to an elite squad in the GAR.

Stupid moments during the dull moments of missions or in-between assignments, idle chatter of conversations he hadn't remembered until now to petty arguments that felt all the more trivial to shared silences of companionship and solidarity.

Recollections of smiling, and outright laughing a few rare times, with his brothers. Of games and tears and jokes and the grittiest of missions where they barely made it out by the skin of their teeth. Memories of every sort, good and bad, had coalesced and come to the forefront of his mind unbidden. Each one worked to erode at his anger and the bitterness he had felt, it all felt frivolous and inane now. Regret had seeped in heavier than ever before, mingling with guilt and his grief to the degree he felt ill with it.

Learning of his brother’s death in an attempt to rescue him and then seeing the kid had been captured only to have her confirm his warning had been received just not followed had twisted something deep inside Crosshair. He had clung to the rage at their continued distrust of him, that they wouldn't even listen to his wanting, and had been snuffed out almost immediately.

For their squad had never been one to follow orders or adhere to any strict rules, anything ‘by the book’ was a joke they all smirked at. He shouldn't have expected anything less, even if the kid was involved. she was off the same stock after all, and living with those four for so long had to have had an influence.

Maker knows Wrecker, Tech, and the reg. held no impulse control if Hunter wasn't actively present. Thus he doubted the kid was any different.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was closer now, directly at his back, so lost to his reminiscence he hadn't heard her get up nor walk over towards where he sat, “I know you’re mourning him too. That's why I didn't want to say anything.”

Her words felt more akin to a hit to the solar plexus than the expression of sympathy that they were. And again he had to work to steady his breathing lest he lose any control over the amount of oxygen he drew in, shoving back against the pressure welling within his own chest.

Focussing instead on the faint sounds from her side of the slatted wall, hearing the soft shuffling of the kid’s clothes along with the dull thumps of her sitting down behind him. The faint warmth he could feel from her back through the slits in the wall told him she had mirrored his posture.

“But I miss them so much.” She said after a breadth of silence between them, nearer a broken whimper that continued through the wobbliness of tears to whisper, “And I want to go home, but when we get out of here and see Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo again, Tech won't— No rescue plan or any amount of credits can bring him back to us.”

Clenching his eyes closed at hearing her words, spoken so plainly and bereaved yet still she held out hope for rescue based upon her use of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’, and she remained adamant in her wish to have him return with her it seemed since she only ever referred to them instead of just herself when it came to escaping or being rescued. ‘We’ never ‘me’ or ‘I’ when she spoke of it. Believing in it so heartedly she didn't seem aware she had used such verbiage.

It brought forth another form of sadness to Crosshair's chest, the grief over knowing Tech was gone nestled beside the misery of knowing her hopes would not be met.

Omega held such belief in their brothers and in everything turning out with them reunited, even if it wasn't better or all right, that they would all see each other again. But Tech had already lost his life in an effort to rescue just him, thus locating this place and infiltrating it was a challenge unlike any they had encountered before. Too many variables to calculate against and the highest of secrecy about this place, along with the Empire’s sheer numbers and degree of control. Add to the fact, Hemlock held a sadistic ambition when it came to his experiments…

It was unlikely they would be found before something worse happened. If they could be located at all, there was an even less chance of everyone surviving that rescue attempt. In one piece or at all. There was little accuracy in her hopes, but Crosshair supposed that was why they were called hopes. They weren't actuality nor truths, simply wishes that were based upon a small shard of reality. And after everything that had been taken from her, he couldn't take that from her. Not yet, not now.

Venting a muted sigh, Crosshair bowed his head and moved a hand of his to reach back beside him through the lower end of the opening between their cells. Although his hands were lithe, he could only reach through to the knuckles nearest his palm before the edges of the slat stopped him, but it was enough for him to brush the fabric of her sleeve.

Pinching the material awkwardly between his pointer and middle finger, he tugged it gently twice to gain her attention towards his hand. Hearing her shift behind him, he released her shirtsleeve to splay out his finger slightly in a deliberate motion. Only a second's pause came from her before a quiet sniffle met the air and he felt her small hand encircle his fingers. And he curled his fingers a slight to ensure she felt his attempt to hold her hand back.

A/N: :))) I have made myself sad now… but another chapter to come , so see you soon with more feels <3 The next chapter will detail what Crosshair references in this chapter about what happened to Omega those days prior.

