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wholoveseggs · 6 months

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~♡~Dating the Mikaelsons~♡~

One-Shot Edition

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

♡A date with Kol♡

You are drowning your sorrows at the bar, but Kol has an idea on how to cheer you up...

In celebration of getting to one-hundred followers♡ I wrote some smutty one-shots based on my dating the mikaelsons headcanons.

♡ Thanks for all the love and support ♡ Warnings: smut, drinking, riding, face sitting...Kol saying darling a lot... {Part One -Klaus} ♡ {Part Three - Marcel} ♡ {Part Four - Elijah}

Leaning against the bar, the neon lights flickering around you, you let out a big sigh. The bitter taste of your drink matched the bitterness in your heart.

You had been stood up, and usually, these situations wouldn't get to you, but tonight felt different. You had invested time in those back-and-forth messages, letting your walls down and you actually believed he would be different. The worst part was that he had suggested meeting at the club, only to not show up.

As you drowned your sorrows in the dimly lit ambiance, a voice cut through the thumping music. "Looks like you could use some company," he said, a wild glint in his eyes as he slid onto the barstool next to you.

He signaled the bartender and ordered another drink for you. "On me," he added with a charming grin. The scent of his cologne and the warmth of his presence filled the air, momentarily diverting your thoughts.

"So, what's got you looking so troubled?" he inquired, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "A pretty little thing like you should be enjoying the night."

You gave him a sweet smile, his charm melting the ice around your heart. "Just a case of being stood up, no big deal," you replied, giving him a casual shrug.

He chuckled, the sound resonating in the lively atmosphere. "Well, anyone who stands up someone as captivating as you must be blind or daft." The drink he ordered arrived, and he slid it over to you. "To lift your spirits."

Taking a sip, you felt a warmth spreading through you, not just from the alcohol but from the unexpected camaraderie. The neon lights played on his features, casting intriguing shadows as he leaned in, an amused gleam in his eyes.

"Tell me about this fellow who dared to stand you up," he prompted.

"He's not worth the effort," you chuckled, reaching your hand out to him. "Thanks for the drink?" you questioned.

"Kol, darling, and you're quite welcome," he replied with a smirk, taking your hand in his and bringing it to his lips. The feel of his warm, soft lips made a shiver run down your spine, and he smirked, knowing the effect he had on you.

"So, what has this scoundrel done to deserve such ire?"

"You really want to know?" you questioned, and his eyes crinkled in amusement.

"I would not have asked otherwise."

The drinks kept flowing and you found yourself divulging all the sordid details. To his credit, he listened intently, only interjecting a comment here and there.

By the time you had finished recounting your tale, you were both laughing and enjoying each other's company.

"Well his loss is my gain," he remarked, flashing you a smile that made your heart skip a beat. "Would you care to dance?"

Graciously accepting his hand, he led you to the dance floor, the music pulsing through the air. With his hands on your hips and yours around his neck, the two of you swayed to the beat, the heat rising between you.

Your body was pressed against his, and as the music flowed, his gaze drifted from your eyes to your lips. Leaning down, his mouth claimed yours in a searing kiss, making your head spin. Your tongues danced together as your hands tangled in his hair.

Breaking the kiss, he gazed down at you with lust-filled eyes. "Want to get out of here?" he purred, his voice sending a wave of anticipation through you. Nodding your head, you let him lead the way.

Walking hand in hand, the two of you headed out of the club, the cool air refreshing after the heat of the dance floor. The streets were quiet, the streetlamps casting a warm glow, and the world was your own as you headed towards your apartment. You both were a little drunk, swaying into each other and giggling like teenagers as you stumbled down the street.

You fumbled the key in the lock before opening the door to your apartment, you made your way inside, kicking off your shoes as he removed his jacket, closing the door behind him. You walked to the kitchen, grabbing two glasses of water and offering one to him.

"Thank you, darling," he murmured, taking a sip of water, his eyes never leaving yours. He set his glass down and moved towards you, his fingers running along your jawline before cradling your face and bringing your lips to his in a hungry kiss.

Your hands instinctively reached up, roaming his body, tracing his well-defined muscles and pulling him closer. He gripped your waist and picked you up with ease, placing you on the counter. His hands ran up your thighs, his fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He kissed down your neck, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

"I always found dating apps a bit useless to be honest," he teased, his voice husky and low.

"Why's that?" you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

"Well, it seems much more efficient to just go to the source," he drawled, his eyes darkening as his lips brushed your ear.

Your hands traced the muscles of his arms, tugging on the fabric of his shirt. "Is that so?" you whispered, as his lips ghosted over your jawline.

"Mmhmm," he murmured, his mouth capturing yours again. Your lips melded together, the intensity growing.

"Tell me, darling," he panted, breaking the kiss and gazing at you with an intense hunger. "Did you imagine your night going like this when you decided to swipe right?"

You laughed, your chest rising and falling with every breath. "Not exactly, but I'm not complaining," you quipped, earning a smirk from him.

Your hands roamed over his toned chest and abs, the heat pooling in your core. You pulled his shirt off, your hands exploring his smooth skin, admiring his defined muscles.

His fingers trailed along the hem of your shirt, slowly lifting it over your head, and tossing it aside. His gaze drank in the sight of you, his tongue running along his lips.

"Fuck, darling, you are stunning," he purred, his hands sliding under your skirt, pushing it up as his fingers teased your skin.

You giggled, the alcohol making your cheeks flush more than usual. "Such a charmer."

"It's easy when it's the truth," he grinned, his mouth claiming yours again.

He pulled you to him, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he carried you to the bedroom. He laid you down on the bed, his eyes hungrily taking in the sight of you.

"Now, let's see how long we can keep that smile on your face," he mused, his accent thick with lust.

He made quick work of the rest of your clothes, leaving you bare beneath him. He leaned over you, his hands exploring your body, leaving no inch untouched.

He began to trail kisses downwards, his mouth reaching your core, and he began lapping at your clit, moving his tongue in slow circles. He let out a gentle hum as he tasted you, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling you closer to him.

Your hands tangled in his hair as his mouth devoured you, your moans filling the air. He pulled back, wiping his chin on your thigh, looking up at you with a smirk.

"I have a request," he drawled, his eyes shining.

"And I promise I will make it worth your while."

You quirked an eyebrow at him. "And what might that be?"

He grinned, his lips curling upwards, his gaze dark and seductive. He moved up your body, his mouth brushing against your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin.

"Let me show you," he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

Your curiosity was piqued, and you nodded, giving him the green light. He deftly flipped the both of you around, so you were on top of him.

"Sit on my face, darling," he rasped, the words sending a wave of heat through your body.

You blushed, the request making your pulse quicken. You straddled his face, your knees on either side of his head, his strong hands gripping your thighs.

His tongue darted out, tasting you, and a moan escaped your lips as his tongue explored you. He roughly pulled you closer, the sudden movement taking you by surprise. You let out a surprise gasp as his tongue found your clit, the feeling driving you wild.

"Oh," you moaned, your hands gripping the headboard as his tongue swirled. Your thighs began to tremble, the pressure building, his touch making your head spin.

He let out a muffled chuckle, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through your body. His tongue delved deeper, tasting you, his eyes closed in ecstasy. You ground against his mouth, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin.

His fingers dug into your thighs, leaving marks on your flesh as he held you in place, his mouth ravaging you. Your hips rolled against his tongue, your moans filling the room.

Your head tilted back, your body writhing as the pleasure washed over you. Your thighs tightened around his head, your fingers gripping the headboard as you let out a low moan, the sound reverberating throughout the room.

You rode out the waves of pleasure, your legs trembling. You gasped for breath, the feeling overwhelming. You released the headboard, your hands running through his hair as his tongue lapped up the last traces of your orgasm.

"Fucking hell, Kol," you panted, the words coming out in a rush. You moved down his body, pressing your lips against his, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

He gave you a wicked grin, his eyes dark and hooded. "I told you I would make it worth your while," he murmured, his fingers trailing up and down your back.

You peppered kisses along his jawline, your teeth grazing his skin. He let out a soft groan, his grip tightening on your hips. You moved further down his body, planting kisses along his skin, stopping at his abs.

You reached his hips, his erection straining against his jeans. You unbuttoned them and slowly pulled the zipper down, his eyes locked on yours.

You pulled his jeans and boxers down, his erection springing free. You took him in your mouth, his head tilting back in pleasure. You swirled your tongue around the tip before lightly sucking, making him moan. You pulled off of him, a thin string of saliva connecting you. You moved back up his body, straddling his hips, looking down at him with a smile.

"I like it when a woman takes charge," he purred, a devilish glint in his eyes. He moved back a bit to sit against the headboard, and you moved with him, taking his cock in your hand and slowly stroking him. As you circled your thumb around his tip, he threw his head back and groaned, then thrusted his hips, seeking more. You gave him a sexy smile as you positioned his cock at your dripping entrance and lowered yourself onto him. His eyes screwed shut, and he exhaled deeply, relishing the feeling of being inside you.

Fully seated on him, you began to grind your hips in circles, letting out soft moans as your clit rubbed against his pelvis. You steadied yourself on his shoulders and slowly started riding his cock, his hands gripping your hips and helping to guide your movements. You smiled as you watched his face twist in pleasure, his lips forming a small o. The feeling of him inside you was divine, hitting just the right spot. The sounds of your moans and his soft curses echoed off the walls as you picked up the pace.

"You like that?" you breathed, smirking, as his eyes met yours, lust clouding his expression. He merely nodded, his lips parted, before biting his lower lip, throwing his head back against the headboard again.

"Do you want me to go faster?" you teased, changing your pace and moving your hips in a torturously slow motion, causing him to growl in frustration. He dug his nails into your hips, his chest heaving.

"Darling,.." he pleaded, his voice breaking. You could feel him throbbing and twitching inside you, desperate to go harder. Grinning, you increased the pace of your movements, causing him to moan in both relief and pleasure.

"Yes, like that... just like that...," he mumbled, his mind clouding with ecstasy. You repositioned your legs and began to bounce up and down on his cock, throwing your head back in bliss. The sounds that escaped him were animalistic as his fingernails raked across your hips, surely leaving marks. This only spurred you on as you increased the pace even more—the sound of your skin slapping against his every time you slid down on him, the feeling of him stretching you driving you wild.

You began to pant, your legs getting sore, but you were determined to give it all you had. His cock was hot and heavy inside you, hitting all the right places. You were close, and you could feel the familiar tightening within you and you closed your eyes.

"Fuck," you moaned, your movements faltering as your sore legs struggled to keep the pace. Suddenly you felt the sharp sting of a slap on your ass, your eyes shot open as you looked down at Kol.

"Darling, are you getting tired already?" he teased, a look of pure lust in his eyes. You whimpered as your legs shook, struggling to remain upright. His hand came down again, the stinging making you cry out.

"Fuuuck," you breathed.

"Ride my cock for me. I want to see your tits bouncing," he purred, squeezing your hips and guiding your movements, allowing you to focus on pleasing him. Soon you fell back into a good rhythm, riding his cock and pressing your hands into his chest. He let out a satisfied groan, the heat building within you.

You dug your nails into his skin and rode him as hard as you could. He slammed his hips up to meet yours, driving himself deeper inside you, his moans and growls becoming more frantic. Your legs ached, and you felt like you were about to collapse, "Kol, I can't..."

"Come on, you're doing so well." He replied, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. Your head fell against his shoulder, and he nuzzled your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin.

You felt yourself tighten around him, your climax swiftly approaching. His mouth found yours, swallowing your moans as your orgasm crashed through you, and you cried out, his name tumbling from your lips. You were trembling, your pace slowing as you rode out the waves of pleasure.

Once you had caught your breath, you lifted your head, looking down at him with a blissed out expression. He smirked, a hunger in his gaze. "We're not finished," he whispered as he gripped your ass. You laughed, the sound cut short with a sharp inhale, as his hand came down hard on your backside.

The sting caused your breath to hitch as you peered down at him, "I thought you liked a woman in charge?" you mused.

He gave a throaty chuckle before grabbing your arms, gently pinning them behind your back. "All due respect, darling, but we're doing it my way now," he rasped, his lips brushing against your own. You melted against his mouth, unable to refuse. A sharp gasp escaped you as he began to thrust upwards, a surprised look crossing your features at his sheer strength.

He moved so effortlessly, as if his stamina were boundless. You realized just how much he had been holding back and a chuckle rose from your throat, which swiftly turned into a series of moans. He yanked gently on your arms, causing your back to arch, then buried his face into your breasts. You squeezed your thighs as you felt his lips suckling on your nipple, each grazing of his teeth heightened by his relentless thrusts.

Your sweat-covered bodies moved together perfectly, and as the noises escaping your lips became more intense, his thrusts sped up to match the urgency. He continued to use your body however he saw fit, his mouth roaming every inch he could reach as he repeatedly impaled you on his cock, his pace leaving you breathless.

Another feeling of bliss spread throughout your body as his cock hit your sweet spot repeatedly, driving you mad, making you a whimpering mess. His grunts became louder with each thrust, one hand firmly holding your arms, the other gripping your ass lifting you and bringing you back down on his cock.

"I need you to cum again, darling," he ordered, his voice raspy as his dark eyes gazed up at you.

Your back arched, your whole body trembling and trying to break free from his grasp. But he simply chuckled, maintaining the ferocious pace of his thrusting, which caused your eyes to roll back in your head as another wave of pleasure racked your body, your orgasm intensified by his unwavering hold and the way you were stretched open.

A guttural grunt escaped him, followed by a string of expletives, his final few thrusts almost lifting the two of you from the bed. His back arched, pushing his cock deeper than you thought possible, a loud moan echoing out from your lips as he filled you.

He let go of your arms, and they dropped uselessly by your sides, limp and unable to move. He began kissing along your shoulder, your neck, and collarbone, whispering to you as his hands moved gently up and down your spine. You leaned into him, closing your eyes and melting into his touch.

He was a vision in the dim glow from the city outside, the light catching on his sharp cheekbones and the contours of his muscles. He cradled you in his arms, his body warm and comforting against your own as your breathing slowed.

"Thank you, for saving me from a dreadfully lonely evening," you whispered.

He kissed your cheek and tilted your head up to look at him, his hair falling in his eyes. You brushed the hair away from his face and kissed him softly.

He rolled the two of you over, his weight pressing against you. He looked down at you, his eyes shining in the dim light, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"That man that stood you up? Idiot." he remarked, giving you a wide smile.

You laughed. "Absolutely."

{Part One -Klaus} ♡ {Part Three - Marcel} ♡ {Part Four - Elijah}

shout-out to @perseephoneee for requesting some Kol ♡ I hope you like it!

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villainofmyownstory · 10 days

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Light years

masterlist

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x android/hologram!Reader

summary: Many decades of longing. A lot of years of waiting. Hundreds of light years away from an Earth that no longer seemed like a memory, but a fictional story. A fairy tale written by poets. Earth no longer existed, and life on Zeus 2 went on as if the years of intergalactic war had never happened. As if the destruction of most of humanity had never taken place. There were still a few people on the new planet who remembered their lives on Earth. A past that was a memory stinging under the ribs. A small personal utopia for the last living people. Paradise lost.

tags: sci-fi!au, android, angst, ambiguous/open ending

1.4k words

author's note: Unfortunately, most of the 5th chapter of Day Zero, I don't know why, but it disappeared from my files, probably my mistake that I wrote it on my phone…. and I don't know when I will finish the 5th chapter. So I decided to write something else. I have never read sci-fi books, I have only watched a few movies of this genre in my life. Everything I've written here are my own thoughts about this alternate universe I've invented. Let me know what you think.

