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f1version · 4 months

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NEW YEAR'S DAY ‧͙*̩̩͙❅ LH44

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x girlfriend!Reader ( she/her )

summary: New years is always special when you spend it next to those you love the most. That’s why you spend it with Lewis, and Lewis spends it with you.

warnings/info: fluff, midnight kisses, mentions of alcohol, they get a bit drunk. the extra bit has angst!

word count: 951 + an extra scene of 591 (1.5k)

note: so, the end of 2023. that’s so crazy. i’m so thankful for everything really, there’s a paragraph incoming but, yeah, thank you for reading and following along this year. you made a difference <3

btw i recomend listening to the instrumental of new year’s day by taylor swift !!

snowglobe, a holiday special

One minute before midnight. One minute in which people fall anxious, the sound of heels hitting the floor and whispers reciting resolutions over and over is their favorite tune for one minute. In your minute, you see people gather around the terrace of Lewis’ penthouse, stumbling and laughing, the blinding lights of New York lighting up part of their snow-dusted faces. You knew a couple of faces, some interacting with Lewis and you before your minute hit the half-mark.

When you’re upon seconds, you look up at the waiting sky, stars expecting to be overshadowed by something bigger, louder. You can feel the anticipation in the air, spotlights from Times Square moving faster, the echo of people’s excitement drowning the streets.

Fifteen seconds away and you look at the man holding you close. His eyes dart between your eyes and your lips, a smile that could light up the world—and already does—on his lips. I don’t do New Year’s kisses, you remember him saying last year, back when your memories together consisted of clandestine meetings in hotel rooms and longing stares, too afraid to confess.

Perhaps this year is a completely different story, but the same character has his arms wrapped around you. There are changes, so many you can barely count, you wonder if this one will be one too.

“So,” Lewis says, “what a year.”

You smile, leaving a kiss on his cheek before resting your forehead on his. “You finally got the hint,” you whisper and he laughs, bringing you closer just as the insatiable sounds of anxiety start morphing into something discernible.

Ten. Nine.

He lets out a deep breath, “I know what I said last year. About the kisses.”

Eight, they sing as your heart picks up. Seven, and Lewis laughing nervously.

“And I mean it,” he says, “Meant it.”

Six. Five. Four.

You smile as your side of the world lift their glasses of champagne, recording phones, or just bring their loved ones close. It’s a bubble bath of each life trapped in its own delicate bubble.

Lewis smiles back, breathing heavily, “But I want you to be my first New Year's kiss.”

Three, and you laugh, rolling your eyes. Two, “Then kiss me,”

One, and he closes the distance, the so obnoxious world goes silent, and it’s the best kiss he’s ever received. It’s immersive; Your hands play with his braids and his draw shapes on your hips, his heavy breaths fall over your soft ones, and the taste of two different bottles of champagne tempt to be bitter.

The world around you starts echoing in your head, different colors tinting the perfect kiss. People are patting Lewis’ back as he looks at you, ignoring them for a little longer, only wanting to focus on the girl who enchanted him, the one he could hear talk and talk about for hours on end, the one who changed his mind over love and relationships, the one who held his hand through his darkest times. This was all he needed, all he wanted to focus on. On the girl he loves.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you tease, daydream still in his eyes.

He smiles, “Oh, absolutely not”

Then you’re walking around, hand-in-hand wishing a happy New Year to the known and the unknown. He calls his family and you call yours, spending ten minutes together sweet-talking to a very sleepy Roscoe on Lewis’ screen. It’s absurd how fast minutes pass but how slow time moves. You see the crowd fading away, leaving the dance floor empty enough to drag Lewis’ over, dancing away the hectic city under you. It’s a new year, and you can’t warp your head around your luckiness.

By 5:44, everyone is gone. You and Lewis lay down on the couch after drowning 6 shots of Tequila, a strong scent of alcohol and sweat hanging in the air, with glitter all across the floor. You’re holding hands, eyes fixated on the ceiling, drunk and in love. What a wonderful way to start the year, you think.

Lewis moves next to you, standing up a bit disoriented but with determination on his face. “A’right get up,” he says too enthusiastically for almost 6 am, “we have to pick all of this mess.”

You snort, ”Are you crazy?”

“As ever,” he giggles, “Now, get up!”

This man is incredibly drunk, but so are you, so you stand up, your head spinning around each planet you can barely remember. Lewis puts his hands around your hips, holding you in place, “Lew, I feel like I'm going to fall and die. Oh my god!”

“Not true,” the Brit says, “you promised you’d die with me, and I’m not doing that today.”

You roll your eyes at that, laughing.