#bayze's writing #my writing #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #swtbb #star wars the bad batch fanfiction #star wars the bad batch fanfic #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch fanfic #swtbb fanfiction #swtbb fanfic #tbb fanfic #tbb fanfiction #crosshair #omega tbb

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spikewriter · 11 months

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I saw another anti-AI post where the first words out of someone's mouth was "Plagiarism!" That is why it's so difficult to have reasonable discussions about these new tools--and how they be useful as tools--because people start screeching, "You're not a real writer!"

The article at the core of the post, however, is worth discussing because, yup, it is exactly what the antis are yelling about. The post, by the way, did not include a link to the article, just a screenshot of Publisher Weekly's Twitter promo of said article. Which is actually a rewrite of a Newsweek article about a man who was about to release his 97th ChatGPT-written "novel." I'll explain the quotes later on.

I've included a link to the original article because it's worth a read no matter what side of the argument you're on. The headline is absolutely clickbait. It's also full of self-aggrandizing bullshit.

Tim Boucher (the article is written by him, or, rather, 60% written by ChatGPT by his own admission) admits to making $2000 over the course of 7 months. Hardly the thousands of the headline. He's sold 574 books as of the article, which equals out to an average 5-6 copies per book, or an average of just under $21 per book. The books are 2,000 to 5,000 words each, so they're not really novels, but serial chapters. He is also, by the way, not selling on Amazon or any other distributor, possibly because some of the stories are too short for them to accept.

It also means he has an extremely small, niche audience who are interested in "dystopian pulp sci-fi with compelling AI world-building." He writes "majority of my readers being repeat buyers, many having bought more than a dozen titles. In one case, a reader has bought more than thirty titles."

I found this paragraph particularly illuminating:

"It's very difficult, for example, to have longer written pieces that maintain a coherent single storyline or character arc. So instead, I've tended to lean into short "flash" fiction slice-of-life collections, interspersed with fictional encyclopedia entries that deliver world-building and backstory, and point the reader towards other volumes where they can continue down the rabbit holes that appeal to them the most."

Right there is the issue with current LLM programs. You can get a coherent storyline and character arc with ChatGPT or Sudowrite, but it takes manipulation on the author's part. It takes being willing to put in the work to revise and massage the outlines. Dear god, don't use it to write scenes, because the quality of dialogue and description is horrendous.

This guy isn't. He's only willing to put in 6-8 hours to create and publish a book, which may include generating the cover and any brainstorming. What he is doing is the tech boy grift of inflating what the program is capable of and his own accomplishments. He's trying to shout, "I am a disruptor! I am the future!" (And taking a look at his website, he's also a conspiracy theorist about underground cities in Antartica.)

Sadly, this is exactly the type of person other tech bros who might be making decisions are going to listen to. And because he's publicity-hungry, he's making everyone else who is trying to use these tools to assist, not replace, the process look like a grifter as well.

Oh, and I can't help including this article written in response to the Newsweek one.

#:: grump ::#ai #let's call them llms #dude sounds like the type of guy I used to avoid at SF cons #the ones who always wanted “to have written” but didn't want to spend the time writing

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gothwizardmagic · 2 years

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I promised myself I’d make something myself for each OFMP prompt and idk how well I’ll stick to that but here are my “entries” for day 1! A small collection of character pieces - I bashed together the first two in the middle of the night after taking my evening meds so they are. not my most coherent writing ever lol & then I wrote the rest in a frenzy this morning before the second set of prompts dropped - Jim’s was inspired by a quote from a recent panel Vico did where they said they get their strength from their femininity & their softness from their masculinity and they took that energy into Jim, which I think is very cool.

CW: Show-typical violence in Izzy’s section.

Read on Ao3

Prompt 1: Team Mascots

Blackbeard/Ed

Edward Teach started building a shield the day he killed his father, and it was one he never intended to let down. He constructed Blackbeard like a suit of armour, one he grew to wear so comfortably he forgot he could take it off. Blackbeard was leather and blades, and Edward folded himself away with the scrap of silk he had carried all these years, folded himself so small that he almost wasn’t sure he was there anymore.

And then Stede had reached in between the cracks in his armour as though it never even existed and held the silk, held him so delicately, seeing a precious thing in Edward where he had ceased to even exist to others anymore. Though he hadn’t truly processed it at the time, Blackbeard had died for good in that instant. He had shed the armour without a second thought, and for the first time in his life, Edward walked lightly through the world.

It was a lightness that had become a curse, the bitter sea air lashing his bare face as a painful, cruel reminder that his armour was gone for good, whether he liked it or not. Blackbeard had died so that Edward could live, and there was no other way to live than to do what he had always done. With the flutter of old fabric so lovingly carried and preserved, Edward cast away his own softness and allowed himself to harden to the core, to become the armour he had always worn.

And if despite it all he could do nothing but weep all night, that was something no-one would ever have to know.