This story I wrote for @glitterypirateduck #GhostChallenge. I used prompt #’s 9 and 17. Challenge Masterlist

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Wet streets and neon lights are two certainties of any Saturday evening. The man started his motorcycle from the parking lot with a squeal of tires. The vehicle flashed through the streets of the crowded city at high speed despite the heavy rain. Passing through one intersection after another, the man paid no attention to his surroundings. He had one goal in mind. Like every second Saturday of the month. One damn hour. Just one. Sixty minutes.

He cursed Captain Price in his mind, even though he knew the man had a visit this Saturday, sending him and Gaz to a neighboring planet to see if the unrest caused by the robot revolt has been adequately handled by the new authorities. Although they had their cybernetic teammates on the new planet, the captain trusted his human soldiers the most. Only Price and his three subordinates remembered well their service in the former Task Force 141 many decades ago on Earth. Sometimes, on their free evenings, they reminisced about their past lives, like a long-read book or a movie they watched. Memories that seemed so distant. It was hard to tell that they were their own. And yet they were. Earth had once existed. Their lives were different. A better place.

As the man approached his destination, he wondered if the next visit would look the same. Every month he deluded himself that this time it would not be like the previous one. That the clinic's staff would inform him of progress. About a breakthrough.

So much time. It had been so many, many years since they had lived on Earth. So many decades of longing and hope.

White, smooth walls. The floor lined with rectangular snow-white tiles. 134 pieces to be exact. Electronics and many screens on one of the walls. A comfortable chair and an empty space on the other side. He has long known every nook and cranny of these two rooms. The one where he stays during every visit and this small room, behind bulletproof plastic glass.

As on every single Saturday evenly at 7 pm he was greeted by the same artificial, synthetic voice.

"Welcome, you are a visiting guest at medical facility number 3 and your appointment is about to begin. Sit comfortably and enjoy the company of your still living loved ones.Thank you for using our services. To change your monthly subscription package, please head to room 221 on the 2nd floor. Memories from Earth eternally alive. Light years are no longer an obstacle. With us, everything continues uninterrupted. MedZeus 3 at your service. Light years don't matter. Earthly memories at your fingertips."

When silence falls, he counts every breath. Exactly 17, when a light comes on in the room behind the glass. The figure flickers and after a moment is visible in all her divine beauty.

You are as he remembers you. You are the same as you were taken out of his mind. A memory.

"Hi Simon!" The man clenches his tightened fists. Your voice is always the same. Bright, melodious. Joyful. Like every month you stand in the same place. In that fucking white void. So close and so far away. He dreams every day to be able to touch you again. To feel your soft and smooth skin under the pads of his scarred, rough hands. To touch your wavy hair at least once more and smell the fruity sour fragrance of your favourite perfume. He would like to see your rosy cheeks one more time. At least one damn tear in your eyes. Some human emotion.

"How was your service? You look tired. I hope the mission was successful." The same sentences spoken for months. He so longed to hear something different. Sorrow. Longing. Joy. Anger. Anything, some human feeling.

Meanwhile, everything is just as the signed script predicted. The programmed hologram of your character stands dressed in a plain black t-shirt with your favorite band and plain straight jeans. Hair tied in a loose ponytail. Just as he remembered you. Just as he saw you on the last day of his life. Yours.

If you hadn't been so stubborn, if you hadn't said those words. Maybe you would be together now. Light years from Earth. Light years from that life together.

The man slowly gets up from his chair and walks over to the glass. He removes the glove from his hand and stares at the bare palm to the cold transparent wall separating you.

“I miss you.” He finally says while swallowing that damnable, choking tightness in his throat. That bitterness that appears every time he looks at the product of his memories. You're seemingly here. You're so close. But he knows it's not you. You were now the product of his selfish desire. When he was awakened from centuries of hibernation many years ago the first thing he bought in his new reality. In his new life. You.

He damn well regretted that decision. He should have buried you long ago, erased your memories as other living people have done. Forget you and live on Zeus 2 like the others. He could eventually start a family, or adopt a small humanoid robot-child. He could even buy himself an android wife. After all, he was an intergalactic soldier. An Earth hero. One of the last humans from Earth. A myth.

That's probably why he couldn't let you go. You were something that kept him alive. Were you? No. For him all the time - you are. He didn't want to be like the others, he didn't allow his DNA to be changed. Even Captain Price was no longer fully human. He was afraid that with making him half human and half robot he would destroy the last part of you that had been in him all along.

Long minutes of silence after saying that three words. I miss you. They caused the figure behind the glass as if trying to process and quickly in gigabytes of stored data to find the answer to his words.

He smiled gently. But maybe the staff of the facility has managed to improve something, maybe there has been some kind of revolution and you will finally be more human. His again.

The hologram twitched slightly, as if it was about to disappear. The man glanced anxiously at his watch, it had been only 17 minutes since the start of the meeting.

“Simon”

Your voice is like behind a fog. His name whispered with the same tenderness when you first confessed your feelings for each other. That rainy November evening when he held you for the first time in his bare arms. When he gave you his heart. When he first said that he…

The man shakes his head. He didn't give them back those intimate memories. No. That's what he didn't transfer to the data cloud. So how is it possible…

“Don't let go, Simon. Never.” Your lips don't move. Your figure again slightly disappears for a fraction of a second. No it can't be true. Maybe this some bug in the system. A badly written code. Maybe a virus crept in, or a hacking attack. He had heard at the base, about recent cyber attacks on medical facilities. Maybe the attacks have reached his planet as well.

The image of your hologram is back to normal. As you do every month, you tilt your head slightly to the side and extend your hand. The man freezes, holding his breath. You always make this gesture at the end of your meetings.

You put up your thumb, index finger and pinkie finger, while keeping your ring finger and your middle finger down.

“I Love You” in Sign Language.

After a moment of hesitation, he extends his hand and his palm shows the same gesture. He rests his forehead on the cold glass closing his eyes.

You are about to disappear. Again you will remain just a part of a recollection. Data stored on the server.

When the man opens his eyes again he continues to see your figure. In white. A braid of tiny white gypsophila and purple eustoma flowers adorns your head. Your hair is loosely undone. Slightly curly hair reaches below your shoulders. A simple white dress covers your body from neck to ankles. Lace sleeves adorn your arms.

Time seems to have stopped. Again. As if there were no light years from earthly life. Like that tomorrow has simply arrived. Your image presented to him.

It wasn't his memory. He had no right to see you in your wedding dress. He did not have time. Tomorrow never came for the both of you.

This is your memory.

#GhostChallenge #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost x reader #call of duty x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost cod #ghost simon riley #ghost x female reader #ghost call of duty #ghost x y/n #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley

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itsabouttimex2 · 1 month

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Plot Idea: Azure Lion unknowingly had a child with his lover before his defeat and death at the hands of Sun Wukong. Subsequently leaving his lover (and future Cub) to live on without him. Maybe their mother passes away during their birth? The kid long out lives their human family and their friends and their village.

Alone, sad and bored they go off on their own to explore the city that they’ve heard traveler’s passing through their village speak off. Megapolis is a bit overwhelming for them at first but they come across Pigsy’s Noodles. Pigsy seeing this borderline feral kid looking in his shop hesitated on shooing them away and offers them some food, a few years later MK arrives and the rest is history…

They finally meet Azure with MK and Mei trying to get the scroll. The kid has no idea that he’s their dad and Azure is just shocked to see them. He sees both himself and his old lover in their features.

His kid feels extra betrayed and he can see it in their eyes when the group confronts the now reunited brotherhood. They are 100% on MK’s side and don’t hesitate to fight with the group.

Maybe they land some heavy enough hits the Azure has to leave them behind or maybe he’s able to capture them and force them to come along with him and his brothers. Though with their rather vicious stubbornness they might be more of a hinderance to his quest than he’d like. Maybe he traps them in the scroll and keeps them on his waist like he does with Wukong?

I’d love to hear your thoughts about this idea 💖

Leonine Love

This is a really fun (and kinda sad) idea! I’m a big fan, actually! I loved this so much that I wrote a little (admittedly, non-yandere) intro because this is such a creative and interesting story idea.

Just… Lion!Y/N being pried from the arms of their dead mother, taken in by humans who recall Azure not as a delusional tyrant but a hero, recalling his mighty blade and fondness for mortals. How he knelt to level with children, how he stopped to help with the harvest. Feeling as though they owe him, the village takes you in and raises your as their own, watching in awe as your leonine ears and tail come in, marveling at the cyan growths.

Through a few generations you grow from infant to child, just in time for the legends of your father’s exploits to be consigned from legend to rumor, and now all the love you were lavished with has turned to dust.

To these new folk you are more fixture than family, an ever-present individual that they merely accustom to.

No more praise or warm embraces, no further tales of your ‘heroic papa’. All that you know about him is written on an old scroll that none are allowed to touch. Each story has been carefully penned, allowing you to preserve the legacy of a father you’ve never met.

With that scroll, a notable stash of pilfered money, and the clothes on your back… you bid farewell to a village that is no longer home, trudging out to find somewhere new.

And what name do you hear again and again?

Megapolis.

A few kind strangers help you along the way, hikers and hermits pointing you to the illustrious city and sharing supplies with what they take as a hapless child.

It feels too much like how you were treated by the original villagers, a communal child to be cherished and loved. Still, you thank them and leave, still intent on seeing this city with your own two eyes.

Of course, you’ve spent all your life in a slow and quiet village, so nothing has prepared you for even a single neon billboard, much less an entire futuristic city of light and noise, electric sugar for the eyes and ears.

The photonic onslaught of blinding light sears your eyes, leaving you disoriented and dizzy. Your stomach turns in circles, empty and begging for food. A strange black post that reaches to the sky blares with sound, causing you to scatter into the back alleys.

Any note of wonder at the electric rainbows and thrumming music is dashed by now, leaving you to curl up and sob, paws clamped tightly over your ears. There’s no one to wipe your tears or ask you not to cry, no one to tell you to be strong and brave. All you can do is crawl into the nearest discarded cardboard box, feeling like a coward and an outcast as you weep yourself to sleep.

And you wake up in a cozy little store, wrapped up tight in a two-tone changpao. A scholar argues at the front counter, the porcine demon behind it looking at you cautiously.

“They’re starving, Pigsy! You can see their ribs poking out, can’t you?!”

“I can see that! I’m just not sure about feeding a demon, Tang…”

“You’re a demon! A pig demon!”

“No, that’s different! I am a perfectly respectable noodle-chef! Not some damn ‘pig demon’!”

Hic. Sniff.

The little pitiful noises draw their attention, looking upon your quivering form with split reactions.

The scholar is worried, clearly. There’s a kindness in his eyes that looks almost ancient, like it’s been passed from generation to generation. He nudges his… friend? Rival?

You can’t tell what their relationship is, really.

The pig isn’t unkind with his gaze or words- cautious, maybe a little nervous. But he grumbles to himself at the sight of tears, stomping off to his kitchen and turning on the stove.

“You better be right about this kid, Tang…”

The scholar- Tang, then, comes to you and ushers your shivering and scrawny form onto a chair, pulling the changpao tighter around you.

“It’s alright, dear,” his soft voice promises. “Just sit down and try to relax. We’ll get a nice bowl of noodles ready for you-“

“There’s no ‘we’ about this, Tang!” Calls Pigsy, his voice booming above the clatter of metal and the sizzle of oil.

Actually, they do remind you of something- the old couples in your village who had been together a little too long and thus grown sick of one another.

But those were always men and women, weren’t they?

Tentatively, you wipe your eyes and ask:

“Are you two married?”

———————————————————————-

“That’s how we met Y/N,” Tang cheerfully explains, patting your head as you fixate your eyes on the ground.

The child (or is he a toddler?) -MK, as your fathers are calling him, looks up at you, stumbling over to your slowly swishing tail. “Kitty,” he says, a new animal he’s learned from the children’s books that you gave him. Tang had gifted them to you not long after he had convinced Pigsy to take you in, and now you had given them to the new kid.

New. Younger. Cuter. No demonic features. No fangs or sharp pupils or sheathed claws.

Are you being replaced?

“Kitty,” the little one repeats, tugging on the cyan fur of your tail. “Meow.” The babbling of a toddler or at least a very young child, stilted and happy. “Kitty.”

“Very good,” Tang praises, clapping his hands to provide encouragement. “What other animals do you like, MK?”

You step out of the room just as the adorable little thing starts to make loud oinking noises.

The storage room is tiny, just big enough to fit a few people and a cleaning cart. It’s fortified in case of emergencies, serving as a tornado shelter. You’ve spent a few prospective storms in here, clinging to Pigsy and sniffling at the sound of blaring sirens. Thankfully, nothing bad had ever even come close to happening, and eventually you shifted to viewing it as almost a break from the world. Just you and your…

Guardian. Boss. Caretaker.

You want to add father to that list. But taking that first step is a terrifying ordeal, and would involve putting yourself through a potential rejection.

You don’t think you could recover from that.

Another person enters the storage room, one hand on your shoulder. It’s not rough or big enough to be Pigsy. Not warm enough, either.

“Y/N? Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, Mister Tang.” Too fast. The words slur together, a falsity even by the first second you speak.

The freeloader sighs, lightly moving to tilt your chin up, meeting you eye-to-eye.

“You don’t come to hide in here when things are ‘fine’, dear. And you don’t slur your words like that, either. Why not tell me what’s wrong?”

“…do you think Pigsy likes MK better than me?”

“Wh-what? Y/N, why would you- dear, what’s going on?”

“…MK is a normal kid, isn’t he? He’s not some half-breed freak like me, and-“

“Y/N. I know you’ve been through a lot, but I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.”

A scholarly man with the build to match, Tang is far from strong. But he’s got just enough strength to pull you into his arms, letting you bury your head into the cloth covering his shoulder.

“Please, Y/N. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m scared that he doesn’t see me as his child,” you gasp out, clinging to Tang. “I’m not just his sous chef, tell me I’m not just his sous chef! Dad, please-“

“Dad?”

You break down a little further, legs giving out as your body struggles with the fearful anticipation of potential disappointment. You wait there against his chest, weeping.

“I don’t mind if you see me as a father figure, dear. If anything, I’m actually flattered. You don’t need to be worried about that.”

“Not mad?” You manage to spit out, face thoroughly drenched in your own tears.

“Not mad,” he confirms, patting your head. “Now, let’s dry those tears and get you something to eat. I talked Pigsy into making grilled cheese dumplings with canned tomato soup.”

A moment to compose yourself is taken, wiping your puffy eyes.

“Pigsy hates using canned food, though. He always says: “It’s a disgrace to my profession, using canned ingredients! There’s no alternative to fresh!” and then he’ll throw a spoon at whoever asked.”

“Well, MK loves them. And you know that Pigsy can’t say no to kids.”

And Tang was the only one who got spoons thrown at him, but he left that little bit out.

“Now, come on. Let’s get you to the bathroom to clean your face up. If Pigsy asks you can just say you got peppercorn dust in your eyes and needed a moment.”

The door opens, and you see the other half of this family, Pigsy and MK.

Family.

A real one, this time. Flaws and cons and stumbles thorned all along interwoven vines of love and adoration.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

#Not Yandere #Yet #Lego Monkie Kid #LMK #MK #Pigsy #Tang #Noodlefam

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steddieasitgoes · 5 months

Text

@steddiemas Day 31: New Year's Eve Traditions & Activities

We made it to the end!!! Tell me that picture doesn't look like Steve and Eddie's arms!!!