Cleaning up—if you can call two drunk idiots laughing like crazy while trying to remove a stain of wine from the ceiling that—isn’t as awful. Spotify’s ‘Top Hits of 2023’ is playing in the background as you pick up the plastic cups on the floor, Lewis searching for dirty bottles around the house to then be wrapped around each other while cleaning them. The glittery floor is a lost cause, both try to recollect as much as you can with the broom but give up knowing you’ll be surrounded by it for the rest of the year.

The house looks clean enough in your exhausted eyes by 8 am. Lewis follows you to the bedroom, briefly showering together before dropping under the cloud-like covers, dark curtains forbidding the early sun from disturbing your shortly-approaching sleep.

You are curled up on Lewis’ chest when you hear him say: “Happy New Year, love.”

“Happy New Year, Lew.”

EXTRA BIT!! ( 591 words )

“You know,” Lewis calls, arms wrapped around your body as you lay on his bare chest, “I’ve been thinking, well, overthinking, and I want to, like, get it out.”

He pauses, his anxiety clear in the way he speeds up the tender touches on your back. You look up at him, making a small motion of encouragement. He smiles.

“Half of the people today were strangers, friends of friends, and it reminded me that, once, you were a friend of friends. I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I don’t want us to be like that ever again,” he says, stumbling on words. “I don’t want to call you a stranger; I’ve done that with enough people I’ve loved—not in the way I love you, but loved nonetheless. I’m just so sorry I was so late to this,” he whispers, and you want to interrupt, reminding him that you also played into it, but he talks first: “I know you were also scared to tell me; you don’t have to say it, but you just didn’t deserve all that waiting.”

You search for his hand, needing to hold it. He understands and wraps one of his around yours, taking a deep breath. He says your name before continuing. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, ever. I was scared because of those stupid things I used to tell myself, and you know the rumors around my last relationship. I was terrified of doing the same thing—being too greedy and distancing myself when things got bad—but I didn’t want to lose you. I do not want to lose you.” Lewis says, and you squish his hand three times, reassuring. You feel another breath being taken. “And I know we are okay; we are so wonderful, sweetheart. You’ve taught me so much, but I can’t stop thinking about the what-ifs. What if we have some inconceivable fight? What if the distance during next season messes with us? What if I screw up and you don’t want to see me ever again?”

“I really don’t want to lose you. I love you too much,” he concludes.

You feel tears crowding your eyes, wondering when did he started thinking about all of this. You sit up, looking down at his beautiful face in the faint darkness. His eyes are so full of emotion, so caring and afraid. You cup his face in your hands, leaning down to peck his lips.

“I love you too, so incredibly much. Thank you for opening up,” you said, knowing it was hard for him to talk about these topics. “But, Lew, trust me when I tell you that, as long as both of us are willing to fight for it, we won’t go back to being strangers. When these types of thoughts are overwhelming you again, talk to me, let me know, and we will discuss them together." He has tears in his eyes, and you are sure yours are already streaming down. “Don’t try to read the last page; whatever is written there can change, and if it doesn’t, who cares? Maybe we are set up to die together, just like I promised you, yeah? I’ll hold your hand through it.”

He brings you down to his arms, giving you the warmest hug in the freezing winter. He cries, and you do too, talking here and there, leaving kisses everywhere, drowning in each other's touches. Lewis believes this is the best start to a year he’s ever had.

taglist — @smartstupyd @ziarah @nouvellevqgue @iloveyou3000morgan @carsgovroomm @goldenalbon @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @panicsinvirgo . . . add yourself here

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tragedy-of-commons · 15 days

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composition

aventurine x gn!reader | wc: ~1k

He needs to go before he decides that he needs to stay.

tags/warnings: cute domesticity, but since it's aven it has to be a little angsty, skin drawing/inking, mentioned topaz

notes: standalone but i'm thinking of expanding on this universe in the future :3c sdfsdfsdf not happy with how it turned out but fuck it

The ballpoint tip of your pen glides over his hand, leaving another trail of red in its wake.

Aventurine watches with rapt attention. The intricate patterns of swirling ink that you insist on marking him with definitely make it harder to color-match an outfit - but he indulges the habit anyway. Perhaps it’s the artificially sweet aroma that’s typical of such cheap writing utensils; he’s now accustomed to the smell of chemically-grown raspberries while you use him as your canvas.

It’s tolerable, seeing you poke out your tongue in concentration while doodling with no rhyme or reason. Some strokes are thick and jagged, wrapping around the myriad of thinner ones to create a picture he can’t discern.

(However, when you usually finish, you beam in satisfaction. He doesn’t peg you as the abstract type, but he wonders what you see that he can’t.)

His phone vibrates twice in his free hand. The new messages that grace the screen are of no surprise:

Topaz The booking’s confirmed. I handled it and was able to score us better rooms ✨

Topaz Cruor V is too cold to skimp out on the suites with thermal heaters. Now if you could just be on time for once, that’d make my job a LOT easier.