Stede

Soft. All his life, it had been thrown at him as an insult, and though he knew no other way to be, Stede cringed at the word. Whatever he did it seemed to never be enough - the world acted as though everything his childhood bullies had thought him to be was true and awful, a problem buried deep at his core, and that was that.

The sea was a perfectly acceptable escape, he thought. One could hardly be considered soft at sea, after all. The sea was for hardy men, and piracy even moreso. Merely by the act of being called a pirate one would be seen as dashing and tough, all the things Stede had never managed to be on land. He would find his people, a worthy crew to help him live a tough man’s life, and softness wouldn’t chase him any longer.

And then he had seen the silk Blackbeard wore so close to his heart.

Blackbeard, the pirate to end all pirates, so they said. The man feared across the seas, carried something so soft at his core, held it so dear, cherished it so lovingly. A man who yearned for softness, for comfort, the kind of life Stede had been running from for as long as he could remember. The kind of man Stede had run from being.

Seeing the tenderness in Ed’s face, he couldn’t help but think perhaps it wasn’t so bad to be soft after all.

Jim

It was only ever supposed to be a disguise, the easiest way they could think to stay hidden from Spanish Jackie. She was looking for a girl, all sharp edges and ruthlessness. Oluwande had been the one to actually figure it out, hands delicate as he attached the beard he had bought, as he figured out how to fit the sculpted nose onto Jim’s, every touch filled with nothing but care. Bonifacia was no more, and now it was time to learn to live as Jim.

It seemed the next logical step to find places on a ship no-one would be looking on. An unknown pirate was a good start, and the bizarrest and least effective one either of them had ever met only made things better. No-one would even think to look for them here.

Jim had thought that being treated differently by men would be the strangest part of this, and while it was certainly new it wasn’t the thing that took the most adjusting to. No, that was how right it felt, to be Jim. Jim hadn’t been shaped to be a weapon of war - he carried those skills, certainly, but he had been shaped instead by Olu’s soft hands, built out of care and warmth. With Olu being Jim’s voice, they could no longer move through the world like a dagger thrown with precision. Though the rest of the crew found Jim intimidating, he was never as much of a danger as Bonifacia had been.

It was a surprise, then, that when the beard came off Bonifacia didn’t return. Jim took everything she had given them and curled Jim around it, weaving the two of them together into a new person, a person who could be both and neither at once, soft with Olu and sharp with a blade. A person who felt right and real and alive.

Lucius

Pirating was easy enough, when you made it that way. A wink here, a blow job there, and it wasn’t all that hard to get out of doing any actual work. Of course, life would be far more comfortable on land, but that had stopped being an option a long time ago. And it wasn’t like he hated it, far from it. It was freeing, sharing company with whoever he pleased and living a life unfettered by responsibility or expectations. After all, nobody needed a wife at sea.

Joining the crew of the Revenge had been a no-brainer, though Lucius doubted this situation would last all that long. A captain who paid wages meant even less work, no pillaging necessary to fill the coffers when they were already being filled with the spoils of privilege. Duties were few and far between, and the crew themselves were really rather nice for the most part, though being dragged around as the captain’s scribe could get mind-numbingly dull.

And then Izzy Hands had happened, and for the first time in the longest time, Lucius had been given work, a job he hadn’t been able to talk or flirt his way out of. And a horrible one, at that. Though he quickly learned not all of Blackbeard’s crew were so hard to crack Izzy Hands remained a tough little nut, and for the first time in his life, Lucius felt like a challenge.

Izzy

Cold sea air, ropes bound bitingly tight, a knife pressed to a throat almost hard enough to draw blood - these were the things that made a man who he was. A man could withstand everything the world had to give and more, could feel the grind of life’s heel on his back and rise to stand another day.

That was what a man was. What any man should want - a servant and a rival all wrapped in one, ready to take anything dished out and even prod for more. No real man wanted nice or soft. Those were things to conquer, to show the real ways of the world as you were grinding them into dust. Stede Bonnet should have been another rich little weakling in their way, to chew up and spit out. Instead he had chewed up Edward, and whatever he had spat out was unrecognisable as the Blackbeard feared across the seas. Bonnet was an infection, and the problem was much deeper than his weak-willed crew, maybe even deeper than whatever he had made of Blackbeard.

The biggest danger, one Izzy would never admit even to himself, was the few moments he had found himself wanting to sink into the embrace of Bonnet’s soft armchairs, to wrap himself in fine silk and never leave. It was poison to everything he was, everything he had built himself to be, and Izzy would have to work harder than ever to stomp it out, to destroy those parts of himself that should have died long ago.