Tags: Established Relationship, Post-Season 4, Canon Divergent, Everybody Lives (obviously), New Year's Eve, New Year's Eve Kiss, New Year's Eve Fluff, Humor

wc: 1480 | Rating: T

Read on ao3 | ao3 collection

“Let me get this straight,” Steve says, resting his forearms on the candy counter of Family Video. After a quick glance around to make sure the store is still empty (it is and has been since their shift started four hours ago), Steve continues. “You won’t be my New Year’s kiss because you have to scarf down 12 grapes in 12 seconds.”

“That’s correct.”

“That makes no sense!”

“Maybe if you stopped whining and actually listened to why, you’d understand” Robin chimes in.

Steve looks up and scowls before flicking her knee that’s dangling off the candy counter. She shouldn’t even be up there in the first place — especially not with her damn shoes on. It’s going to take an extra ten minutes to clean the damn thing now that she’s scuffed it up.

“Fine,” he sighs, turning his attention back to Eddie. “Why do you have to scarf down 12 grapes instead of kissing me, your boyfriend?”

Robin snorts, nearly choking on a piece of licorice. Serves her right, Steve thinks as he wordlessly passes her a cup of water.

“I’m so happy you asked,” Eddie beams as he leans against the counter like Steve. Their forearms brush as Eddie situates himself, elbows pressing into the glass as he nestles his chin in the palm of his hands. “See an old wise tale in my culture says that eating 12 grapes at the 12 strokes of midnight brings good luck in the new year.”

“Do you even believe in luck?”

Eddie hums in consideration, “Not really, no. But I’m not going to tempt fate. Especially when I have too much to lose in the new year if I fuck it up.”

Before Steve has time to ask a follow-up question, his lips are on Eddie’s. Warm and slightly chapped. Tasting like tobacco and an overwhelming serving of cherry thanks to the stupid licorice he’s been devouring with Robin. He barely has time to close his eyes and lean into the kiss before Eddie pulls away with a simper and a cute flush spreading across his cheeks that he tries to hide with a lock of his hair.

“What if I said not kissing me at midnight is bad luck?” Steve tries.

“Well, then I guess I could try to do both.”

“Absolutely not,” Robin says, butting back into the conversation. “I am not calling the paramedics one second into the new year because you two decided to be major dinguses. Just let Eddie eat his grapes and kiss him after.”

“But it’s not the same,” Steve bemoans. He lets his body go slack, chest, and head thunking against the counter with a gentle force that should keep him from bruising. Looking up through his eyelashes, he gives Eddie his best attempt at making his eyes wide and innocent in a way that’ll make him break. “I haven’t had a midnight kiss in years. I just thought this year was going to be different.”

“Join the club,” Robin says, knocking her knee against his outstretched forearm.

“Oh no, trouble in romance land, Birdie?” Eddie asks, completely ignoring Steve’s terrible attempt at guilt-tripping him.

Robin sighs, tipping her head back until it thunks against the wall. The neon Family Video sign shakes under the vibration but thankfully doesn’t fall. That’s a mess Steve doesn’t want to have to clean up.

“I thought when Vickie broke up with her douchebag boyfriend things would fall into place but nothing has happened. There’s only so many hints I can drop before I accept the fact that she’s not into me.”

“But she is into you,” Steve says. If there’s one way to get him out of his own pity party, it's dragging Robin out of her own.

“Yeah well, my last four dateless weekends say otherwise.”

“Maybe you should eat the grapes too,” Eddie says. “Freak says if you eat them under a table it’ll bring good luck in your love life.”

Steve can’t help but snort. “How’s that working out for him?”

“Well, he has a girlfriend up in Maine where his grandparents live so you tell me,” Eddie challenges.

“At this point, I’ll try anything. I can’t go another year without kissing a girl,” Robin whines. “Any other good luck charms I should know about?”

“Argyle said his family wears different color underwear for different types of luck. Red for love, obviously.”

“Red underwear and grapes. Got it.”

Steve sighs, shaking his head. “I guess we’re making a stop at Bradley’s before we head home. Does it matter if they’re red or green grapes?”

“Nope. A grape is a grape. The important thing is eating them fast.”

“Right,” Steve nods as if he understands even though he’s still incredibly skeptical about this whole charade. Kissing Eddie sounds so much better than nearly choking on grapes, but whatever. If it makes Eddie happy, well, he’ll compromise. “Might be good to have the phone nearby then. Just in case we forget how to chew.”

“Wait we? Are you eating grapes too?” Eddie asks, already bouncing on his feet in anticipation.

Okay, yeah, eating a few grapes is worth the look on his face right now.

“Can’t let you and Robin take all the good luck,” he shrugs.

Eddie grins before launching himself at the counter. He practically vaults over the damn thing but his belt gets caught and he goes stumbling into Steve’s arms instead. It’s not the first time they’ve fallen together like this, and it definitely won’t be the last given his clumsiness, but Steve doesn’t mind. Especially not when Eddie pushes himself up and sears a kiss on his waiting lips.

“Promise I’ll make the first kiss of the new year worth the wait.”

🍇 🎆 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

As the kids start counting down from 30, Steve scrambles to pass out the giant green grapes he and Robin picked up the day before. The kids are uninterested in the tradition, but Eddie ropes Jonathan and Nancy into his antics. Argyle didn’t need convincing, already eager to cross off as many New Year’s superstitions as he could — which is why he ran around the block with an empty suitcase half an hour ago.

Robin b-lines for the dining room table the minute she has 12 grapes in her palm and it’s only a matter of seconds before Eddie’s tugging Steve after her.

“Eds,” he shouts, nearly spilling his grapes in the process. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us under the table!”

“I thought that’s for good luck in love.”

“It is,” Eddie says, ducking as he squishes in next to Robin.

“But you already have me.”

“Wow, Steve. Someone’s full of themselves,” Robin teases.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“I just want to make sure the universe gives me enough luck to keep you,” Eddie says, bashfully, before giving Steve’s wrist another yank. “Now get under here before you ruin the magic!”

Steve wants to tell Eddie that he doesn’t need some silly superstition to keep him. He’s not going anywhere, not if he can help it. But the kids are really shouting now, already down to five seconds and Steve can see the slight panic in Eddie’s brown eyes so he scrambles under the table instead.

“3! 2! 1! Happy—“

“Eat, eat, eat!” Eddie shouts, drowning out the cheers of the kids in the living room.

Steve shoves the first grape into his mouth and gets to chewing, watching as Eddie shoves at least three and Robin tries her best to work through her own pile of grapes as fast and carefully as she can. It’s a chaotic flurry, especially when one of Eddie’s grapes falls and goes rolling, but Steve saves it without getting out from the table and pops it in Eddie’s mouth for him. He wants to say “for extra good luck” but he’s too busy trying not to choke on his own mouthful of grapes.

Christ, why did they have to be so big and crunchy?

In the end, all three of them manage to successfully eat their grapes before 12:01 hits. To celebrate, Eddie drags Steve back out from under the table. Back on their feet, Eddie dramatically dips him in his arms before giving him the cheesiest kiss they’ve ever shared — loud “mwah” included.

“That’s the big kiss you promised me?” Steve asks, laughing as Eddie pulls him back into a standing position.

“Well, I had other plans but there’s too many witnesses for how I really want to kiss you,” Eddie teases, before leaning in closer. “I’ll show you later.”

Steve smiles as he gets his hands around Eddie. This time he’s the one who pulls him close, bodies flush as he stares into those beautiful brown eyes he hardly even looked at a year ago. “I think this is going to be a good year.”

“’87, baby.”

#steddiemas #stwgdailyprompt #steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie fan fic #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington ficlet #steve fic #eddie munson #eddie munson ficlet #eddie munson fic #eddie fic #robin buckley #robin buckley fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #dani writes

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violettduchess · 6 months

Note

Cyran gangster spice ^^

A/N: Here you go, anon! I hope you like it!

Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU/ Gangster x Doctor AU

TW: blood, injury, needles

WC:~2.2 k

The ringing cracks the silence of your darkened bedroom like a sledgehammer on ice. You push yourself up, still bleary with sleep, one hand fumbling through the gloom for your phone which should be sleeping too, well-behaved and quiet on your nightstand. It takes another second of angry ringing before you realize it’s not your personal phone. It’s the other phone. The one in the top drawer, rattling the items inside of it as it vibrates in time to the ringing, demanding attention. The phone you don’t want to hear going off, especially not in the heart of nighttime.

Sleep evaporates like frost on a sunny morning as you yank the drawer open and grab the small, nondescript black device. Caller unknown. But you know who it is. Only one person has this number.

“Hello?” Your voice is fuzzy with sleep.

“Good evening. Does your store sell copies of fairy tales? I’m looking for Little Red Riding Hood, the Rosenbrand edition. I hear there are only 10 copies left in circulation.”

Your heart sinks. Red Riding Hood means a serious injury, something bloody. Rosenbrand means the flower shop location. Ten copies means be there in 10 minutes.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.” The standard response. Your code for I’ll be there.

On the other end, the voice you know to be Nokto’s hangs up and you leap out of bed, changing into dark jeans and a black sweater, yanking open the closet to grab your medical kit and then you’re off, dashing out of your apartment and into the deceptively calm night.

You slip into the dark flower shop via the backdoor and immediately the velvet scent of roses overwhelms you. It is their specialty after all. And their symbol. Anywhere the Rhodolite Mafia goes, roses follow in their wake, their dark red petals scattered across crime scenes like little calling cards. Their members all bear the same rose tattoo on their bodies. You don’t have a tattoo. You’re not a member, officially but you are on their payroll and under their protection. So says the delicate golden rose and chain that hangs around your neck, resting against your heart.

You punch in the security code and a door at the back slides open, revealing a set of cement steps that lead down, down, down until you reach the bottom and step into the large room that the mafia uses for all medical emergencies. Your own private little examination room. And if necessary, OR.

For the second time that night, your heart stops. Laying back on the examination table is the one person whose name flashed through your mind like a neon sign the entire moonlit dash here, the one who you were silently hoping wouldn’t be your patient.

Cyran.

His shirt has been unbuttoned and he has bloodied gauze pressed against his arm, his dark eyes closed as he focuses on keeping pressure on his own wound. Clavis turns, golden eyes bright as an owl’s in the dim light.

“What happened?” Your tone is short, brisk. Every nerve in your body is on high alert as you pull on your latex gloves, moving towards Cyran.

“Blade, not a bullet.” Clavis steps back as you move in, the next steps of assessment as automatic to you as breathing. Cyran’s eyes open, only now aware you are there and you notice the flash of something across his features, some light in the depths of the fog of pain that he’s in. Your name passes his lips, a rough whisper.

“Altercation at the docks. Obsidian thugs thought they would be able to disrupt an important shipment.” Clavis’s phone chirps and he turns away from where you are working, removing Cyran’s shirt, cleaning up the bloody mess so you can get a better idea of what you’re dealing with.

You glance over your shoulder at him, the slight frown on his face as he reads whatever message he’s received.

“You ok, Lelouch?”

He fixes a bright smile on his face, but the light never reaches his eyes.

“I have to go.” No explanation. You are too low on the food chain for those. “Take good care of my right-hand man. I need him back in action soon and in one piece.”

You flick him a two-fingered salute and he nods, knowing Cyran is in good hands. As he jogs up the stairs, you hear him on his phone.

“....On my way, Chev….” The door at the top of the stairs closes with a heavy thunk and you are left alone with somewhat less bloody, very tense Cyran.

His shirt has been cast away, banished to a red and white heap on the floor which you casually kick to one side as you lean in to get a better look at his upper arm, where an ugly gash cuts across his deltoid. Reaching up to adjust the overhead lamp, you open your medical kit and begin the careful process of stitching the taunt skin back together. He hasn’t said a word since Clavis left, stoically staring straight ahead, intensely focused on the concrete wall opposite him.

Your head is bowed down, gaze following the rise and fall of your curved needle, the rational, medical part of your mind tightening its grip on the reins of your imagination. After all, there is an entire landscape of shirtless Cyran laid out in front of you. Curves of hard muscle that dip and bulge, secret places usually hidden by austere suits or leather jackets.

You’re close enough to hear the coarse sound of his inhale as you grip his arm. Clearing your throat you make an attempt to pierce the thick fog of tension that has settled over the room.

“Why is it always blades with you? Other members have the decency to just get shot.”

Your comment is so unexpected and honestly, so intentionally ludicrous that he turns his head involuntarily. Now his face is mere inches away from yours and you can feel his gaze on you as strongly as sunshine on a summer’s morning. And just like the sun, it brings a warmth to your cheeks that you hope he doesn’t notice.

He grunts as you finish suturing the injury, glancing down to take in your handiwork. You straighten up, adjusting your weight on the small padded stool you’ve been sitting on.

“And? Do I pass inspection, Mr. Rose?”

Something about the tone of your voice, an attempt at lightheartedness that skims over the jagged peaks of anxiety, has him finally meet your gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.

“You always do, doc.”

Those words settle across your mind like a silken sheet across a bed. You’re about to pull off your gloves, searching for something to say when you notice the blood staining the top of his gray slacks.

“What’s this…..?” You lean forward, glancing at him for permission to reach into the hem of his pants and take a look. An expression you don’t expect crosses his face: he looks almost sheepish.

“I….I was involved in a scuffle last week.”

You motion for him to lower his pants, trying to ignore what the sight of Cyran’s large, rough hands pulling down his zipper does to your body temperature. He slides his pants down slowly, just low enough for you to be given a tantalizing glimpse of that alluring line where the obliques meet the transversus abdominis muscle.

Medical professionalism trumps lust as you take in the shoddy stitching at his hip.

“What quack did this?” You’re already preparing another needle and thread, brow furrowed in annoyance.

“I did it myself.”

You glance up sharply, hands pausing for a moment.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You return to the work of fixing his on-the-fly patch job. He’s silent a moment and you wait, knowing he heard you. It takes him until you’re nearly done to answer.

“You know I couldn’t.”

Your work is finished and yet somehow you can’t move you away, one hand resting on the hard plane of his lower stomach, the other pressed lightly under the wound you’ve just finished re-stitching. Slowly you tilt your head up to look at him. He’s backlit by the overhead lamplight, his red hair almost black because of it. Shadow falls across the angles of his face and all you can see clearly is the brightness of his eyes. As if pulled by a magnet, your upper body rises slowly, your face coming closer to his. Carefully, with every other part of you crystallized in place, you remove your gloves, then return your hands to where they were, touching the now warm skin of his body.

Your lips are scant inches apart and your heart slams into your breastbone as if urging you forward to close the gap.

Cyran’s beautiful eyes close and his head turns ever so slightly away from you.

“We can’t.”

The words are tight in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to say them, that he’s forcing them out between clenched teeth.

Still so close, you breathe outward and you know he feels the warmth on his cheek. Your nose brushes his, your lips ache at how close they are to the paradise of his kiss.

“We already have,” you whisper in return, forgetting everything: the phone calls in the dead of night. The hiding in secret rooms tricked out with medical equipment. The heart-stopping anxiety every time you think you hear gunshots. All that you know right now is that he’s here, warm to your touch, so close you can count every individual eyelash.

His eyes flutter open and he meets your gaze.

“And it can never happen again.”

It’s there, in the depths of his soulful eyes. The memory of….

….that night, the one where he escorted you home under a black sky, raging with thunder and pent up clouds. Your skirt was stained with blood that wasn’t yours, your fingers trembling with a fear that definitely was. Your car, several streets away, gasping with bullet holes. Cyran had been there, had whisked you away in an armored vehicle and insisted on seeing you to your apartment, on coming inside and making sure everything was secure.