You hum, sage. “Time to go?”

Aventurine makes a show of examining your handiwork after you pull away from him. “Unfortunately, the IPC’s gains take precedence. Although, I could argue that dedicating my time to the arts is much more valuable in the long run.”

“Hah,” you snap the cap back onto the pen. “If you argue much longer, you could make somebody mad. Don’t let my silly doodles keep you, okay?”

There’s a sad smile on your face, and though it doesn’t deter him from leaving right now, he knows that he’ll count each star separating you from him while he sleeps alone on business. He’ll do so with his gloves off, fingers tracing over the faded curves and dips of red - theorizing how many rainstorms it would take to wash you from his person completely.

He finds himself hoping that he’ll never reach a consensus. Aventurine really hasn’t gotten any better at fooling the wide-eyed child clawing at his insides.

“Yes. That Topaz is probably wishing unspeakable curses upon me right about now,” he lilts, the beginning of the end on the horizon. “See me off?”

“Don’t make it sound so grim,” you complain, “I’m just gonna miss you. You’ll be back on the 24th, right?”

You say it so casually. If he had any less restraint (or any more courage), he would let out a breathy laugh and then chase it with a kiss to your lips. In the past, honey-trapping had come natural to him when he was on assignment; wrapping an arm around the ambassador of an indebted planet, using the bells and whistles of his disposition to make friends with the right people.

You’re not any of that. You’re not any of that, and he knows. It would be pathetic if you knew how much sway you hold over him - how much sway that this pantomime of a relationship holds over him.

Though the scales are forever tipped in his favor, Aventurine finds that it’s woefully unfair. You appear as nonplussed as him; wordlessly letting him into your home at any hour, always cooking for two, and always decorating his skin with that accursed red pen.

If that makes you cruel, he cannot begin to imagine what it makes him.

“Keen memory,” he brings himself to stand, “Wonder what changed.”

“My memory is fine, thank you very much.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

You flip him off. “Forgetting a few deadlines isn’t substantial evidence!”

Aventurine chuckles, ambling over to the table by the door. On it rests his gloves, which he pulls over his hands. If the ink stains the fabric inside, no one will be able to tell. “Then I’ll make sure to amass a comprehensive portfolio of ‘evidence’ while I’m gone.”

He’s already dressed and presentable for this assignment. In truth, he could have spared Topaz the headache of his tardiness, but what’s the job of Director without a little challenge? He’s sure it will count towards her experience and character, and you get to scribble on him without the constraint of time.

You pad over, embracing him tentatively. Aventurine dithers between pulling you closer and pushing you away, before he settles on doing nothing. His heart isn’t racing, but it feels too small and too big and too full of you.

“That better be a promise,” you murmur.

(He smells raspberries. He can’t decide if it’s therapeutic or noxious.)

If he were a more selfless person, maybe he’d tell you that promises never go over well for him - that you shouldn’t bother with any of this. After all, ruling a gambler’s heart only serves to turn you into a bargaining chip.

But Aventurine basks in your warmth anyway, letting his shoulders droop. “If you’re so hung up about it, then why not?”

His phone buzzes somewhere again, and he’s cold as you pull away. “Perfect. Good luck on your.. uh, thing! Tell Numby I said hi.”

“What is it with you and that animal?” he heaves a martyred (fond) sigh.

You huff. “Warp trotters are cool, Aven!”

“Not when they mercilessly chew up your clothes.”

Your demands for more information fall on deaf ears, because it really has become time to go. Interastral travel is bothersome, but not so much anymore - meaning that if he’s not at least an hour early, he’s inconceivably behind schedule. His own reasoning tastes acrid.

That note of something has been with Aventurine ever since he woke by your side, searching your sleeping expression aimlessly. He’d chased the feeling with coffee in one of your stupid mugs, a conversation about your too-bright dreams, and letting you scrawl all over him when he desperately needs to go.

He’s ferried past the door, another farewell echoing behind him before he starts walking. The idle images that plague his mind are of stained gloves, the interior of your bedroom, and the calendar in your kitchen with the date of his return circled in red.

You wave to him from the window as he turns the corner.

He wagers he'll be back on the 24th.

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @aphrodict, @nomazee

#—stellaronhvnters.#aventurine x reader #hsr x reader #hsr aventurine x reader #aventurine angst #aventurine fluff #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine hsr x reader #honkai star rail #star rail x reader #✧ my works

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sunshine-and-moonshine · 26 days

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Soulmate Aus

Requested: No

Warnings: Discrimination based on tattoos and brief description of kidnapping

Ghost - His scars as tattoos

Twisted and burned flesh blooming into roses along your chest, deep cuts and gaping holes turned into pitch black stars that shone on your skin, drawing all sorts of attention that you hated to have on you. The whispers that follow after in your shadow leave you nauseous and uneasy. Marks, given to you by your soulmate. Barbed wire in a slash across your throat, stitch like markings on either side of your mouth like a permanent smile, thorny vines and skulls and knives littered throughout your body. That wasn’t even speaking to what might be on your back, too afraid to ask anyone or try and even maneuver to see it in a mirror.