The brutal, beautiful agony of his toe being severed from his body was almost a relief. Bonnet hadn’t managed to poison everything.

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd fic #ofmd fanfic #blackbeard #edward teach #stede bonnet #jim jimenez #lucius spriggs #izzy hands #israel hands #blackbonnet #jim x oluwande #steddy hands #if you squint #no i did not proofread any of this ❤#ofmp #my fic

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hideyseek · 1 year

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2, 19, and 27 for the writing wrapped! ^^

thanks for the ask!! <3 sorry this is: so long aha

2. Did you have any writing goals? Did you meet them or not? ah, actually this year i did not have a year-long writing goal, but i did camp nano in april with the goal of a 20k draft of narrative!fic and i did nano in november with the goal of an 8k draft of the first arc of narrative!fic, and ... length-wise i reached both. but, content-wise i definitely did not actually produce a coherent 20k draft in april (i ended up with a 20k collection of: random fucking scenes that did not connect, which was also useful). in november i got a little closer to one coherent arc but discovered right about the end of the month that actually the first arc was not 8k (i would have had to go back and revise like 3k to keep all of the 8k within the "first arc" of story) and so cheated a little bit and skipped ahead to get to 8k of newly drafted material in the month.

19. Summarize your writing project in 5 key words. moving forward into your future (narrative!fic)

27. Which books, movies, etc, helped instruct your storytelling this year? HAHAHA THANK YOU FOR THIS QUESTION! actually this year there were several! some craft/theory books, some pieces of media that really made me go: oh, wow, okay, i want to do THAT. sorry this answer is so long lol i just... started and then kept thinking of things. the actual list under a cut:

george saunders' a swim in a pond in the rain which has fully changed the way i think about writing. this guy breaks "keeping your reader's attention" into several component parts and ... just makes writing all about keeping your reader engaged which happens to align closely with what my own goal is with any piece of writing (based on a quote from the west wing episode "the u.s. poet laureate"). HIGHLY recommend

anne lamot's bird by bird which is such a good book on how to wrangle your brain as a writer. there's not much "how to do the thing of writing" past the stage of "how to get writing on the page" so for me the primary value of this was brain!wrangling tips rather than "how to get words on the doc" but it does a great job of both. also highly recommended. she is simply so so funny and nice about it

bungo stray dogs, surprisingly enough. i think this was a big year for me of understanding / finally starting to think about structure. i am a writer who ... does not read a lot (and i think, truly, this is to my own detriment!). i don't currently consume a lot of media in a language i understand (english/mandarin) and so i've shifted my craft thinking focus to story structure rather than to capturing like, a cadence of written language (which i remember was way important to me in like 2020/2021 when i was first coming back to serious writing in college). and i'm sure a lot of other anime has also helped with this, but after bsd i was really thinking about the component parts of a larger story, and how a multi-series plot-heavy show will have to do careful work in having an arc per-episode or per several episodes, but also have cohesive series arcs as well as cohesive and consistent overall arcs. which i just hadn't ever really thought about before.

summer wars which is a movie i watched completely on a whim. i don't know that it consciously changed anything of what i DO as a writer in terms of process or anything like that. but this movie has stayed with me for months, just because it is so so SO tightly written, everything in there has it's place. and it is SUCH a good example of "BIG STORY that starts out as a really REALLY small and specific story that actually never stops being a small and specific story". that's what i want to do, so so bad!

tada-kun doesn't fall in love which frankly speaking i have not finished because i become too emotionally overwhelmed at how much i love it every time i watch an episode and then have to take a break for several weeks lol. but this was the show that made me go: OH. there is a clear difference in specifically the humor and pacing and the way that information is conveyed to the audience in in an anime-original series vs a manga-adaptation series, which got me into a larger realization about how one of my goals as a writer is to fully take advantage of the medium i'm working in, and to make the story i create one that would have to be changed (not necessarily for the worse, but different in some way) if it were to go to another medium.

thanks for the ask!! this was very fun <3

hehe finally getting to my writing wrapped asks for 2022!

#hidey speaks #writing wrapped 2022 #ask game #moonshinemagpie

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stxneflxwers · 7 months

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A Neuvillette line from his Story Quest, that I have yet to complete, but found in a video playlist as a voiceover:

I would like to hear your thoughts, too. What do you think of me?

So, now I'm having self-ship thoughts...AGAIN

N for Neuvillette, R for Rosen (me)

N: But I would like to hear your thoughts, too. What do you think of me...? R: Well, I can confirm that I quite like you, for one. N: ...Is that all? R: Of course not...! I'm just...poor at coherent thought. Give me a second to collect my thoughts. Why don't you lay your head on my lap while I take a second to think? N: You do have a bad habit of making me worry... But, alright.