When he turned to go, every nerve in your body screamed at once at the loss. You launched yourself towards him, a wild bird in flight, and he had welcomed you into the sky of his arms, pulling you against the safety of his hard body. He held you until the trembling stopped.

And then the world exploded as the clouds released their pent-up rain and you had lifted yourself up to press your mouth to his. Cyran pushed his fingers into your hair with a groan, allowing himself to fall, a raindrop from heaven, a soul giving in, into you and your sweetness, your want, your heated kisses.

The wild storm had nothing on the two of you, that night.

You see the way the memory is reaching for you both at once, has you both angling your heads so that only the slightest movement will have your mouths touch once again. Your lips actually hurt with need. Your body practically thrums with the desire to taste him again.

He shifts and suddenly the metal pan holding the needle and thread and gauze clatters to the ground, his thigh having bumped it off the table’s edge. The loud crash shatters the moment and you both jump apart, hearts racing. Cyran clears his throat, his head shaking as if waking himself from a dream. When he speaks, the same words you have heard too many times since that night fall from his lips.

His life is dangerous.

You are already way too involved.

The reality of being with him is nothing but heartache and worry.

You need to remain as innocent and ignorant as possible, for plausibility, deniability, for your own damn safety.

He could never live with himself if anything happened to you…..

The flow of words stops as you press your finger to his lips. A sigh like the storm-buffeted waves of the ocean escapes him, shaky and uninhibited. The touch turns into the kiss you’ve been hungering for, except it's not the crush of his mouth on yours, the stampede of desire come to call, but rather the softest press to your fingertip, the fleeting caress of a butterfly’s wing.

Your heart both sinks and lifts, a paradox of emotion flowing through you.

He turns his face into your hand, his usual stoicism bled out by the force of his feelings for you. Pain, longing, tenderness bow his shoulders, pull kiss after kiss from his lips to your palm. You slide your hand across the line of his cheekbone, thumb stroking the rough stubble there. And then you lean down, pressing a petal-soft kiss to his forehead.

Cyran is still as a winter’s night, frozen despite the thundering of his heart. He knows this is for the best….but how much longer can he continue to do the right thing?

You start to pull away, turning towards the stairs that lead up and away, back into the night and its bright, cold stars, when something clamps around your wrist, stopping you.

You turn to see him, eyes flashing with something hot and bright, his strong fingers wrapped around you, holding you. He whispers your name, an echo of the rough whisper from earlier, when he first realized you were there, and you capitulate, crumbling into the shelter of his embrace even as your mouths seek and find each other.

If not doing this, if not kissing you desperately, touching you, claiming you, if not doing these things is the right thing…..then Cyran is tired of it.

Forget the right thing. He lives a life that blossoms in the shadows of right and wrong anyway. Right and wrong are shades of gray in his world. And now as he drags his mouth down the smooth line of your neck, revels in the sting of your fingernails digging into his shoulder, he knows that he can deny this, and you, no longer.

He sinks into dark temptation, caring for nothing other than right here and now.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly @wordycheesecake

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri cyran #cyran rose #ikemen cyran #gangster au #doctor au #ikepri costume challenge #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic #violettwrites

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theresattrpgforthat · 4 months

Note

Got anything that lets you play as monsters (vampires/monsters/etc) in the modern world in the vein of VTM? Ideally something in the PBTA/FITD area of system, but open to others for sure (: Thanks as always for your recs!!

THEME: Urban Monsters

Friend, the difficulty with this post isn’t that I don’t have recommendations for it - it’s that I’m trying to find recommendations that I haven’t talked about ad nauseam to this point. So I hope you don’t mind a fairly extensive “Past Recommendations” at the bottom of this post, because most of the PbtA games I know of are going to be there. I have limited experience with Vampire: the Masquerade, but I’m a big fan of Changeling: the Lost and other World of Darkness games, so I’m going off of general knowledge rather than specifics.

Bubblegum Vampires / Bubblegum Wizards 2, by Gormengeist.

You're a vampire in an infinite urban cauldron of muck and rot, of psionics and wizards, of danger and shadows. Though you are surely terrible, great, horrifying, (etc.), half the day is an enemy to your people; so set forth through the night to make your coin, secure your dwellings, and vanquish your infinite enemies.

You're a wizard who chews bubblegum and collects trading cards. That is to say, cards with the trapped souls of items and enemies within, obviously. An insignificant wizard in an infinite city has lots to prove and you've got to get help somehow. Break heads, steal money, drive stupid, chew gum, trap souls. Simple as.

Neon-Bright art and d6-based rolls, that’s what’s common across both of these games. This is the same world, but you’re living in two different spheres of it, depending on which game you play. As wizards, you collect spell cards that hold the souls of creatures you’ve vanquished, and use them to get yourself out of sticky situations. As vampires, you accrue vampiric powers through blood sacrifice, and your opponents are usually folks with especially tantalizing veins. Both games have various factions that have different goals than you, so if what you like about Vampire: the Masquerade is the amount of different ideologies that have the ability to fuck you up, you might like this game. Thematically, it looks a little more upbeat and pulpy than your typical V:tM game, but if you like one, you have another game in the same system ready to go.

The Hidden, by Dragons Are Real.

As children our parents read us fairy tales, ghost stories and recounted local myths. We’ve always assumed these stories are told to entertain or scare….what if these aren't just stories….everything you have been told is true.

The creatures from fairy tales, mythology and folklore all exist. Have you ever thought you saw something strange out of the corner of your eye but when you look again all looks normal. These creatures live in plain sight, unseen by the majority of people, only those who know they exist see them in their true form. Every culture has a name for these creatures but we know them simply as The Hidden.

The Hidden is a modern urban fantasy game powered by the Breathless RPG. It is inspired by such media as Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Constantine and The Dresden Files.

Another pulpy sort of game, the Breathless system that powers The Hidden is great for replicating diminishing resources, putting your characters in more and more difficult situations every time they pause to take a breath. This makes this game great for horror-style stories, and World of Darkness games firmly find a home in the horror genre. If you want something that’s fast-paced and can cover a lot of ground in a short session, The Hidden might be for you.

Tween Wolf, by Ibi Deficit Orbis.

Tween Wolf is a micro-RPG about middle schoolers experiencing both the fantasy of being exceptional, and the fear of being humiliated. As these kids come to terms with their awkwardly developing human bodies, they will also be faced with lycanthropy. And in the process they will experience supernatural heroism and intense shame—and learn to manage both.

It is designed to be played with a bent towards exploring the unforgiving social cruelty of middle school, self-image, and dysphoria. It requires one Game Master, 1 to 4 additional players, a few hours, one six sided die for each player, and two additional six sided dice for the table to share.

This is a very short game, with very few rules and a big focus on trying to keep your wild side under wraps. If what you like about WoD games is the struggle between the monstrous and the human, this might be the game for you. There’s not nearly as many big moral quandaries as there are in typical WoD games - you’re middle schoolers, not eons-old bloodsuckers - but to a middle-schooler, your problems are massive. I feel like the movie Seeing Red might be a good touchstone for this game.

Glamour of Our Youth, by Yuri Runnel.

Glamour of Our Youth is a roleplaying game based on the Forged in the Dark system. Drawing inspiration from media like Riverdale, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Chilling Adventures of Sabrina among others, it works to tell stories of supernatural teenage adventures.

Building on the FitD framework, Glamour serves to tell exciting stories with high stakes, putting the youths through their paces as they try to make their way through a strange and hostile world, struggling with conflicts both internal and external, arcane and mundane.

This game doesn’t cast your characters as specific supernatural beings, but the character options certainly make it possible. You cobble your character together from two different halves: Archetypes and Arcana. Your Archetype hails from classic high school cliques, such as Rebel, Outcast, Socialite and Athlete, while your Arcana details your supernatural ability, including Shapeshifter (which might translate to werewolf), Oceancaller (which you could turn into a selkie) or Shadow (which feels rather ghost-like to me). There’s also plenty of ways to play a teenage mage.

This game is in playtest, but it’s considerably far a long, with recent updates that indicate that the crew is hard at work refining the final product.

Protect the Child, by MintRabbit (that’s me!)

Humans have always been protective of their young, sometimes overly so. Humans have also always feared that which might make their young strange or different, and so insist that only humans can raise their own young. Monsters cannot raise human young. This is known. You have a human baby. You cannot find its parents. What is even worse, is that this child has powers, powers that others covet, and so everyone wants it. If you want to prove that you’re not the heartless monster that everyone says you are, that means you’ll have to raise it, at least until you find someone who is better suited to it than you. You are creatures of fur, scales and fangs. You have claws that can rend flesh, faces that can crack mirrors, howls that can cause ears to bleed. And your charge wants a blankie.

Protect the Child is a Forged in the Dark game about monsters caring for a young human, a human who contains strange and mystical powers that make them a valuable asset in any monster crew. The setting and factions present in this game are flexible: you might be aliens in a far-flung future galaxy, fantasy monsters from rival kingdoms, or even everyday wild animals that fear human society.

So I’ve only just started play testing this game, which means that it’s very much in barely-playable mode. This game is also setting-agnostic, meaning that you can decide exactly when and where your game takes place - including as modern-day monsters trying to take care of a human baby with magical powers. The game is very specific in the themes of the story you’ll be telling - that is, themes about monstrosity, parenthood and responsibility, but if you all want to play different kinds of vampires, you can absolutely do that!

BloodLite, by ruan8000.

BloodLite is a role-playing game (RPG) designed to be played solo, but can be played in a group. In this game, you will create a Vampire following the rules and you will also create the world that this vampire interacts with, as well as the conflicts and obstacles that he will face. The world in BloodLite is like ours, but a little darker and more dangerous, full of supernatural creatures.

This game has no ties to PbtA or FitD, but it cites Vampire: the Masquerade as a direct inspiration, and you can see it in the Bloodline options available at character creation. You have a supernatural gift that give you advantages and also trigger your Hunger, which is your character’s thirst for blood. The goals of the game are represented through an Oath track, which fills when you fight enemies, overcome obstacles, and solve problems. This a fairly stripped-down game, but if you’re familiar with V:tM, then you probably won’t have a problem filling the world with factions, back-alley deals, and political wars.

Hearts of Yokai, by Lowell Francis.

So, this game isn’t out yet. But I can’t stop myself from talking about it a little bit. It’s the product of a Changeling:The Lost PbtA hack that Lowell has been working on for a very long time. I’ve been a bit fan of Changeling: the Lost and I also love PbtA games so I’m really excited to see more of this.

The link in the title leads to the current google spreadsheets that detail the current content of the game and the associated playbooks. The link for Lowell is to a blog post he wrote about the game, talking about the history, the changes he’s made, and the ideas behind what the current iteration is. What really intrigues me is how it incorporates "the actions of the Gentry through the lens of colonialism.” I’m really eager to follow the progress of this game.

Games I’ve Recommended in the Past

Urban Shadows 1e, by Magpie Games.

Bite Marks, by Black Armada Games.

Monsterhearts 2e, by Buried Without Ceremony.

Strays, by kumada1.

Eldritch Investigative Drama Rec Post

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #dnd #game recommendations #asks #urban fantasy #monsters #vampires #indie ttrpg

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sxii-mafu · 8 months

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Antipathy world // Rahu

The city of Serendipity was a bustling hub of activity, with its vibrant streets and neon lights. It was a place where dreams were born and broken, a place where the line between reality and illusion blurred. For Y/N, it was the perfect backdrop for her escape from the mundane world. Little did she know, Serendipity held more than just promises of excitement; it held the key to a destiny she couldn't have imagined.

One fateful evening, Y/N wandered into a small, dimly lit cafe. The atmosphere inside was different from the chaos of the streets. It was quiet, serene, and almost otherworldly. The soft murmur of patrons sipping their drinks filled the air, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted around. Y/N found an empty seat by the window, allowing her to observe the people passing by.

Rahu, a mysterious and enigmatic figure, was seated at the counter. Her striking crimson hair and piercing gaze caught Y/N's attention immediately. Rahu was a regular at Phony, known for her cryptic demeanor. She sat alone, sipping her coffee, lost in thought.

Y/N's curiosity got the better of her, and she couldn't help but strike up a conversation. "Is this your first time here?" Y/N asked with a friendly smile.

Rahu turned her gaze toward Y/N, her eyes filled with a mix of intrigue and amusement. "It is, indeed. This place has an air of mystique about it. Have you been coming here for long?"

Y/N shrugged. "No, this is my first time too. I heard it's a place where secrets and stories intertwine, and I wanted to see if it's true."

A small smile played on Rahu's lips. "Stories and secrets, huh? Serendipity is full of them. What's your story, then?"

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "I guess I'm here because I'm looking for something, something I can't quite put into words. I want to experience life beyond the ordinary."

Rahu's eyes bore into Y/N's, as if she could see right through her facade. "Serendipity can offer that and more, Y/N."

As the evening went on, Y/N and Rahu continued their conversation, exchanging tales of the city's peculiarities and their own aspirations. It was as if the cafe had become a nexus where two souls, previously adrift in the chaos of the city, had found a connection.

In the days that followed, Y/N became a regular at Phony, and her connection with Rahu deepened. They explored the city together, navigating its twists and turns, discovering hidden gems and unraveling its mysteries. It seemed that their lives were entwined, just like the tales spun within the cafe's walls.

One evening, as the rain poured outside, Y/N found herself confessing her deepest desires to Rahu. "I want to uncover the secrets of this city, but more than that, I want to understand the mysteries of the human heart."

Rahu's eyes softened, and she reached out to brush a stray strand of wet hair from Y/N's face. "The human heart is the most enigmatic of all," she murmured. "It can be both a labyrinth and a sanctuary, but it's worth exploring."

Their faces drew closer, their lips inches apart, but before they could seal their unspoken desires with a kiss, a loud crash of thunder disrupted the moment. Y/N pulled away, her heart racing. It was as if the universe conspired to keep their connection in check, reminding them that some secrets were not meant to be uncovered so easily.

As time went on, Y/N and Rahu's bond continued to grow, each day bringing them closer to the heart of Serendipity. They delved deeper into the city's hidden stories, discovering the intricacies of its people and places. The more they uncovered, the more they realized that Phony was a reflection of their own journeys—both mysterious and profound.

Their connection was a dance of longing and restraint, a delicate balance of desire and destiny. They yearned to break free from the constraints of reality, to explore the depths of their own phony hearts, but they also feared the consequences of crossing that line.

"Rahu," Y/N whispered one night, her breath ghosting over Rahu's ear. "I don't want to keep living in a antipathy world. I want our connection to be real."

Rahu's eyes met Y/N's, a storm of emotions swirling within them. "Y/N, sometimes reality can be just as phony as the world we're trying to escape. But if you're willing to take that risk, then let's chase our dreams together, even if they're dreams."

And with those words, they sealed their fate, leaving the realm of Serendipity's illusions behind as they embarked on a journey to discover the true depths of their hearts, no longer bound by secrets and stories.

#gxg #wlw #path to nowhere #rahu x reader #rahu path to nowhere #phony #fluff #Spotify

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reds-skull · 4 months

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BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

Y'know how I said I'm not gonna post every day... Okay look I'm just enjoying myself and I'm on break so I got time to write. Sue me.

This chapter is called "The Ruin". Enjoy!

Page 5 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 2:

A blind man finds upon his path, a thing of uncertain birth, He whispers words of guilt, gait unsure around the being, A story of war falls from his lips, a tale well known, The beastly soul bows in assent, warmed only by gore, The man asks of the Beast, will you let me pass, The path clears, but a voice requests, Will you, O fallen knight, Will you let a monster trail?