Making friends was hard, making money even harder. They said you scared people, that you looked unprofessional. But you managed, you got by. Found work in the back of a butcher shop, so far removed from the customer service section that no one would ever even catch a glimpse of you. Straight to work then straight home, maybe a chat or two with one of your gruffer co-workers, those just as covered in tattoos as you were. Those who got it, who understood you in a way no one else seemed to.

It was in one of those conversations that you got invited out for drinks, something you regretted accepting as soon as the words had left your mouth. But it was too late, your friends already abuzz with excitement at you joining them. Assuring your that this joint was filled with people like yourself.

And they didn’t lie. Every glance you took of the place revealed someone who appeared to be in a similar state to yourself. A man with a black dagger going over his eye, little blood droplets making a trail like tears down to his chin. A woman with snakes peaking all around her hairline, their tails curving along her jaw and intertwining on her chin and down her neck. Most you couldn’t make out except for giant globs of black ink painting their face. It was reassuring, putting you at real ease for the first time in a long time. Relaxed enough to have a drink, then another, then another, laughing along with some corny joke the bartender was telling when a big man sat beside you, some surgical mask over the lower half of his face, the hood of his jacket over the upper half. But it revealed just enough for you to make eye contact with him when he glanced your way, feeling the world shift beneath you and crumble away.

Soap - Colorblind until you touch your soulmate

Shades of grey. White and black, sometimes you think you might be seeing colors, something just a hint different then the usual monochrome of your existence but you turn your head….and it’s nothing, just more of the same. It was fine when you were younger, when everyone your age saw things the same way. When you were, in this sense, just like everyone else. But things changed, you got older. Your classmates changed, met their people. People who became friends, family, lovers. Their closest confidants. Their soulmates.

And you were left behind, drifting further and further from the people who you, at one point, might have called your friends. Unable to escape their giggles and whispers of seeing color, the wonder in their voice when they described how vibrant everything seemed, that shift in their eyes. And then afterwards, getting to know the person that held that other half of their soul, it was almost as emotional for them all. But you, you were left without that.

For a time you could convince yourself that it could still happen, that you could find that person, that you would be able to see what your peers did. Eventually.

But time moved, it changed, and your vision stayed the same. Unable to witness the beautiful colors of the flowers that line your driveway, the shimmering scales of fish in the pet shop, the color of a soulmate’s eyes.

You gave up after a few years after secondary school. Defeated and broken down, chipped away at by your school mate’s whispers about how you still hadn’t met your soulmate, the only one in your grade that hadn’t. You convinced yourself that you didn’t have a soulmate. That you were just one soul, not intertwined with anyone.

Or maybe they were dead.

That was the thought that haunted you, no matter how much you tried to tell yourself that it was just you. That you were different. Or that maybe you just hadn’t met them yet. It would keep you up at night, nightmares of a faceless person reaching out to you, only to fall short, darkness swallowing them whole, drifting farther and farther away no matter how much you ran after it. Always just out of reach.

It was one of those nights when you decided to take a walk, shaking hands shoved into your coat pockets and neck slick with sweat, just wandering aimlessly when you bumped shoulders with some guy you hadn’t even seen til last second.

“Ey, watch where you’re-” He started, only to stop, anger leaking into worry. “Oi, you okay?”

“Piss off-” You snapped in return, whipping around to face the man, only to freeze, eyes locked onto his, both of your pupils’ widening, visions shifting. “What….what fucking color is that?” You whisper when the grey of his irises shifted to something vibrant, bordering on overwhelming.

“Been told that they’re something called blue.” He breathed.

Gaz - His name on your wrist

Gaz.

The name written on your wrist, messy chicken scratch that resembled scribbles more than actual writing. It was confused for dozens upon dozens of other names growing up, but this one. Gaz. It resounded in your skull in a way none of the other nicer or more normal sounding ones did. It rolled off your tongue, appeared in your dreams, a whisper in your ear that just wouldn’t fade away.

Gaz.

For someone with such an unusual name, he was certainly hard to find. Everywhere you went, everywhere your friends and family went, they asked if they ever heard of anybody named Gaz, only to come up with zilch. Nada. Nothing. A needle in a haystack but it seemed the needle grew legs and ran away, or maybe even just got dropped into a wormhole somewhere. It was an unhealthy and depressing thought but it was what came to mind when you became overwhelmed with it, consumed by thoughts of an elusive soulmate that you might not be finding just because you keep getting stuck on what you think his name is instead of any of the other possibilities that it could be. It was days like this that you wanted to find your soulmate just to strangle them for their shitty handwriting that would brand you for your entire life. Written on your flesh in a deep black.