He lays his head on their lap, staring up at their thoughtful expression with curious icy eyes.

R: Y'know, I like to think there's a...small polarity between "loving" and "liking." You can love someone madly, but it doesn't mean you like them enough to want to also be their friend. R: But... N: But...? R: I both love and like you. R: We all have our own strengths and weaknesses... While we should capitalize on those strengths, we have to respect our own boundaries too—our weaknesses. That's a poor way of wording it but... R: I love you regardless of whatever your weaknesses with humans and their torrential emotions are. I love you regardless of your struggles with identity. I love you and all of your weaknesses and strengths. And I still like you, too, I think you're a good friend, no matter how you view yourself. R: I think that...no matter how we struggle with humans, emotions, and our identities... There is still humanity in us. We aren't totally alien, after all. R: People, no matter their origin, are prone to mistakes, accidents, horrible choices, and all the negative things. But, there's plenty room for the positive opposition, too. R: I think this applies to the Archons as well, by the way. They are as flawed as everyone else. They're weird, they're off-putting, they're alien. But...even gods can have their fair share of humanity.

He blinks. The tangent was long and a bit awkward, it had almost lost him at one point. Nonetheless... He sits back up and grabs their face with a soft grasp, their head cradled between his palms. He smiles faintly.

N: You have such unique views... I can see why that doctor from your past said you would make a fine judge. When your emotions and thoughts have been managed, you're wise and deliberate with your words and judgements. N: ...Ahem. Anyway. N: ...I quite like you, too, my dear. Thank you for your thoughts.

#🌠— chats #💫— self ship shenanigans #edit: yes. i literally had a doctor/therapist tell me i would make a good judge. i legit considered it as a career for a while lmaooo

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absintheancandle · 2 years

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takes your gacha game sexymen and doesnt even realize theyre sexymen until its too late. like unironically i dont interact with fandom that much so i kinda just went 👀 and then i go on tumblr and go. ah. so they’re sexymen. that would make sense. not negatively tho. i still like em :)

yeah though heres some characterization ideas for my own personal use or somethin. au where i ignore how the games work and also they all survived and met up later for whatever reason. like a post-game au. or maybe no-game au? i havent thought aboutt it much yet.

these aren’t really supposed to be redesigns and moreso just. like. afterwards???? change up their looks a little to different amounts :)

more info under the cut + joseph’s design too that didnt really fit with the main post

okay sorry i don’t have much information that’s coherent but heres a lot of messy info dumping hehe i do personally think that aesol and andrew probably end up owning and working at a funeral home-type thing together. someone else has probably had this idea but i wouldn’t know. i think it’s cute either way. aesol and edgars relationship is they’d fight each other in an alleyway at midnight and then go out and get 1900s mcdonalds afterwards. luca actively collects people around him for fun i think. luca and edgar DO love each other but i honestly think edgar has difficulty properly attaching to people and having his feelings towards others actually consistent. luca’s changed a lot mostly off of vibes. like i think he would’ve went yknow what this prison shirt actually kinda fucks. and just ends up looking like a guy that doesn’t 100% belong in his era but he literally has the same clothes that would be available at the time? not sure what to say there. ALSO i made his braces look a bit more like braces i think. looking at vintage leg braces is very fun :)! andrew’s is mostly the same except more pink-based because it fits better i think?? instead of a purple flower he just gets to have flower patterning on his coat. also his coat is actually worn open now aesol’s outfit is honestly inspired by his trickster costume only because like. jackets worn as capes FUCK like all hell dude come ON don’t even lie about that. also more flower patterning bc hehe yellow roses :) andrew and him are supposed to somewhat match edgar and victor have barely changed but i like the small changes i made :) ALSO JOSEPH IS THERE . i didnt put him on the lineup bc the art style didn’t match 100% and made it look weird but here:

giving joseph more updated clothing too? i might end up changing it more later on but. im obsessed with the idea of people from The Past getting accustomed to “modern day” (even if that modern day is. 1900). THINKS ABOUT HOW DELIGHTED HE’D BE TO SEE 1900S-MODERN CAMERA TECHNOLOGY. take your local 1830s weirdly tall debatably immortal man with no social skills clothes shopping! this will not go bad.