The last time Soap was under a CO, the man spat in his face that he’s never going to amount to anything, not with his “attitude”. The one before it made him clean the latrines for three months, not that he stayed long enough to finish that sentence.

Ghost was… surprisingly different. His orders were clean cut, but Soap found them completely logical. And when he didn’t…

“We can’t go that way, the roundabout is full of equipment. Soldiers are constantly circling it.” Soap muttered next to Ghost. The SAS operator looked back at him. The skull mask adorning his face was cracked from untold battles long past, the sharp edges catching the low neon light from a nearby street sign.

Soap is sure if he saw that jumping at him from the shadows, he would scream like a wee girl. As it stands, the mask only makes him think of shirts edgy teenage boys would find on a sale at TK Maxx.

“How do you know?” the masked man questions.

Soap pulls a small bag from the rucksack he nabbed two days earlier, “managed to swipe some black powder from there when they weren’t lookin’.”

Ghost hums, “know how to use it?”

“Was a demolition expert, before…” Soap trails off, shoving the bag back into the side pocket, “we can go through the southern side, near the church. Think they’ve already combed that area.”

“Copy, lead the way Sergeant.”

Soap takes them through the winding alleys, hearing nothing behind, but knowing Ghost follows. For a man his size, he’s unnervingly dead silent.

“Where was yer exfil point set?” he starts. They would need to double time it, if it was back north…

Ghost is cryptid with his answers, as always, “we’ll have to set a new one.”

Soap frowns. “So our goal is just to put distance between us an’ the hostiles?”

“Affirmative. You got intel on their location?”

They enter an abandoned grocery store (as all stores in this area are), and Soap makes a detour at the cleaning aisle, looking for bleach and other solutions he could use for crafting. “I was ‘ere two days ago, dinnea where they are now…” he grins brightly when he finds a nice big bottle of bleach. With the vinegar he already has, he could create a good amount of chlorine gas. Pour it into a bottle and chuck it at hostiles, and they got a distraction should they need it.

“Stay focused, then.” Ghost murmurs, snapping Soap out of thought. He’s not used to having someone next to him, even before everything went to shit…

The church comes into view when they exit the store. Ghost stops to stare at it, and Soap takes the moment to inspect the Lieutenant further. Black gear over black clothes, no markings of country, unit, even blood type. Soap feels like there’s a lot more about this botched mission that Ghost isn’t telling him.

Not that the spooky bastard tells him much of anything.

“Could use the tower to scope the area. I see a line up there we can zip line down from.” Ghost eventually rumbles.

“Sounds good, LT.” Soap responds, catching his slip belatedly. Internally, he muses, ‘ye can take the man out of the military…’

Ghost’s head snaps around to glare at him, and Soap can see his mouth open under the balaclava, before he turns around to stomp to the church tower, leaving Soap to jog to catch up.

The church looks ransacked, in a way that makes Soap’s gut churn. He’s not religious, not since he enlisted, but the way the soldiers destroyed everything without disregard…

It’s a view that haunts him throughout the city. How they don’t care that anyone lived here before.

Children laughed, babes were born, old men reminisced over long gone memories, girls played together. People lived and died here, this was their world.

And the Hunter’s soldiers crushed it all under their boot, spat on the graves of their ancestors and severed the ties.

Soap feels the anger building within him once more. His fuel for the firepower he throws at the hostiles. At first, he wanted to know why more than anything. But it doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing can justify this.

He stares at Ghost’s wide back as they climb up the stairs to the tower, wondering what the operator thinks of all this. If he too feels his heart clench at the thoughts of senseless violence. Or if he doesn’t care, if the mission is the one and only important thing on his mind.

Soap wonders if there’s anything under that mask at all.

He asks himself, if there’s anything left behind his.

They reach the top, the city sprawling beneath them. The little lights blend together, shining between the dark buildings. Would’ve been a nice view.

Would have, if they didn’t spot the trucks rolling to a stop in front of the church.

Ghost and Soap share a brief look, and instantly he moves to climb out of the window to jump to the zip line, only to be stopped by the Brit.

“What are ye waitin’ for?! We need to go!” he almost yells.

Ghost yanks him back in, the sheer power knocking Soap into the wall. Fuckin’ hell, he hits like a beast.

“If we zip line now, they’ll shoot us down. We need to get through the ground floor.” he growls, turning away and starting to run down the stairs. Soap rolls his shoulders and runs after him, muttering a few curses under his breath.

Soap catches up to him, yelling, “there must be a back exit we can use-!”

Ghost stills on one of the last steps, shushing him. They both strain their ears, hearing far-off steps growing closer, and closer, and closer-

Soap shucks his rucksack off, taking out the bleach and vinegar, quickly pouring them into an empty beer bottle, “the fuck are you doing?” Ghost yells above him, crouching to hide behind the banister when the front doors are kicked open.

Soap ignores him, driving a piece of cloth down to stop the gas from leaking, and shoves it into Ghost’s hand as he makes another one, “throw this right before we go, they won’t be able to breathe right for days.”

Soldiers start spreading through the ruined church, Ghost testing the weight in his hand, “on my count.”

Soap nods, finishing up his bottle.

“One, two…”

One of the soldiers spots them, and Soap stops breathing.

“Three!”

They throw the bottles, the liquid within them splashing as they arc across the church. His bottle hits the soldier that saw them square in the face, and he instantly starts coughing and clawing at his eyes.

The gas isn’t visible to the naked eye, but Soap can track its spread by the way all soldiers start coughing. He and Ghost push off to run up the stairs, but as Soap casts a glance back, he sees some of them equipping a gas mask.

Why the fuck were they prepared for chemical weapons in a civilian city?!

“Ghost!” he shouts, slinging his rifle off his shoulder, “they have gas masks!”

He hears the man curse, “keep running!”

Not sooner after, bullets begin to ricochet around the spiral staircase. Soap swings around to shoot a couple of them, and as Ghost does the same, he notices his shots don’t land as they should.

He glances back at the Lieutenant, watching him rub roughly at his left arm. Right… Ghost did say he was broken. Soap didn’t realize how bad it was.

A few seconds later, he realizes Ghost threw the bottle with his left hand, landing it perfectly between the soldiers.

With no time to maul it over, he pushes onwards.

Ghost is still grasping at his arm when they reach the window, and Soap can’t help but ask, “are ye gonna be able to zip dow-”

Ghost’s tone lowers dangerously, nailing him with a death glare, “I am not weak, Sergeant.”

He’s not sure who’s cornering who here. Ghost takes his eyes off him a second later, tugging on the line before asking, “got anything we can use?”

Soap continues shooting down the enemies pushing up the stairs, “check my pack!”

He feels Ghost rummaging through his rucksack, and it almost distracts him from the hails of bullets around them.

It’s… odd. How he doesn’t even know the man’s face, but he can trust him with his back.

Ghost zips the pack back up. From the corner of his eye, Soap can see two metal clothing hangers he picked up in one of his searches for a thicker jacket. In his other hand is his little project he used most of the black powder on.

He lifts it questioningly, and Soap answers while shooting, “a wee gift I made. It’ll trigger when someone steps on it.”

“How big’s the explosion?”

Soap smirks, “big enough.”

He can almost feel Ghost’s eye roll from his silence, and he would’ve chuckled if soldiers didn’t start coming closer.

“Ye ready to jump?” he yells.

Ghost hands him a hanger, dropping the charges on the last stair step. Soap watched him flex his left arm one last time, before swinging the hanger over the line, and jumping off.

Soap’s heart drops for a moment when the operator sways wildly, part afraid for him, but mostly for himself.

The hostiles at his feet don’t care either way, so Soap braces himself and jumps off as well. The way down is bumpy, rattling, and fuckin’ fast. Soap lets go of the hanger right before the end, rolling off on the rooftop, and stopping.

He hears his “gift” go off, and the sound is so beautifully familiar, it sends a pang of nostalgia through him.

Ghost is already making his way down, seeking to hide between concrete buildings. Soap hastily catches up.

“That was a wild one, wasn’t it, LT?” he says, a little out of breath.

That breath gets completely knocked out of him when Ghost slams him to the nearest wall. His eyes are obscured by shadows, leaving only two black holes when he leans down to growl in his ear.

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that. I am not your LT, not your CO, we are strangers. We get outta here, and you can go back to your civvy little life. Understood?”

Soap breathes out harshly, grinding his teeth. “Like I have a fuckin’ life-”

Ghost pulls back just to slam him harder, “do you fucking understand, Sergeant?”

He stares at the black voids, voice clear and flat, “yes sir.”

The Lieutenant finally pushes off, and Soap lingers for a moment. He wants to be angry, he wants to snarl and bite and talk back, like he used to when his past COs were yelling at him.

But Ghost is right. After this little “adventure”, Soap will have to go back to his life. To an empty apartment, which he has probably already been evicted from. To searching a job, only to find nothing truly worthwhile. To an airsoft field, a fuckin’ mockery of what he lost.

To a monotonous, repetitive, grey cycle, where John loses his mind just a little more every day.

Ghost is just telling him the truth.

Soap trails back behind Ghost, the man not reacting to his presence. He looks so much larger than him like this, blocking what little light is around them, casting a long shadow over Soap.

He tried not to think of “what could have been” in the past year. But it’s so hard, when it’s literally within reach.

Could he have been like Ghost? This imposing, unrelenting soldier, stronger than anyone he’s ever fought. So powerful, he escaped a whole military worth of hostile soldiers?

There may be nothing behind Ghost’s mask, but there’s someone behind Soap’s. Someone weak, lost, and repulsive.

And Soap isn’t sure what’s worse.

They’ve walked in silence for the last hour or so, Soap lost in the tar pit of his own mind. Some part of him, hysteric and deranged as it is, doesn’t want this to be over. It disgusts him.

Ghost’s arm has been twitching minutely for a few minutes now. It distracted Soap from spiraling for a bit, wondering what exactly is wrong with him. He doesn’t see any rips in the fabric around the area, so it’s not a stab or gunshot wound. He thought about blunt force trauma, but that wouldn’t act up every once in a while like this. An old injury would, but if it’s bad enough Ghost can’t even shoot straight, no one in their right mind would send him on the field.

Soap exhales, his stomach knotting in warning. They didn’t stop moving since they encountered each other, so they didn’t really eat. Which Soap just remembered, and now can’t ignore.

He considers it for a moment before piping up, “ye hungry?”

Ghost pauses in front of him, slowly turning to stare at him. “You got food?”

Soap nods, pulling a few oranges from his bag. He almost hands one to Ghost before remembering his arm, and sets about to peel them both. Ghost watches him silently, as a sweet aroma fills the small back way.

Soap gives him the first peeled orange, busying himself with the other while Ghost turns around to eat it. When Soap takes the first bite, a sour taste bursts on his palate. Yet as he chews, it turns sweet, and he closes his eyes for a moment, savoring it.

Ghost has turned back to face him when he opens his eyes again, a look Soap can’t place in his eyes. It makes him hurry and gulp down the rest of the fruit, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

He starts walking, but this time Ghost walks beside him, his eyes still not straying from Soap.

Ghost’s eyes are a nice, rich brown, he notices for the first time.

#call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod ghost #cod soap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #BLOOD||HUNGER #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod fic #cod fanfic #the last scene was completely unplanned but i fuckin love it now #also oof angst #you thought revenant au was painful? oooh boy

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spartanguard · 11 months

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sons of love and death, 1/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he's on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There's only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he'd finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]

A/N: It's time for @cssns 2023! Although this story has been in the works for a VERY long time—since fall of 2015, in fact, when a casual manip of some set photos featuring a mirror image of Killian was floating around tumblr and I was suddenly overcome with the desire to see two Killians. (Note that this was WELL before we actually had two Killians in canon!) A not-so-anonymous prompt (from one @kat2609 ) requested I follow that idea, and I started to—but then canon happened and meant the canon-divergent idea I'd been playing with no long worked. And so it sat for quite a while, until I sat down last year to finally hash it out. And here we are! Hope you enjoy this adventure—which is also complete! Eternal thanks to @optomisticgirl for her excellent beta skills on the whole thing! Quick note: the text in italics (or not in italics, during flashbacks) are quotes taken from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (considering I also borrowed the main character, in what I hope is an OUAT-esque take on that tale).

rated M | 1.9k words [prologue] | AO3

The man approached the barrier. An untrained eye might only see the neon line on the pavement, but he could tell that wasn't all—he could feel it. The hum of magic dinned quietly in his ears and made his skin prick ever so slightly, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He held his hand up to the invisible wall and closed his eyes, concentrating on some unknown. A cigarette burned at his lips and a bit of ash fell on his leather motorcycle jacket, yet it rolled off the material like water.

In a few moments, his hand began to glow a fiery orange, matching the ember at the end of his roll; slowly, he passed the limb through the barrier, feeling a tingle as he did so. A wicked grin covered his face as he opened his eyes and continued to walk over the town line. He tossed the butt of the cigarette off the edge of the road, not caring if fire caught—things tended to go up in flames wherever he went, anyway.

Centuries of chasing down the Dark One were about to pay off. He'd finally take what was rightfully his—what Rumpelstiltskin had stolen—and finally claim the darkest magic known to man for himself.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Signs pointed the way into town. Despite being in a land without magic, this little village was brimming with it. He almost felt as if he was drowning in light magic, even though the town was created by the Dark Curse. As he walked past the cemetery, he picked up a whiff of something different; curiosity piqued, he followed the pull to a mausoleum. Getting in was easy, and he had to admit, that was quite a collection of hearts. But it didn't belong to the Dark One; this must be that of the Evil Queen who dragged everyone here in the first place.

In his time spent with Zoso, he’d grown accustomed to the feel of the Dark One's magic, and the few times he'd been near closing in on Rumpelstiltskin, he easily recognized it. But here—he wasn’t sure. There was something in the air, but he couldn’t put a finger on it; it was just outside the cusp of his awareness. But magic worked differently here, so he kept searching.

Another cigarette fell to ash as he trekked out of the graveyard. He tossed the remains on a random grave (Neal something, whoever the poor sap was), and promptly lit another one. Tobacco was just one of his many vices; women, booze, and gambling rounded out the list of usuals, but magic was by far his biggest, and while he had plenty of his own, he craved more—of a specific variety. After all, the only way to get rid of a temptation was to yield to it. Resist, and the soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.

It was a short walk to the main drag of the town. A seedy bar, ridiculously named The Rabbit Hole, was definitely calling to his baser instincts. The diner across the street was still open, and a few town residents were making their way home in the twilight. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide his face, letting the embers from the cigarette illuminate his jagged scar, strong nose, and blue eyes in a threatening manner.

To his surprise, though, the few people he passed on his journey to nowhere-yet actually acknowledged his presence, and even seemed to give him a nod or a smile—he certainly wasn’t the neighborly type, so why these dimwitted townsfolk saw fit to welcome him was baffling.

By the time he reached the street corner, it was forgotten, as something far more interesting had captured his interest: Dark One...residue, he supposed. There was no sign of the actual sorcerer, but he’d definitely been nearby, and left a trace. The trail seemed to lead him to one Mr. Gold’s Pawnshop. It was faint, but there was definitely something sinister about the little storefront—so many of the seemingly random objects displayed in the window had any number of macabre uses. Definitely his kind of place.

He tried to turn the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. So he waited a moment. Again, his palm glowed orange, and a hissing sound filled the air as he melted his way in. With the knob and deadbolt reduced to molten metal, pushing the door open was nothing, and he proceeded to investigate the shop.