Gaz.

It was during one of these times where one of your friends asked to set you up on a blind date. A cousin of theirs, good looking they’d said. Sweet guy in the military, on break for now. If nothing else, he’d make for a good shag to take your mind off of the whole soulmate ideal. It was with great reluctance that you accepted, dressed in a semi formal/semi casual outfit for a date at a place that was a few steps above a Maccy’s but nothing michelin star worthy. Not too formal, not too casual.

And the guy was nice, introducing himself as Kyle. Shook your hand and pulled out your chair for you, letting you set the pace for the date. Made you laugh, his eyes sparkling at every chuckle you couldn’t contain. He seemed too good to be true, and you agreed to a second date despite the name inked onto your wrist.

A second date led to a third led to movie nights led to slow kisses under the sheets led to moving in together led to meeting his friends, his brothers in arms. Where, for the first time, you heard them shout his callsign.

Gaz.

Hearing it from someone else was sweeter than any of the times you’d whisper it to yourself at night.

Alejandro - The first words he says to you written on your wrist

“Now what’s a beautiful thing like you doing here all alone?”

Possibly the blandest soulmate question anyone could ever have written on their arm, looping cursive that was on the edge of appearing just a little hard to leave. The question itself may be awfully common but the handwriting was not. It was something you liked about your soulmate, tracing the letter with your thumb over and over and over until you were sure you could perfectly write out every elegant letter with your eyes closed.

It was what you were doing now, scared and curled up into a ball after being kidnapped by some drug lord or other. No matter how much you tried to plead that they had the wrong person, that you didn’t even know who they were, it didn’t matter. They snatched you up all the same, tossing you in this grimy cell and leaving you on your lonesome. You were scared, terrified. You wondered if you’d die before you even had the chance to meet your soulmate, all because they nabbed the wrong person.

It felt like weeks, but surely must have only been days, before you saw another person again, hazy, on the brink of a sleep you weren’t sure you were going to wake up from. Your eyes were heavy, so much so that they almost didn’t have the power to open again when the door slammed open, the rushing of feet following, the whoosh of fabric as someone knelt beside you and pressed their fingers to your throat, checking for your pulse.

“Now what’s a beautiful thing like you doing here all alone?” A voice whispered, an arm curving under your knees and another cradling the back of your head, a warm body pressing against you, offering you the first real source of comfort you’d had since you were taken.

“I think I’m dying of thirst.” You mumble, voice a shaky slur. So out of it that you didn’t feel the man pause for a moment before gripping you tighter.

“Probably, Amor.” He says, voice more strained now. There were more sounds now, more stomping and heavy doors slamming. It was hurting your head. “But we’ll fix you right up. Get something for you to drink.” He says, his voice fading for a moment before he said “I’m Alejandro, by the way.”

You weren’t sure the babble that left your mouth before you passed out was any sort of comprehendable to him.

#cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #Alejandro Vargas #alejandro vargas x reader

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goldenseresinretriever · 5 months

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You Catch More Bees With Honey: Chapter 3

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw, blindsided by a team he trusted like family has been traded to the San Diego Dogfighters. Across the country from the place he calls home, Bradley feels lost and betrayed. Not to mention the familiar faces and ghosts from his past that he now has to face every day at work. Bradley’s caught between wanting to show his former team the mistake they made in double-crossing him and wondering if it’s time to hang up his skates after one final season. You’re living your dream as the PR representative for the Dogfighters. When Coach Maverick made a bid to bring his godson to the team, you hadn’t batted an eye. Bradley was a good teammate, and a good player. Unfortunately, the Bradley that shows up in San Diego is nothing like your research suggested. He’s moody, irritable, aggressive, and angry, throwing a wrench in all your careful planning. What’s caused such a drastic change in him? And can you figure out how to help him before he makes a mistake you can’t fix?

Chapter CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, dead parents, mentions of major character death, physical violence, blood probably, angst, age gap (28 and 38), enemies to lovers, suggestive language, hockey inaccuracies etc. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: This one’s a heavy one, y’all 😶

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

Bradley Bradshaw’s going to pay for this. You glare at your reflection in the mirror, tentatively poking at the discolored and swollen skin on your jaw where Bradley’s fist connected last night. You wince slightly at the pain. You’ll probably have Bugs look at it once you get to work. You glance down at the tube of concealer in your hand, torn between covering up the mark for the sake of your dignity and leaving it exposed to send a message to Bradley. You err on the side of leaving it be as you get ready for your day. You can’t help but wonder if the lavender suit you’re wearing today mixes well with the color on your jaw.