au where your guys weren’t in their proper dedicated games, all survived, and also decided to steal a hunter along the way. he is mildly disgruntled and upset about it but one (1) guy showed him a little bit of kindness (sat next to him and said nothing) and he went. i am following you now, actually. and aesols like. okay. sure i guess. everyone else is like WHY . WHERE DID YOU FIND HIM WAIT. WHY IS HE HERE WH. WHY

i don’t think it’d be like a “ohhh redemption he’s a soft guy now” because honestly like except for victor and somewhat luca, all these people are incredibly fucked up. why would He become more ~nice~ or whatever. theyre all just like “okay dont trap ME in a photograph and we’ll be fine.” and he’s like. fucking whatever. killjoy. what if you LIKED being in the photograph, huh? what then? bitch. except said in fancy 1830s words. mm also im making them all lgbt. bites you

(edit: apparently you cannot click to see a bigger version of this image. I DONT KNOW WHY?? i’ll probably post it individually later) victor: transmasc, gay, asexual (sex favourable) luca: polyam, omniro/sexual (masc-leaning) andrew: polyam, bi(?), aceflux, greyromantic. however i think these might change im not 100% sure on them mostly because like. he’s got issues that results in him just. Not Knowing Much. simply never thought about it aesol: polyam, nonbinary, transmasc, bi, asexual (sex neutral). edgar: transmasc, gay joseph is transmasc but i think it’s in a way where he simply never thought about it. like hes from the 1830s or something like. there was no Trans there was just simply going yknow what. actually. call me something else or i will Kill you because i have a sickass sword and am also part of nobility. like him and his twin are both trans and it was literally just like “you can’t do that, what about your image as nobility!” “okay but what about this sword i could stab you with.” also he’s definitely mlm but what kind? guess we’ll never know. that’s okay. he has a sword also giving andrew elhers danlos syndrome. he uses his shovel as a mobility aid sometimes without really realizing that’s what it is. he just leans on it a lot bc it makes him hurt less. they’re all mentally ill in different ways and some physically disabled and i love it!!

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miekasa · 3 years

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daylight’s wasting (you better kiss me)

↯ pairing: eren jaeger x reader

↯ genre and warnings: college au, fluff, someone please be gentle with this boy i’m begging you, jean and eren pretending they don’t give a fuck about each other whilst actually being best bros for the win

↯ word count: 2k

↯ summary: based off of that reddit post about some guy talking about his girlfriend washing his hair for the first time + hoping it fills a request for someone asking for reader playing with eren’s hair for the first time :’)

↯ notes: this is cross-posted and edited slightly from another blog in a completely separate fandom, so if you’ve seen it before, no you didn’t </2

Jean can’t say that he immediately noticed a pep in Eren’s step when the green-eyed boy met him in the library, but what he does notice is the stupid, dopey looking grin and starry-eyed gaze in his eyes that he’s sporting while he’s not doing his part for their project. And while Jean considers himself relatively attractive, he knows for sure Eren isn’t shy about making it known that he doesn’t; so the brunette doubts the literal heart eyes Eren has are for him.

“Eren? Eren, bro, are you good?” Jean calls, a dark eyebrow raised above his left eye. Eren barely registers the calls of his name, and it takes Jean waving his hands in front of the shorter’s face for him to wake from his trance, looking up at Jean with that same, longing smile (that’s, admittedly, starting to creep him the fuck out).

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, something reminiscent of a lovelorn cartoon prince, as he rests his elbow atop his notebook and his chin the palm of his hand, “I’m good.”

Jean looks at him, skeptical and confused. He shifts in his seat, but Eren’s eyes don’t follow—he just stares ahead, lost in thought and completely unaware of everything around him. He looks like a lovesick little bitch if you ask Jean. Or completely sloshed.

Slowly, Jean leads forward, eyebrows pinched, looking for streaks of red in Eren’s eyes, “Are you stoned right now?”

“What?” Eren pulls back, almost offended, “No, I’m not high—Jean, what the fuck?”

Jean simply shrugs, leaning back into his seat, “I dunno. Yesterday you were so stressed about your acrobatic salt cycle samples—”

“—Acetylsalicylic acid. It’s basically Asprin, and I wasn’t stressed, they just weren’t crystallizing the they way they’re supposed to—”

“I don’t fucking care. But now you look mellow as hell,” Jean cuts him off, “Just thought maybe you rolled a good one before coming here or something. Not that I’m judging, of course. But you’re much more of a lightweight than you think, so try not to go—”

“‘M not a fucking lightweight,” Eren groans, “You and Reiner are just heavy bodied.”

“Just admit you can’t hold your shit, Jaeger.”

“I’m not admitting shit. Mikasa makes strong drinks, that’s all.”

Jean grits his teeth at Eren’s stubborn antics, but lets it go. It’s not like the conversation was going anywhere, anyways. “If you’re not baked, then what’s got your head in the clouds?”