The more he looked around, the more he knew that he’d found the man he was looking for. Who else would have a pair of creepy marionettes on full display? Or a seemingly innocuous collection of cursed animal horns? A hand preserved in a glass jar caught his attention; he had to admire someone who kept such trophies around.

But he was here to find the dagger. He couldn’t rely on his extra senses to find it in a shop full of magical objects, so he’d just have to dig on his own. He began searching through cabinets and drawers, overturning stacks of paper and storming through boxes. It was actually an impressive mess he made. There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful. But nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, but knew that he wouldn't get anywhere else until the next day.

The night was still young, though, so he made the quick trip back to The Rabbit Hole. The dingy bar was just what he needed to blow off steam: low lights, loud music, and ample ladies. A pretty brunette on the dance floor caught his eye, and the bartender took his order: the finest whiskey, on the rocks, keep 'em coming. He could afford a night of fun before he finally—finally—took what was his.

He didn't notice the sideways glances that followed him as he began to grind with the girl, hips moving in time with the music and each other. He was used to them.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

The next morning's sun was too bright and the air too crisp for his hungover self to appreciate; if he had any say, it would be cloudy and murky, just like his mind. The girl he went home with last night—Tisbe or something equally ridiculous—kicked him out early, leaving him on the streets of this absurd town with a raging headache and an empty stomach.

He threw open the door to the diner and slouched onto a stool at the counter, unaware of the dying buzz of the patrons as he did so. The elderly proprietress of the establishment asked him a question, but he was still too unfocused to properly hear it or respond and so grunted an assent; hopefully, she was asking if he wanted coffee. He'd really take anything right now.

The woman paused after his half-assed response, then walked away. As he studied the dated pattern of the counter, he heard a scoff from the seat next to him. "What's your deal, man?"

Blearily, he looked up; a short, stocky man with a thick beard was glaring at him. "What's it to you?" he slurred.

"I saw you at the Rabbit Hole last night and now you're being a dick to Granny?"

"And now I get to be a dick to you: fuck off, dwarf." He was in no mood for a lecture. He knew what kind of person he was.

"I told you I was gonna keep my eye on you. Guess you haven't changed."

Enough. He grabbed the dwarf's collar and stared him down. "You don't know me, pal. And if you think you do, you're sorely mistaken."

"Hey man, back off." The dwarf pushed back and he tumbled from his stool.

"Oh, you'll regret that," he said as he slowly stood. When he turned back to face the dwarf, a fireball was at the ready; he relished the way his foe's eyes widened.

He pulled back, ready to send the flame flying, but before he could, he saw a fist and then nothing.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

If he thought his hangover was bad, whatever this was was worse. His body was a solid bruise; he was sure of it. He remembered being punched but he must have fallen, too, and the scene from the diner slowly came back to him. His stomach grumbled in protest of still not having any food, and the echoing groan from his lips told the story for the rest of his body.

Sunlight streamed in through a window and had just reached an angle to hit him directly in the eyes, which made him realize he was lying down on something hard. Before the light had blinded him, he made out the too-familiar sight of bars and figured he was in this town's version of prison. He rolled over in an attempt to escape the sun, prompting a chuckle from somewhere nearby.

"Haven't you inbreds heard of blinds?" he barked, his voice hoarse.

"I'm surprised you even know what those are." It was a man's voice and he sounded annoyed.

"You clearly don't." He slowly opened his eyes so he could adjust to the room's brightness. The cool gray cinderblock was a good start.

"I'm disappointed in you." The man almost sounded sad.

"As I told the asshole in the diner, you don't know me." He groggily sat up to stare the man down; a sheriff's badge gleamed from where it was hooked to his jeans, below crossed arms and a stern glare.

"I know you plenty well, pirate." He'd been called many things, but that was a new one. "How could you do this to Emma?"

Who? "Who the fuck is Emma?" Something weird was going on, but his brain hurt too much to process it.

"I the fuck am Emma," came a feminine voice from the hallway, followed by the clack of boot heels as she approached. The sheriff ran in her direction, stopping her before she came into view.

"Emma, hold on; I have to tell you something."

"Dad, what's going on?" His vision was blearier than he thought if he hadn't noticed that the man was old enough to have an adult daughter.

The rest of their conversation was too quiet for him to hear, so he slumped back against the concrete wall and glanced around the station. He still cursed their lack of window hangings.

The sheriff came back, followed by his daughter. Ooh, now there was a sight. A gorgeous blonde came into view, a vision in a red leather jacket. Now why wasn't she at the bar last night? A much better bedfellow she would have made.

Until he saw that she, too, wore a badge. Law enforcement was an immediate turnoff.

She wore a concerned look on her face as she slowly approached his holding cell. It seemed as if she was studying his face, searching for something. But she must have come up empty, as relief flooded her features, followed quickly by confusion.

"That's not Killian."

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! (longer chapters to come!) tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke

#cs ff #killian jones ff #cssns 2023 #captain swan supernatural summer #sons of love and death #my ff

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wyattjohnston · 2 years

Text

out of ten - tyson jost

note: this is reader insert and was written in ~6 hours inspired by that ^ gif.

word count: 1,015

You don’t spend much time on Tumblr anymore, definitely not as much as you used to, but sometimes you head on in to catch up on discourse from your favourite shows or to reblog every piece of content you can find of the most recent show you’ve binged.

Once upon a time it had been your go to place to talk about hockey and hockey players—that became less relevant when you met Tyson Jost.

It wasn’t a conscious decision to stop participating in conversations about players, it just became slightly weird to see people talking about how cute they thought Tyson was when you’d woken up in his bed that same morning.

It’s almost a surprise when you see gif sets of him on your dash and you can't help but laugh at the tale of him being caught in Vegas with a fake ID. You save the source link, vaguely remembering him having done the interview and continue scrolling through posts until the browser slows and you’re forced to refresh.

Tyson’s face appears again, and you smile in expectation of another funny tale—that’s not what comes.

Your smile falters at the text on the gif—the host has asked Tyson to rate his love life on a scale of one to ten and Tyson’s answer: Three.

Three and a hearty laugh.

It rips through you worse than you ever could have imagined and you close your laptop to get away from it, only to make the effort to navigate to it on your phone so you can send it to Tyson in a text with no comments accompanying it.

He’s with his trainer, so he won’t see it for a couple more hours, and you know that because he has plans to come over when he’s finished. For dinner, not just a hook-up which should amount to more than a three, you think.

You know it’s been a weird few months since you met—the season ending, Tyson heading north to see his family and even when he returned to Minnesota it had been for summer hockey and off-season training. You’ve been around, though, seeing him multiple times a week since he came back and even being at some Da Beauty League games because he’d asked you to.

But, no, definitely worth a three.

You send the same post to a friend, and you don’t know what you want to get back but you do know that the offer to hide Tyson’s body feels pretty appropriate. It comes right before a FaceTime call comes through and what little amusement you got out of it disappears and is replaced by a blubbered greeting.

Next thing you know, you’re saying, “I couldn’t even get a five” and getting more upset by the second.

Your friend does their best to calm you down, switching between jokes and sympathy and distractions with lightning-fast speed. Despite all the effort they’re going to, you still see the number 3 in every part of your vision like a neon sign.

“I think a three is more insulting than a one,” you mumble into your chest. “A one is a clear sign that he doesn’t actually want me, a three feels like he’s stringing me along.”

“I don’t think he thought that hard about it,” your friend says.

Your chin drives further into your chest as you lower your head and curl even more into yourself. It doesn’t matter how hard he thought about it. As you think more about it, you realise that you wouldn’t have been happy with a number less than seven but would have accepted that you hadn’t even had a conversation about exclusivity. A five.

After listening to your ramblings, and what you think each number means, your friend tries to be kind as they say, “I think you’re thinking too hard about it.”

It does come off a little patronising and you can’t blame them.

You’re startled by the knock at your front door, and, when you minimise the FaceTime, you realise that you’ve missed a few texts from Tyson telling you he was on his way over—apparently your number-by-number run-through had taken longer than you thought.

It’s with a nervous laugh you say goodbye to your friend, a laugh that you try to supress as you open the door because you’re really not happy with it and you don’t want to risk giving that impression. Tyson doesn’t seem to have that worry, because he’s genuinely happy to see you and doesn’t look like anything has happened at all. He even leans in for a kiss and makes a hurt noise when you turn your head.

“How was training?” you ask coldly, stepping aside to let him in. You don’t really want to but you do want to have some sort of conversation about it.

“It was fine?” he says back, entirely uncertain. He stands awkward in the middle of the room, realising that everything is tense. “Is this about what you sent me?”

“A three, Tyson? A three.”

“What else was I supposed to say?” His nervousness manifests in him swinging his arms by his side and you watch them move so that you have something to focus on that isn’t Tyson’s face. “They were throwing things at me; it was supposed to be funny.”

“Funny,” you say sarcastically. “It makes me feel like I’m nothing but an easy fuck, Tyson.”

Your name falls from his lips, so softly you almost don’t hear it. It’s just loud enough that you finally make eye contact and see that he’s pouting.

“You know it’s not just that.”

“Do I? How could I possibly know it’s anything more?”

He covers the ground between you in only a few steps, raising his hands to your cheeks. His thumb brushes under your eye as he says, firmly, “You know.”

“I never want to be called a three ever again.”

His kiss isn’t unexpected, given that your faces are so close, and you let yourself melt into it.

Earnestly, he says, “Tens for the rest of your life.”

#tyson jost fic #tyson jost imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #homemade fic #fic: wild

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cyberpunkonline · 7 months

Text

The Luminous Lanes of Cyberpunk: How Dystopia Illuminates Human Triumph

In the shadows of towering megacorporations and beneath the neon haze of a perpetual nocturne, the cyberpunk genre has long been synonymous with dystopian futures rife with societal decay, technological overreach, and bleak narratives. However, hidden within these dark alleyways of fiction are slivers of light that reveal not only the resilience of the human spirit but also the potential for positive change. This article ventures into the often-overlooked positive aspects of cyberpunk media, examining how the genre's cautionary tales can inspire a brighter tomorrow.

Unearthing Optimism in a Dystopian Future

At its core, cyberpunk is a reflection of our deepest anxieties about the future—fears of losing our humanity to technology and of being crushed by unfeeling corporate structures. Yet, it's precisely this grim backdrop that magnifies each act of courage and each instance of compassion. In films like "Blade Runner," the quest for identity and autonomy in artificial beings spotlights the innate human desires for life and freedom, while in the game "Deus Ex," the choices presented to players emphasize the importance of individual agency even against overwhelming odds.

Cyberpunk as a Mirror to Society

Cyberpunk often presents exaggerated versions of our world, but these exaggerations are not baseless. The genre acts as a distorted mirror, magnifying real issues like the digital divide, privacy erosion, and corporate overreach. Through this lens, the audience is prompted to confront these problems, encouraging proactive thought about current societal trajectories. Take, for instance, the film "The Matrix," which, despite its simulated reality, urges viewers to question the nature of their own existence and to value the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

Technological Cautionary Tales

Technology, when unchecked, can lead to dehumanization and loss of control, a common motif in cyberpunk narratives. However, these stories also highlight the incredible potential of technology when it's in the right hands. In "Ghost in the Shell," the merging of man and machine raises ethical questions but also portrays technology as a means of transcending physical limitations and enhancing human capabilities.

The Triumph of the Underdog

Cyberpunk is teeming with characters that have nothing left to lose, pushing them to fight against oppressive regimes with cunning and tenacity. These underdogs often rally communities, sparking rebellion and change. In "Cyberpunk 2077," the player-controlled protagonist's journey through the crime-ridden Night City showcases that even in a corrupt world, individuals can make a difference.

Community and Connection

Contrary to its cold, mechanical exterior, cyberpunk is deeply human. The genre's narratives repeatedly show the importance of community and human connection. The makeshift families and alliances formed in the "Shadowrun" universe illustrate that solidarity and shared purpose can shine through the darkest of futures.

Conclusion: The Dawn After Dusk

While cyberpunk may never shed its gritty, somber roots, its stories are suffused with a light that's undeniable to those who look closely enough. By confronting the darkness, cyberpunk doesn't just caution—it empowers, offering visions of resilience, adaptability, and human connection that can guide us through the real challenges of our time. As we navigate our rapidly changing world, the positive lessons embedded in the cyberpunk ethos are beacons that can help steer society toward a more humane and hopeful horizon.

- Rev1

#cyberpunk #transcendence

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rulersreachf4n · 6 months

Text

MASTERPOST: FANFICS

Everyone Wants To Rule The World by Srae13

Mikey-centric post movie angst (20/?)

We’ll Meet Again Soon by chiangyorange

Future!Leo goes back to the past and you know what? With the power of "fuck this, fuck you, I do what I want", his family does so too (21/?)

The Moods Surrounding Blue by Averie_sol

Leo thinks hes some horrible manipulative fuck up in this fan fic of i take some of my personal experiences, wildly let it take a turn, spin it so leo mayhaps has BPD, totally has PTSD, depression anxiety, etcetera etcetera (because theres totally a universe where hes borderline) and let the angst begin because he has seventy thousand different mental issues (27/?)

Three-Sided Coin by Willow Wept

A highly self-indulgent fic where I put Leo, Future!Leo, and TurtleTot!Leo in the same room until they hug (8/?)

In The Bat Of An Eye by criscris

After getting out of the prison dimension Leo notice something really weird is going on with him and his ancestors help him out. Keep in mind that red eared sliders have this thing that they do and they feel the vibrations to know whats going on, Leo has that but times that by ten (10/?)

Dangerously Yours by xquseme

A life-changing event doesn’t have to occur through the endangerment of one’s livelihood, or through placing another’s trust at stake. It could start off with an accidental shoulder brush. Leo was going to strangle that samurai the next time he sees him (5/?)

I May Be Invisible But I Still Look Good by Danny

Leo is cursed by a mystic whatever thingy. But don't worry guys, he's totally got this! Getting back into his body? Easy peasy. (He hopes it will be easy peasy.) (16/17)

StarBlind by WeirdNCrazy

There was a lot of mutagen and other sharp objects being dangerously launched around as Baron Draxum lair got destroyed. What would happen if some of that got into a certain Red Eared Slider eyes? Well it would make for one blind turtle and an interesting shift from canon that what it would be! (35/?)

Deep Purple Thoughts And Realizations by NightFox 5/?

The Neon Void by sugarpastels (17/26)

Unwanted Emotional Feedback by MonkeyMindScream 9/?

Where The Stars Show Us The Inevitable by Surmie 32/?

‘Cause Blue’s Your Favorite Color by CrypticPaw 8/10

In Sickness And In Health by Screwed_up_Screwball 10/?

Slipped Between Broken Fingers by Screwed_up_Screwball 3/4

Unforgotten Beast by bing_bongwater 6/?

Wrapped In Regret by Spooky_Vanilla 8/9

Blood Is Thicker Than Ooze by linkymew 27/?

Please Save Me by Madhero_IsWriting 5/?

For Leo’s Sake by leosmasktails 4/?

As Fate Would Have It by Viveela 8/10

Sons Of Big Mama by GingerNobody 3/?

Spider’s Web With Strings Attached by CurlySwirly 19/?

The Last Grain of Sand In The Hourglass by TjLockticon 15/21

We’ll Meet Again Soon by chiangyorange 21/?

Muted Scales by Krazykoon 3/?

Like father like son by eternalglitch 26/?

Call Me Hear And I Will Appear by rbt_lvr 22/?

The Aftermath by starrcossrose 20/?