By the time you make it to work, your injury is far from your mind, that is until you pass through the training room on your way to the office and Mickey stops you instantly, his usually carefree smile falling away into barely-concealed fury. “Zam, what happened to your face?” He reaches a gentle hand to skim the bruised skin and you wince slightly at the pain that radiates from the contact. “It wasn’t that guy was it?” The guy in question is a stranger on a dating app that Mickey insisted you give a shot to in an effort to diversify your life beyond work. You shake your head.

“No no, that’s later this week.” He nods, his concern not fading as he scrutinizes your jaw and you’re touched by the fierce protectiveness from your best friend. You wouldn’t expect any less.

“Zam, what the fuck?” Jake comes over now, taking your face gently in his hands and inspecting the bruise. “Who did this to you?”

You hesitate, not wanting to cause a scene. You hadn’t meant to cause a scene like this, not considering how it would look to everyone else not involved. You consider lying but as you look into Jake’s green eyes, you see them dancing with concern and fury, the sheer protectiveness in them, directed at you of all people and it makes your heart squeeze. A few months ago Jake was reserved, hiding in a shell of himself until Bugs pulled him out of it and you’ve watched him grow back into his normal self, full of love and protectiveness that extends to everyone around him, you included.

He and Mickey are still waiting for your answer so you draw your eyes away from Jake’s, avoiding either of their gazes as you murmur, “Bradley…” and you feel Jake’s fingers tighten involuntarily on your cheeks. When you gaze back at him, there’s fury in his eyes.

“Bradley did this?” His voice is ice cold and you suppress a shudder as your eyes flick to Mickey’s matching expression.

“Bradley did what? Fuck, Zam, what happened to you?” Javy joins the three of you and you watch his eyes widen in surprise when he sees the bruise on your jaw. You jerk your chin from Jake’s grasp, suddenly self-conscious about the amount of attention you’re drawing.

“It’s not what you think!” You blurt. “He wasn’t aiming at me, I just stepped in front of him on instinct and I didn’t really think it through and yeah, I got hit.”

“When did this even happen?” Mickey asks brows tight in confusion.

“Last night, Cyclone asked me to pick him up from a bar after the paparazzi found him. He was drunk off his ass and fighting with these three other guys.”

“You should have called one of us to go with you,” Jake says firmly, crossing his arms across his chest in full captain mode. You roll your eyes giving him a tired shrug.

“I didn’t want to bother you. Plus this is my job, remember?”

“The press stuff, yes, but I thought we established that the babysitting was mine.” You return his worried smile with a tired one of your own, nodding in acquiescence.