Eren shifts in his seat now, pulling his hand off the table, and into his lap. Jean’s suspicious eyebrow is quirked again, and that slightly creeped-out feeling is back when he spots Eren’s ears going red.

Jesus Christ, he just asked a simple question.

“Not that I care,” Jean tacks on, feigning disinterest, “But if it’s gonna keep you from doing your half of the project, just spill it already so we can get this shit over with.”

Eren rolls his eyes, but that blush is still there. He looks like he contemplates waving it off for a minute, before he sighs. “(Y/N) and I showered together yesterday,” he finally blurts.

Jean blinks. “Oh. So you got laid—”

“—No, no, it wasn’t like that!” Eren corrects him, the red on his ears spreading to his cheeks slowly, with every word that spills out of his mouth. Eren stutters, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “She just… She washed my hair.”

Eren sighs, flustered and frustrated, and annoyed that he looks like this in front of Jean’s horse-faced ass of all people; but he knows, that no matter how much shit Jean talks, he can rely on him. For better or (often times) for worse.

And Jean, for as hotheaded as he can get, and for as much as Eren annoys the shit of out him, knows how to read a room; and in this moment, he can see that Eren is actually coming to him with genuine emotions, other than masked anger and abrasiveness. So, the both of them concede; pull back from their usual pointed commentary, and listen to what the other has to say.

“Ah,” Jean comments, lamely; an embarrassed blush of his own growing on his face at his stupidity. The two sit in silence for a moment, before Jean speaks up again, “It’s, uh… It’s nice, right?”

Eren’s eyes snap to him, wide. He almost completely forgot that Jean’s in a committed relationship, too. The two don’t often go to each other for relationship advice, or… relationship venting, but Eren makes a mental note that maybe, just maybe, he should.

“Yeah,” Eren admits, “I don’t, uh, I don’t know how to explain it. It was just—”

“Relaxing?”

“Yeah. Like all the bullshit from school just melted away all of a sudden,” Eren confesses, “All she fucking did was wash my hair and hum for, like, five minutes, but I feel like… I don’t know. Good.”

Jean hums, acknowledging Eren’s words and mulling them over. “Loved,” he chimes in with an awkward cough, “Pretty sure that’s the word you’re looking for, Jaeger.”

Eren chokes on air, his eyes darting around the room. So, yeah, it’s still a little awkward, talking with Jean of all people about his relationship, and love, and all that gushy stuff; but, even Eren can admit, it’s comforting to know that someone knows what he’s feeling—even if that someone is Jean.

“You should tell her. Girls like that shit, when you tell em what you’re thinking, you know?” Jean comments, picking up his pen to resume scribbling in his notebook. He sounds nonchalant, but from the redness on his face, Eren can tell he’s just as flustered, and probably thinking about his own girlfriend. “Besides, you’ve been together for a long ass time now. Don’t know what you’re waiting for at this point.”

“Yeah,” Eren coughs, pretending to resume his own homework, “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Good,” Jean nods, “Now will you fucking paste your paragraph in the Google Doc so I can rewrite it and make it coherent.”

“Fuck you, it’s coherent as is.”

“As if. I’ve read your shit before, and it sounds like it was written by six year old on meth. You science majors can’t write to save your life.”

“Tough talk from someone who can’t do basic addition.”

“Derivatives and shit aren’t basic addition, they were created by a man who died a virgin. Tells me everything I need to know about them and you.”

Three days later, Eren finds himself alone in your off-campus apartment, laying on your bed, stomach to the mattress, while he tries to convince himself to study for his upcoming biology exam. He finds looking around your room to be much more interesting, though, and takes the time to notice things he hadn’t before.

There’s a small strip of images of the two of your in a clear mason jar on your nightstand—the newest addition to your collection—from the photo booth at the ice-skating rink you went to last week. Eren doesn’t know why you insist on going to every photo booth you come across, but who is he to deny you the pictures.

When he looks to your closet, he isn’t surprised to see two of his hoodies, one of his warm-up soccer uniforms, and last season’s hockey jersey hanging up. What does surprise him, is the way they’re all hung up next to each other, like they have their own little section amongst your clothing; like they were reserved, special almost. He bets they’re all probably washed and clean, too; because you take care of his things like that.

He thinks about how he has a few pairs of sweatpants and pajamas—hell, even a pair of slacks and a button-down from one of your fancier dates—all tucked away in his very own drawer in your dresser. The bucket hats thats you claim are oh-so ugly still have their own place in your room, hanging next to your belts. Even his psychology textbook sits on your desk, clearly set aside for him and taken care of, but still integrated amongst your other belongings.