When Life Hits You by ThulianSins 5/?

A Thousand Miles Apart by hellofever 14/18

Blood Sacrifice by tei_to_tei 17/?

We Are Infinite by Celestron_oOo 31/?

Don’t Hiss Me Off by LuckydrawR 13/?

Wake Me Up When It’s All Over by thatpanguy 6/?

Fuck It We Barn by butterfilledpockets 13/?

You Are My Comfort by yris_latteyi 22/27

Worlds Apart by ash_kunoichi1925 51/?

His Smile Never Wavered by Br0ken B0nes 11/?

Life Transitions by purplefuzzysocks 31/?

The Glass Pawn by I_Logiphile 8/11

Prolonged Agony by TheArchetypeArchives 31/?

We'll Meet Again Soon by chiangyorange 21/?

In The Bat Of An Eye by criscris (10/?)

Dangerously Yours by xquseme 5/?

The same little faces 8/?

Emphaty Amplified odd man out

B.E.A.S.T

Every Night the Longest Day

Where in the World is Neon Leon?

Tales of the Spirits

In Which Donnie and Leo Make

Themselves Everyone Else's Problem in an

NYC That Isn't Even Their Own

Mystic Hands

Eldest Brother

Mutants Ninja Midlife Crisis

The Jersey Incident

The Call Back Home

Singing An Addolorato

The question is violence and the answer is pizza

We'll Meet Again Soon

Dagger from the Mirror

In Sickness And In Health 10/?

My rival is the waiter

Aftermath ItsJustKade

Trial and error

Cracks in the facade

Trust you enough to fall asleep

Unmaking

My Life Their Story

Little solider boy comes marching home

A New Champion Or His Father's Shadow?

#masterpost #fanfic

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baby-girl-e · 2 years

Text

You’re on your own, kid

Characters - Iceman x Maverick

Summary - Ice grows up in an abusive household, but he’s determined to make something of himself. To survive.

Word Count - 3.7k

Warnings - abusive parents, period typical homophobia, internalized homophobia, vague religious trauma if you squint

A/N - This one was… a lot to say the least. It’s a heavy subject, but it was incredibly therapeutic to write. This is obviously Ice-centric but it has a healthy dose of IceMav because, well where there’s Ice there’s Maverick. Enjoy!

When Tom was a child he was fiercely independent. He had been making his own food by himself since the age of six, doing his own laundry since age eight, and pretty much everything else ever since. He didn’t do it because he wanted to, or because he was just like that, he did it because he had to. He did everything he could by himself to avoid any and all confrontation with his parents.

He was raised to be seen, not heard, and he had the bruises to show for the times when he hadn’t been so successful. The thought of asking either of his parents to do anything for him scared him. He knew that he’d get the emotional lashing from his mother, and then the physical one from his father. “You’re eight by now Thomas. You can do it yourself.” He grew up faster than the other kids, he knew this, but it’s how things were.

There was a moment when he was eleven when he realized why the crushes he had on girls weren’t coming like the ones his friends had, he liked boys. It was devastating. To him, an abused kid who already felt guilty for being born, was plagued by something that had men and women alike killed. Beaten by their loved ones and left for dead. He prayed to a God he knew had long since abandoned him to just take it away. “Just make me normal, please.” He pleaded day in and day out, just begging for a reason for his parents to love him.

It was his way out, maybe if he married a nice girl and got a good job and had sons then maybe his dad would be proud and his mom would love him. Maybe. But he was never so lucky. He soon realized that to pretend to be in love with someone he never could be, would be to accept a fate worse than a beating from his father.

So little Tom learned the art of hiding who he loved early on. He came up with excuses not to date, and fed his friends lies when they asked who he had a crush on. Then there was a day, a moment, when he developed his first crush. Oh, oh. He had never looked at his friend Matty that way before. They were 15 and Matty had just got a new bike. He rode like the wind to meet Tom at the park and he was suddenly overcome by how beautiful Matty looked. Matty was smiling a megawatt smile, dark brown hair falling onto his eyes as he bounded off the bike and towards Tom. He was undoubtedly in love, and it crushed him.

Tom went home that night in tears. He kept a straight face through the dinner that had been rarely already prepared for him. He profusely told his mother how grateful he was and cleaned the entire kitchen afterwards. It gave him a distraction, something to make better, when his own little world was crumbling. One that he had built walls as high as the sun to protect.

He had decided even before the new crush that he would never act on his feelings. At least not until there was tale tell proof that they indeed liked him back. He’s talking blinking neon sign proof. So he carried on pretending, pretending that Matty was his best friend and nothing more. He loved him so much that if this was the only way to have him, he was sure as heck not going to mess it up.

He so desperately wanted to leave that town. More than anything he wanted to get away from his parents. But he found himself imagining settling down in a house with Matty. He’s probably the only one that could make him stay, but that was a pipe dream.

That pipe dream disappeared on a random Saturday night the summer after his freshman year of high school. He was invited to a party at one of Matty’s other friends' houses and to say he was excited was underselling it. He felt like a normal kid, finally. He felt like he fit in and could fit in forever. But as he searched the crowded room for his friend all he heard was his voice. “Yeah, I know he’s weird. The only reason I’m friends with him is because my mom says his dad is mean to him, to me it just sounds like he can’t defend himself.”

Tom's heart cracked. His only safe haven, never cared. He ran home that night, sobbing. He was done. Absolutely done. How was he supposed to go on, knowing the one person he loved and that he thought loved him back… never did. He was so in his head about his emotions that he forgot to put that invisible mask on before he went inside. His childlike instinct took him straight for his mother, hugging her tight and cried. He cried over and over again, knowing what would come after, but god all he wanted was to be loved. To be hugged by someone who loved him.

His mom pulled him away and just stared at him confused, like she didn’t know what to do with a crying child. “Mom! He said he was never my friend. Mom, how could he?!” She just kept staring, dropped her hands and gave him the first piece of advice that could actually help him. “You’re on your own, kid.” Yeah, he figured he always had been.

///

Now, joining the military as a closeted gay man doesn’t sound like a great idea, but it was Tom’s only option. From the moment at the party to his graduation he worked his ass off to get into USNA. His grades were sparkling, he was on the swim and wrestling team, and even kept up a janitorial job at the local elementary school. Tom was busy from sun up to sun down and liked it that way, there was no room to think about who he was and the disappointment he was to his parents.

As he grew into his scrawny body and gained some muscle he started to attract attention from the girls. He obviously wasn’t interested, so he never dated. It wasn’t weird to the outside world because of how busy he was, his coaches even gave him shining recommendation letters because of his focus. He had an acquaintance here and there, but never again did he make a real friend. He just couldn’t trust anyone else.

The day he moved out was probably the best day of his life. He left in the middle of the night, his things already packed, and just walked out without as much as a note. He was sure his parents wouldn’t report him missing, they’d probably just throw a party. He had been saving every penny he earned for three years for this exact moment. He had his acceptance letter to Annapolis in one hand and a plane ticket in the other. He was ready to make a new life, one where he was in charge.

His first couple of weeks in the academy weren’t as bad as people always said. He was used to working from sun up to sun down, getting yelled at by older men, and keeping his things in tip top shape. That was his entire life so far, no big. He made some actual friends this time, nobody knew his back story so there wasn’t anyone to use it against him. The first friend he made was when he was in desperate need for a snack and one Nick Bradshaw was right there, granola bar in hand. He continued to do things like that, and not just for Tom but everyone, and eventually everyone was calling him Mom.

The next friend he made wasn’t until flight school, where he got to stay close to his friend Nick (who by the way kept the Nickname mom, it was just now Mother Goose). His assigned RIO was a man named Ron and he already had his call sign, Slider, but he never explained it. “What about you Tom? Have yours already?” He didn’t, but he wasn’t worried about it. He’d have it in due time.

The next week was when that moment came, turning down a night out in favor of some studying time. “What’s your deal Kazansky? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a bar?” He knew Slider meant well, but he just never could drink more than one glass, not after what his dad did when he was drunk. “None of your business Kerner.” Slider stepped back with his hands up in defense. “Geez man, just a question. No need to go all Iceman on me.” And there it was. He became the Iceman, Ice cold in the sky and on the ground. He was laser focused, loved by CO’s and hated by his fellow aviators. A force to be reckoned with, and graduated at the top of his class.

The first time Tom felt like the universe actually gave him a break was when he was assigned to a squadron with his flight school RIO Slider. The only downside was that he was assigned far away from both Goose and his other friend Cougar, though they had been deployed to the same ship. They promised to stay in touch, and Ice even told Goose good luck with whatever pilot they assigned him too. If only he knew. Ice and Slider became an unstoppable team, climbing to the top of their squadron quickly thanks to Ice’s focus and Slider’s ability to read him like a book.

Of course their ride to the top had to have a few bumps. Turns out his dreams weren’t rare and there were plenty of hopeful aviators looking to make it to the top. Him and Slider had been vying for TOP GUN for as long as they knew what it was, but so had the other Pilot/ RIO team that they were pretty much tied for best within their squadron. Slider and him had been trying so hard, even going so far as sucking up to their CO. “Listen Lieutenant, you’re the best I have. Honestly. I’d be stupid not to send you.” Was he telling him he’s going… or? “I just know that you’ll win, and you’ll get your pick at whatever squadron you have your heart set on.” For the first time in his life, someone needed him. And dammit it felt good. But he needed TOP GUN.

“If I may sir? I’d only get better at TOP GUN. I’d like the opportunity to try and be better.” His CO shook his head and laughed, something unusual for someone of such high rank. “Lieutenant Kazansky, if there’s anyone that could get away with not improving, it’d be you. I’ll send you to TOP GUN, but out there? You’re on your own, kid.” He knew. He always has been.

///

TOP GUN was… eventful to say the least. He was delighted to see his friend Goose again, but he had picked himself up a pilot that aggravated every bone in his body. Here’s this reckless, crazy, infuriating, son of a bitch, and Ice is in love. He’s never been in real love before, he’s not even sure he would know what it’s like. But there was something about Pete that he just couldn’t resist. Ice has been pushing down his feelings for as long as he could remember and god he just wanted to indulge just this once. It was dangerous, he was dangerous, and Ice could be throwing away the entire life he had built from scratch. But oh he wanted him.

Then there was Goose. His dear friend lost his life in a training accident, and it left Maverick scarred. For a brief moment, watching Maverick fall into a flat spin, it felt like his shot at true happiness in life. He had held himself back from love for so many years and there it was, falling towards the ocean. Once Maverick was released from the hospital Tom decided he was going to do it. He was really going to tell Mav how he felt. But when he saw him in that locker room, back turned, he lost his nerve and ended up saying something stupid.

The day came when he won the trophy. This was his greatest achievement in life so far and yet… It felt anti-climactic. He couldn’t see Maverick in the crowd and he just couldn’t shake his disappointment. This wasn’t how he wanted to win, with blood soaked hands and his competition dropping out. Then when he did show up Ice still couldn’t say much, he felt like such a coward. Felt like that scared little kid again, unable to defend himself or say the right thing. Weak.

They were called in to save the USS Layton and that gave Ice the boost he needed. Finally, something to do. Something to distract him from the overwhelming feelings he had for Maverick that threatened to drown him. What he didn’t expect from this mission was for Maverick to not only save him, but for them to gain their first air-to-air kills together. Then wonder of wonders, Maverick got him to buzz the tower with him. Ice, the no mistakes guy, broke a rule and dammit if it didn’t feel so good. As they climbed down from their cockpits he could hear the roar of the crowd beneath them, people grabbing him, congratulating him, but all he could see was Maverick. That beautiful smile that lit up the entire ocean was drawing him in. In that moment, he could’ve asked Ice for anything and he’d have given it to him.

Not one for fancy words, all he could think of to say was, “You!” And he guesses that was enough. Maverick looked at him with a cocksure face and pretty much demanded him to say something else. A dare. “Are still dangerous. But you can be my wingman anytime.” And that impossible, sparkling smile stretched on his face. He had done that, he made him smile. He’d try and get him to do that as much as he possibly could. “Bullshit, you can be mine.” Unable to resist, and if he kept looking at him he’d probably kiss him, he pulled Maverick in for a hug. It was on the bro side of hugs, nothing romantic, but Ice let himself have it. He was touch starved and hadn’t been hugged all that much. He felt like he could die happy.

That was until later that night. He found Maverick in his quarters when he had snuck away from the celebration. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” He wasn’t mad that Pete was here, just confused. Maverick was a party animal for sure. “Why aren’t you?” He was sitting on Ice’s bed, looking like the cat who ate the canary. “I asked you first.” Pete stood up just then, and walked slowly until he was in Tom’s face. “I came here to do this.” And by some miracle, Maverick kissed him. He kissed him. Ice hadn’t kissed anyone before and this was a new experience. He kissed back the best he could and just got lost in it. Warning alarms were ringing in his head, danger, danger, danger, but he didn’t care. For once he told the voices in his head to shut the hell up.

Their relationship spiral led from there, albeit a secret one. Ice told Mav about his childhood and had to physically restrain him from going to beat up his dad. “But Tom! He deserves to be knocked around a little.” He appreciated his boyfriend's antics, he really did, but he knew it wouldn’t help. “I appreciate it baby, believe me. But he’s not worth the trouble. He’d somehow make it about him and you’d get in trouble.” That seemed to be the story of their whole lives, Maverick jumping head in and Ice trying to reel him in.

Years go by and they remain a secret, like they’d planned, but Ice doesn’t really care. He told Slider and that’s all he needed. He didn’t need the entire world involved in his love life. They get older, and Ice continues to climb rank. He hosts party after party, secret boyfriend and open wingman by his side, and doesn’t stop to look back. Their lives together are full of more heartache, stumbles and fights, but in the end they always come back together. Being single to the entire world but his old RIO meant that he was the butt of plenty of jokes, they weren’t funny but at the end of the day they were just that. Jokes. He knew what he had waiting for him at home and he was being paid so… he didn’t care. He was Ice-cold like that.

Within the blink of an eye it was 2011 and he and Pete were still together. Ice had made it to Admiral and was even being looked at to become the next COMPACFLT. On a rainy September morning he and Pete were watching the news when the president he had just had a meeting with days prior, came on to deliver some of the best news he’s ever heard. The long battle was over. He and Pete could get out of hiding. They could live. They started planning a wedding immediately and called everyone they knew. Tom even called up his old friend Matty. He hadn’t spoken to him since high school, but it felt good to have some closure.

“Tom? As in Kazansky?” Hearing his voice sent him back to high school, a dark time, but Pete was standing there next to him holding his hand. He could face this. “Yeah, it’s me. I just wanted to call and see how you were doing. And I have news.” He knew Matty probably couldn’t care less, he didn’t even like Tom when they were supposedly friends. “News?” He meant it plural too. Not only was he getting married next week, he was also becoming the COMPACFLT the week after. The president knew full well Tom was about to marry a man and didn’t care. He knew Tom was the right man for the job. “Well first things first, I’m getting married.” A pause, “and I’m being promoted to Commander of the U.S Pacific Fleet.” There was silence on the other line, and then he finally spoke. “Wow that’s… great Tom. But, we haven’t spoken in years, why now?” He figured that’d come up. “Well the person I’m marrying is a man. And though you didn’t know it, you were the first person I ever loved. You hurt me all those years ago and it hurt deep. But it was the kick I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and make something of myself. I have you to thank for all of this, for me meeting my husband. So, I called to say thank you.” The conversation was limited, Matty was struck speechless, but Tom didn’t care. He got what he needed.