“I’m gonna have Bugs look at it but I’m sure it’s fine.” Jake nods, satisfied to leave you in her care. You excuse yourself from the boys and head to Bugs’s office to get checked out.

~~~~~

Bugs gives you the all-clear and confirms that it’s just a nasty bruise and nothing to worry about so you go about your regular work for about an hour or two until the door to your office bursts open, hitting the walls and rattling your shelves of tchotchkes. You look up from your work to see Bradley Bradshaw in your doorway, seething. You don’t get paid enough for this.

“You just left my Bronco in that parking lot?! It got fucking towed!” He snaps, stamping across the room to leer over where you’re sitting. You scowl up at him.

“Boo fucking hoo, Bradshaw. If you’re going to go out and get plastered, maybe you shouldn’t drive or at least arrange someone to drive you home.” Normally you’d be poised, and calm, and you definitely wouldn’t be swearing but Bradley sends every bit of your self-control out the nearest window. “Instead I have to come and drag your sorry ass home.”

“No one asked you to do that!”

“They did, actually. Cyclone texted me because you were causing a scene! TMZ published an article, Bradshaw! TM-FUCKING-Z!”

“That’s not my problem.” He scoffs, his face still red as he growls at you.

“Well, your beloved Bronco getting towed isn’t mine.” You growl back, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “And by the way, if you want to avoid the press, maybe get a less conspicuous ride.” His eyes flash and his open palms meet the surface of your desk in a noise so loud and startling that you flinch back, instinctively, fear running through you before you see the flicker in Bradley’s eyes cutting through the blind rage and he removes his hands instantly, backing up a couple of steps. His shoulders are still rising and falling in anger but he’s forcibly reeling himself in.

Then you watch the confusion spread across his face as he actually takes a good look at you and you feel the urge to squirm under the intensity of his whisky gaze. His brow furrows as he asks, voice softer. “What happened to your face?” You blink up at him, dumbstruck.

“So you don’t remember hitting it?” You ask, the venom in your voice falling short of what you’d intended at the confused concern in his eyes.

“I hit you?!” His voice is full of shock and something else, maybe a hint of regret.

“Well more accurately you were trying to hit another guy and I got in the way because we don’t really need to add battery to the laundry list of problems you’ve been causing.”

“Fuck.” He rasps and you shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as you’re feeling all kinds of confused by this new Bradley that you’ve never seen. “I’m sorry.”

Now you really have seen it all. Bradley Bradshaw just apologized to you.

“It’s fine, it’s not exactly your fault. I wasn’t thinking.” You’re actively uncomfortable now, scrambling for your mask or your anger, anything to cover up this vulnerable feeling, the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re a wounded animal, a wrong he’s trying to right, like you’re human. You hate it. “Maybe we stop with the bar fights, whaddya say, big guy?” You hate how awkward you sound but you don’t have time to dwell on it as the storm clouds roll back through Bradley’s eyes.

“I told you to stay out of it, Honey.” His voice is hard, the Bradley you’ve just seen disappearing so quickly that you’re not even sure it was there in the first place.

“I told you, no can do, Bradshaw. You keep this up and it’s going to get ugly.”

He tilts his head slightly at the bite in your tone before he smirks. “I think it already has, Honey.” You watch his eyes flick down to your jaw and you clench it, ignoring the pain that flares through the taut skin. The twinkle in his eyes is new and it makes anger lick at your stomach. Before, he was just lashing out taking his anger on you because you were conveniently there, caught in the crossfire, but this? This is casually cruel and aimed right for the kill and you have a zero-tolerance policy for that.

“If you want to quit, Bradshaw then just fucking quit.” Your voice is ice cold as you glare daggers back into rolling brown seas that warn “there be dragons.” If he wants to be cruel, you’re more than capable of meeting him halfway. “There’s a thousand other players waiting for someone to give them their shot if you’re so intent on wasting yours.”

He leans in then, his voice low and rumbling, calm and collected despite the flush of his cheeks. The wildness in his eyes tames for a second, the eye of the storm, as he delivers the kill shot. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” When he says your name you feel a chill run down your spine. It’s been years since someone other than your father called you by it. Ever since you joined the world of hockey, it’s always been Zamboni or Zam, even amongst your colleagues and professional relations. That’s how everyone knows you. “Quitting? Wasting your shot? You’re speaking from experience, right?” Each question punches the air from your lungs as you cower against the back of your chair, nowhere to run as Bradley pries you open like he’s manually pulling the nails out of the coffin in your mind, one by one. “Nothing to say, Honey? That’s what I thought.” He leans back and goes to leave, only pausing in the doorway to look back at where you’re frozen. “Like I said, stay out of it if you know what’s good for you, Honey.”

When the door closes behind him, you try your best to take a shaking breath but it’s like he’s pinned the air in your lungs and it can’t move. Your fingers scramble for your phone, shaking so hard that you can barely unlock the screen and click the contact you need most as your body shuts down. The panic attack pulls you fully into its grasp as you listen to the sound of the line ringing, praying that he picks up. When you finally hear the voice it’s like a light at the end of the tunnel that you’ve lost yourself in. You can’t form the words, but you know he’ll know. He’ll come. He knows what you need.

~~~~~

You weren’t always Zamboni. In the grand scheme of things, you’ve spent more of your life not being her. However, you’ve locked as much of that time as you could up in a dark corner of your mind. It had been eight years since you’d become Zamboni not necessarily to escape that part of yourself but rather as a direct effect of the alienation that had come with losing that part of yourself. Only one person other than your father truly knew what had happened that turned your world upside down and sent you running from your past. Mickey Garcia had saved you, giving you something to live for that ended up creating the person that you are now.

Hockey was something that you and your mother whispered about in the middle of the night while she told you fantastic stories about her youth at the height of her career. She’d been an Olympic figure skater. She had medals and trophies filling glass cases in your home to prove it but above all the fortune and glory, she loved the sport. She loved being on the ice and had passed down that love to you. You remember her bringing you with her to the local rinks, and watching her move with such grace and poise while you teetered around at the edge of the rink, still finding your footing at such a young age.

You’d grown up, though, and you were every bit your mother’s daughter from the way you looked to the way you skated. When you were on the ice there was nothing you couldn’t do, no move you couldn’t master, just a matter of how many hours you spent on it. Your mother’s Olympic fame opened doors to rinks much later than they should have been, and even when those closed for the night, you’d spend even more hours on the frozen lake behind your house, perfecting every turn and jump.

By the time you were off to college at the University of Wisconsin, you were pretty much a shoo-in for the Olympics. The only reason you hadn’t already competed in one yet was that your mother was indignant that you fully enjoyed your life as a child before being thrust into the international spotlight. It didn’t stop you from topping various other competitions, however, and when you went to college on a figure skating scholarship, you were chomping at the bit to kickstart your Olympic career, however, the next Olympics wouldn’t be for another two years.