You seem to be the only person who thinks Eren and all his baggage can have a place in your life. You seem to always have space for things to fit in, no matter how stupid, or ugly, or tattered they are; no matter how emotional, or lost, or impulsive he is. Nothing is out of place here, himself included.

Lost in his thoughts, Eren doesn’t register the sound of your front door opening, or your footsteps growing louder. In fact, he doesn’t register that you’re home at all, until you come padding into your bedroom, shaking your backpack off of your shoulders and setting it next to his on the ground.

“Hey, baby,” you greet him, almost offhandedly, as you place your coffee down on your desk. He doesn’t mind—actually the element of practiced casualness in your tone brings a kind of warmth to him, and makes his stomach flutter.

“Hey,” he smiles, a stupidly fond look in his eye as his watched you shimmy your jacket off of your shoulders.

Eren sits himself upwards, shifting so that his long legs dangle off the edge of your bed as he watching your silhouette move throughout your bedroom. When you’re finished removing all your layers and jewelry, you finally look to him, greeting him a second time as you walk towards him and your bed.

Eren cages you in when you reach him, his ankles wrapped on top of each other as he secures you standing between his legs. He wraps his arms loosely around your waist, while your fingers crawl up the nape of his neck.

“Your hair’s dry,” you hum, your fingers raking through his brown locks as if to make your point, “You didn’t shower yet?”

Eren shakes his head lightly, craning his neck forwards to tuck the cold tip of his nose into your collar. He holds you a little tighter when you smooth his hair down, one of your hands resting against the back of his neck, and lightly scraping at the hairs near his nape.

“How come?” you question innocently, “I thought your classes ended a few hours ago—did your lab go late again? You should tell your TA you have a life outside of trying to culture bacteria in a dish, you know.”

Eren chuckles lightly, but feels the concern in your voice tug heavily at his heart strings. You seem to really hate his lab TA.

“Wasn’t him this time,” Eren mumbles against your skin, “Was waiting for you.”

“Yeah? That gonna be a regular thing, now?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” Eren confesses, words barely audible as he buries his face into your neck. He tries tickle you with his eyelashes, shift the heat towards you, but you move out of reach too quickly; your hands on his shoulders, forcing him to sit upright.

He has to look up you, just slightly, and he hopes he doesn’t look like a complete blushing idiot. If he does, you don’t seem to mind, if the way you cup his face between your hands is any indication.

“Well then, come on. I bought two new loofahs yesterday.”

Eren follows you to the bathroom with a smile, borderline giggling with excitement all the way to the shower. When it comes down to it, he relishes in the feeling of your fingertips against his scalp, suds of shampoo cascading down his neck as you find amusement in coiling his hair into a bubbly mohawk.

It’s so mundane, so simple, yet overwhelmingly intimate the way you’re taking care of him—the way you always take care of him. It fills Eren to the brim with emotions he can’t even begin to convey with words.

And when you’ve had you’re fun, and made sure his hair is throughly clean and smells like apples, you take your body wash on the ball of his (his! his very own!) loofah, and scrub away at his back, down his shoulders, across his torso; and Eren can’t stop the tears from falling.

He realizes his must look bizzare, to be standing the middle of your shower, crying like a baby with soap and suds all over his body, but he can’t help himself.

“Eren? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he assures you, hiccuping between his words and sniffling away any more tears that threaten to fall. You don’t seem convinced, and once again, Eren feels his heart swell at just the sheer thought at you’d hold even an ounce of concern for him the way you do.

“You’re crying, Eren,” you point out, voice soft, but clearly concerned, as you reach your hands up to cup his face again, “Did I hurt you? What’s wr—”

Eren cuts you off by wrapping you in a hug, hoping—praying—you know that you could never hurt him. The two of you spend nearly five whole minutes like that, your arms wrapped around each other’s middles, with warm water pouring over your naked skin. Eren can feel you pressing shallow kisses into his chest, and he feels his heart physically swell every time your lips make contact with his skin.

It’s on the fifth, quiet press of your lips that Eren knows he can’t hold it in anymore; pulls away from your embrace to look you in your eyes.

“I love you,” he finally confesses, with wet hair stuck to his forehead, and teary eyes. It’s hardly a picture perfect moment, but Eren can’t bring himself to care; he needs you to know.

But, of course, you already did. “I know, Eren,” you say with a smile, kissing his chin, and then on the tips of your toes, his lips, “And I love you more.”

#aot x reader #snk x reader #eren x reader #eren x you #eren smut #eren fluff #aot imagines #snk imagines #levi x reader #jean x reader

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