A week later he married the love of his life. He had sent his parents a letter, the first piece of communication since the 80s, just to tell them how he was. Who he was.

Dear Mr and Mrs Kazansky,

This is your son, Thomas. I haven’t spoken to you both since I left my senior year of high school so I wanted to fill you in. I joined the US Navy, and became a fighter pilot. I became one of the best there ever was, and even graduated the top of my Top Gun class of ‘86. While I was there I met the love of my life and we’ve been together ever since. His name is Pete, you’d hate him. I climbed up the ranks all the way to admiral and next week I become the Commander of the U.S Pacific Fleet. I bet you’re surprised that someone like me could achieve all of that, well… I did it myself. I raised myself and got everything I’ve ever wanted, in spite of what you did to me. I want you to know that you failed, you tried to break my spirit and hold me back, even destroy me. But you didn't. You couldn’t. From the bridges I burned with you, I learned lessons too. How to love, in spite of harsh circumstances. How to thrive under the heel of someone’s boot. How to come out on top, even when nobody wants to see you there. I don’t know if you’ll ever get this letter, or if you’re even alive, but I wanted to tell you how I felt. And to thank you for being the lesson I needed to learn, to be the man I was always meant to be.

Love,

Tom

And on the back, in Pete’s handwriting,

Dear Mr Kazansky,

Fuck you.

Love,

Pete Kazansky-Mitchell

The day of Ice’s swearing in was finally there and Pete was the most excited. Claiming that he got to go home with the COMPACFLT every night and he thought that was so hot. Ice stood up there, shaking hands with the President of the United States, and smiled. He looked out to the crowd where his husband, Slider, and the rest of the class of ‘86 sat and couldn’t help but tear up. Pete was crying actively but still clapping with fervor and mouthing ‘I love you.’ He took this moment to soak it all up. He had faced all of his demons and, well look at him now. He had everything he ever wanted, a husband and a job that he adored. He had no reason to be afraid. And he did it all by himself. Well, that and a little help from his husband. But ultimately, when he faced the crowd once more to give a speech, it was his own voice he heard in his head.

You’re on your own, kid. You always have been.

#icemav #Icemav x Taylor Swift #top gun maverick #iceman x maverick #maverick #iceman kazansky #top gun #top gun 1986 #This is a Taylor Swift song #you’re on your own kid #eras #tswizzle

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setaflow · 11 months

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Find the Word/Manuscript Search Tag

Me coming in a month late to the tag game with Starbucks--

So I was tagged twice in the same tag game recently and figured I'd just knock them both out in one fell swoop. I pulled from a few different sources, including WIPs, warm-ups, and fridged work, so there's a little bit more variety considering I haven't published a ton. What I was given was:

@ghostoffuturespast's words: soft, neon, blood, & haze.

@glitchinginthegarden's words: collapse, follow, gentle, & lounge

Tagging @ghostoffuturespast @glitchinginthegarden @fly-amanitaa @callmeguacamole @beammeupbroadway @clusterfxckedbysirens @merge-conflict @ladykatie512 @seraphfighter and anyone else who'd like to give it a shot! Try out retort, sun, length, and knuckle

Soft

Silverhand doesn't respond immediately, but he does straighten up and crushes his cigarette on the end of the table (V doesn't miss the moment of hesitation as his hand hovers right over Rogue's own stub, but she doesn't comment on it). "About time," the attempt at lightheartedness is awfully forced and they both know it. "Felt pretty bad there, thinkin' you were gonna spend the rest of your life—" "Don't, don't," V pleads with a soft shake of her head. "You don't have to do that." "Do what?" "Pretend like you care."

Rain in the Desert, Chapter 5

Neon

The oil fields are unique in one regard. Night City goes out of its way to mask its malice, washing it out in neons or hiding it beneath the high rises. But this place won’t do that to you. It’s haunted, hateful, and brutally, utterly honest about it. These fields offer you a cautionary tale. Stories of what the world could’ve been: what the world has become instead. Harsh, horrible little truths. Because why lie about it? Who’s around to heed it, anyway? Humans don’t want ghost stories anymore. When one crops up, they’re happy to stick it all the way out here, where it’s easy to drown out the things they’re trying to tell you. There’s a reason V only watched those oil wells spit their little flames from so far away. The further you are from a truth, the easier it becomes to spin it into something else.

Fridged lines from Rain in the Desert, Chapter 16

Blood

He goes through the songs he knows like they’re the stages of grief. Denial comes first. Loud and sharp and distracting— whatever drowns out his thoughts the best. Some “Rock You Like a Hurricane”, a little “Thunderstruck”, most of “Strutter”, whatever rifts of “Second Conflict” Johnny remembers from hearing it on the radio. Anger comes like it usually does: aggressively, overpoweringly, unconsciously. Soon, he’s played “War Pigs” in its entirety and slams his way through “The Chain”, “Ramble On”, and “Barracuda” without even thinking about it. Bargaining’s harder to place until Johnny finds himself strumming those cliched breakup songs he used to put on when he felt pissy about an ex-output of his. Those ones that had some bitterness and drive in them, because what was he back then, if not driven and bitter? “Mary-Jane’s Last Dance”, “I Hate Myself For Loving You”, “Cold as Ice”, “You Give Love a Bad Name”. He plays them until the tempo he’s shouldering slows and the chords he’s playing lengthen, and whatever fire Johnny’d been drawing on has smoldered down into nothingness. His hands naturally find “Landslide” first, and before long, he’s gone through slow, depressing tune after slow, depressing tune: “Taxi”, then “Fire and Rain”, then “Vienna”. On and on and on. Acceptance doesn’t come. Johnny waits, plays, waits some more, plays some more, but all he can play are the sad songs, and they pile, and pile. “Desperado”. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”. “Patience”. “Blackbird”. “Southern Cross”. “Dust in the Wind”. How does he know so many sad songs? Why were rockstars always so fucking sad all the time? Play something else! Anything else! He finally forces himself to quit after finishing the slowest, most pathetic version of “Going to California” he’s ever heard. When he’s done, V’s bloodied fingers fall to his lap, and he stares at the shuttered window until it occurs to him that it’s well past midnight.

In Media Res (Here, Besides the Rising Tide) (WIP)

Haze

Suddenly, V finds her body won't quite respond to her urgent thoughts. Staring into the depths of the sea, she feels every last bit of panic, horror, and dread collide in her head at once, leaving her rooted to the spot in a fear-induced haze. She might've damn well stood there like the biggest idiot alive and gave her ghost up to a fucking yacht explosion of all things if Johnny's disembodied voice hadn't yanked her back to reality, "Ground control to Major-fucking-V! You gonna stare into the water all night like you're fuckin' Narcissus, or you wanna get your ass in gear and bail 'fore the Maritime Demolitron blows you to kingdom come!?"

The Last Lost Continent

Collapse

"You're—" an astonished V stops just short of saying 'fucking with me' because she knows he's not, "Alright, what's the catch?" Silverhand removes his aviators and spins them by the temple, "I don't deal in catches, V. I think I've been pretty clear in what I want." Again, fair. "As I said, I like this 'bout as much as I like your driving, but if this is how you want to play it, then whatever." There it is again. That exact same look she saw down in the Afterlife. It's only for another split-second but V'd know it anywhere. The slight crease in his brow, the brief collapse of his furious expression, the faintest prick of some bottled-up emotion leaking through the cracks of this veneer: one he's worn for so long that he's forgotten how to take it off or is too scared to try. Silverhand closes his eyes for a beat longer than normal and just like that, it's gone. In that moment, a combination of optimism and cold-hard reality smacks V upside the head. She's cutting deals with her brain parasite. Because that's what he is. A brain parasite. Either things have gotten very dire very fast, Silverhand's psyche's done irreparable damage to her own sense of judgement— —or maybe he's raised some fair points concerning trust. How it's far easier to focus on saving your own ass when you don't have to worry about someone else stabbing you in it. Almost sounds like something her mother might've said once.

Rain in the Desert, Chapter 6

When we wrote the code, we didn’t make life; we made a mirror and we held it up. Everything that followed was born of the image glimpsed within it. Humans spend their entire lives trying to solve themselves. Code keeps succeeding, then starts looking to solve something else. Of course it does. We made it that way, after all. It was never given the chance to be anything else. What is the Net but an endless reflection of ourselves?

Rain in the Desert, Chapter 18 (WIP)

Gentle

The pair of them share that moment in a way only doomed people truly can— like it's the last gasp of air before a drowning man is sucked beneath pitch-black waters. "Hey kid? "Yeah, rockerboy?" "When this is all over, mind doin' me one thing?" "Hm?" "Get outta this fuckin' city," Johnny murmurs. "Just get on your bike and don't look back." The earnestness of the request hits her first, then the weight of it. All V can give him is a gentle shake of her head, her gaze falling towards the glittering skyline, "You know I can't do that." "Be able to do anythin' you damn well want once we're split. Who's gonna stop ya?" "No one," she admits, "and that's exactly why I can't go."

Rain in the Desert, Chapter 16

Lounge

She tried so goddamn hard to find a reason to pass on Kenner's offer, but everywhere V turned for an excuse, she only found a justification. Could've claimed she didn't like the fixer or just straight-up didn't want to work with someone who'd take a cut of her scratch, but Kenner had gone to her directly and promised her every last enny, no middleman. She couldn't say the job was dangerous, because it was as easy as breaking into an office building and stealing the files after hours. For fuck's sake, the video in question was of Kenner and a client taking turns ripping lines of Glitter off a stripper's bare ass in a 7th Hell VIP lounge— V's seen worse things in the back alley behind her megabuilding and Johnny'd done worse things with twice the posturing, half the money, and a quarter of the shame. There comes a time in every young edgerunner's life where the needs of the wallet outweigh all. And alas, V can preach about her values until she's blue in the face and the room has lost all its occupants, but it won't mean jack-diddly-squat in the end. Twenty thousand eddies is still twenty thousand eddies no matter whose pockets it's coming out of.

Rain in the Desert, Chapter 11

#Personal #Writing #Slowly coming back out of the depths of my brain fog. Very slowly. My grip is shaky lol #In all my CP2077 work I've used the word 'lounge' like...3 times maybe? That one caught me off guard lol #Conversely I've used 'blood' and 'neon' like 200 times-- primarily because I describe Riley's eyes as neon a lot #and also because I love stabbing her

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fearsmagazine · 2 months

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IMMACULATE - Review

DISTRIBUTOR: NEON

SYNOPSIS: Sister Cecilia experienced a life-altering event that led her to seek solace in religion—a near-drowning incident in an icy lake. Time passed, and the closure of her initial parish prompted Father Sal Tedeschi to extend an invitation for her to join a secluded convent nestled within the picturesque Italian countryside. This convent serves as a sanctuary for nuns nearing the end of their lives. However, as Cecilia spent more time in this idyllic setting, certain peculiarities in the convent's lifestyle began to unsettle her. A fellow nun named Gwen is a constant shadow, stalking her every move. To Cecilia's shock, a medical examination revealed the unthinkable—she was pregnant despite being a virgin and having never engaged in any physical relations with a man. The warm welcome she had initially received turned into a chilling nightmare as the horrifying truth emerged: the convent concealed a sinister secret, a place where unspeakable horrors took place.

REVIEW: The talented trio of director Michael Mohan, writer Andrew Lobel, and actress Sydney Sweeney collaborate on a captivating narrative that explores a “what if” scenario where Ira Levin and William Peter Blatty join forces to create a contemporary allegory, set against the backdrop of the Catholic church and helmed by the visionary Dario Argento. This film delves into themes that resonate with the zeitgeist, promising a thought-provoking and immersive cinematic experience.

Andrew Lobel has crafted a remarkable screenplay that initially presents itself as a conventional horror film, providing an entertaining experience on its own. However, upon closer examination and in the context of current events, the narrative transforms into an allegorical tale. A pivotal plot point is that Sister Cecilia is an American nun whose journey holds deeper significance. Considering that nuns adopt the names of saints, the reference to Saint Cecilia, a martyr sentenced to death for refusing to worship Roman gods, becomes intriguing when viewed in light of the film's brutal and horrifying climax. The film explores various themes, including women's rights, In vitro fertilization (IVF), abortion, evangelical beliefs about end times, and the patriarchy.

Cecilia's character arc is masterfully written, portraying her as a resilient fighter and survivor. As her faith is put to the test, she emerges as a force of nature, visually depicted through her own rebirth. The film presents a compelling saga that leaves an enduring impression.

The production design and cinematography in IMMACULATE recreate the visual and atmospheric style of great genre films from the late 60s and early 70s. The film evokes memories of classics like "Rosemary's Baby," "The Omen," "Don't Look Now," and "The Exorcist." The costumes are excellent, the locations are fantastic, and the special effects are just gory enough to create a truly unsettling atmosphere. The editing, framing, and lighting combine to create some genuinely scary moments. While the film's darkness can sometimes be excessive, it effectively builds tension without compromising the atmosphere. Composer Will Bates contributes a brilliant score that perfectly complements the visuals and enhances the viewing experience. There are particularly impressive moments where the orchestrations recall the iconic genre scores composed by Goblin. Bates's score for IMMACULATE will be a standout addition to my collection.

Actress Sydney Sweeney leads a magnificent ensemble cast. She creates this innocent Carrie White character that goes on an intense quest of faith and morality that evolves from victim to victor. In the film's climax, the audience is taken on a journey through a primal, gut-wrenching moment, which is enhanced by the powerful performance of the lead actress. The rest of the cast contributes to the creation of a mysterious and unsettling atmosphere, adding another layer to the sense of dread that permeates the convent. Their performances provide a compelling argument against blind faith and highlight the dire repercussions of one's actions. The performances elevate the material, giving it a greater impact and leaving a lasting impression on the audience.

Seldom does a horror film emerge that boldly challenges conventions and elevates the genre's standards. A distinguished genre film, much like great genre literature, seamlessly blends a captivating narrative with insightful social commentary. IMMACULATE masterfully combines an intricate storyline, artistic and stylized filmmaking, and a talented cast to create an unforgettable cinematic experience. Transcending the boundaries of the horror genre, IMMACULATE establishes itself as a timeless and significant cinematic masterpiece that will leave you questioning the supposed altruistic actions of organized religion and politics.

CAST: Sydney Sweeney, Álvaro Morte, Simona Tabasco, Benedetta Porcaroli, Giorgio Colangeli, Dora Romano, Giulia Heathfield Di Renzi, Giampiero Judica & Betti Pedrazzi. CREW: Director - Michael Mohan; Screenplay - Andrew Lobel; Producers - David Bernad, Sydney Sweeney, Jonathan Davino, Teddy Schwarzman, & Michael Heimler; Cinematographer - Elisha Christian; Score - Will Bates; Editor - Christian Masini; Production Designer - Adam Reamer; Costume Designer - Francesca Maria Brunori; Special Effects Supervisor - Paolo Galiano; Visual Effects Supervisor - Victor Perez. OFFICIAL: neonrated.com FACEBOOK: www.facebook.com/neonrated TWITTER: twitter.com/neonrated TRAILER: https://youtu.be/RLxneCiRInw?si=UMDWy43JYJVghw1g RELEASE DATE: In theaters March 22nd, 2024

**Until we can all head back into the theaters our “COVID Reel Value” will be similar to how you rate a film on digital platforms - 👍 (Like), 👌 (It’s just okay), or 👎 (Dislike)

Reviewed by Joseph B Mauceri

#film review #movie review #immaculate #neon #michael mohan #andrew lobel #sydney sweeney #horror #religious #thriller #joseph b mauceri #joseph mauceri

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