You spent every spare moment at the university’s rink, staying late after official practices. The biggest source of your irritation was the University of Wisconsin’s ice hockey team. They shared the rink with the figure skaters and conveniently seemed to have practice whenever you wanted to use the ice. You had complained loudly to your mom over the phone when she gave you a suggestion that would change your life for the better. Even if they weren’t figure skaters, you could learn a thing or two from watching the hockey players move on the ice, so that’s what you did. If they had practice when you wanted to use the ice, you’d plant yourself in the stands and watch them skate. As soon as the ice was cleaned after practice you’d lace up your skates and start applying what you’d observed and you had to hand it to your mom, you were learning new things by watching them. That’s how you met Mickey Garcia. Well, not exactly. One night you were stuck on a particular turn and had been practicing it for so long that you’d lost track of time, the lack of windows in the rink creating a liminal space. The main lights had since been turned on with only the rink lights remaining. You were so focused on what you were doing that it didn’t occur to you to worry about getting locked into the rink that is until your work was interrupted.

“Hey, are you supposed to be in here?” The voice broke through your concentration and you turned to see a familiar face looking back at you from the edge of the rink. You recognized the guy as one of the hockey players even though he was just wearing a hoodie and sweats.

“Are you?” You shot back, placing your hands on your hips.

“No, that’s the point.” He said with a rueful grin and a shrug. “I left a binder in the locker room on accident so I got the captain’s keys to let me in. How were you planning to get out?”

“The doors aren’t locked.”

“They are at 1 am.” When you gaped at him as you realized the time he laughed. “Listen, I need to study but I don’t really care where so I can do it here until you’re ready to leave and then I can lock up behind us.” And that’s how you met Mickey Garcia.

You started going to his games and he started coming to your competitions. Some nights he’d give you pointers about your skating and some nights you’d do your best to tend the goal or scrimmage with him if he needed the extra practice. Slowly you became a regular amongst his teammates as well, as Mickey invited you to watch practices up class and even skate with them during warmups. He had you point out certain techniques they could apply to their movement.

Two years flew by and suddenly Olympic qualifiers were almost upon you. You were busier than ever and you spent night after night late at the rink to practice your routine with Mickey to keep you company. Even you knew it was only a matter of showing up on the day for you to qualify, it didn’t keep you from spending every waking moment skating.

By that logic, it wasn’t a surprise that you were skating when you got the call. It was Thanksgiving break. You’d turned down your parents’ incessant invitations to come home for the break, afraid to surrender any time you could spend practicing. You don’t remember much about the day looking back but you don’t want to. You only remember answering the call, expecting to hear your father asking you to reconsider coming home once again. Instead, you only heard his sobs. Your mother had an unexpected heart attack. She died instantly. There was nothing they could do to save her. And you could have been there. You should have been there. You couldn’t remember the last thing she had said to you. You’d talked to her just last night and yet you couldn’t remember.

It wasn’t that you blamed yourself per se, but after that day you could never bring yourself to step on the ice. The Olympic qualifiers came and went as you were frozen in that moment when you’d gotten the phone call. It hadn’t been easy to thaw and return to your life, and in many ways you never truly did, but Mickey had held your hand every step of the way as he brought you to his practices, his games, and slowly you’d come back. You took a leave of absence from school for a semester as you decided what to do next as your skates hung in the back of your closet for good. Figure skating had been your whole life so finding something new seemed daunting and boundless.

~~~~~

You’re shaking and curled in your chair, teetering close to falling to the floor but too frozen to right yourself when Mickey finds you. His arms go around you instantly, grounding you with his touch as you try your best to grasp onto the beat of his heart. He’s saying words into your ear, doing his best to break you out of this state but you don’t hear them. All you can hear is your father’s screams from that day eight years ago. They bounce around your head and get louder and louder until you realize that they aren’t. That’s the sound of you screaming. Your wordless pain has found a voice and it’s heartbreaking as you fall apart in Mickey’s arms. Absently you hear the sound of footsteps drawn by the sound of your screams. Your voice breaks from strain. You’re all screamed out and your breath still feels trapped in your lungs as you heave against Mickey and his words are slowly audible. You hear the gentle reassurances and feel his hands stroking your hair and back, the repetitive motion soothing your shakes until you’re simply still, lying in his arms.

“What was she screaming about?” You hear Bradley’s voice and feel Mickey’s body stiffen against yours protectively.

“What the fuck did you say to her?” His voice is pure fury, leaving him in a growl you’ve never heard from him. You’ve seen a lot of Mickey Garcia’s various sides, but you’ve never seen him really, truly angry until now.

“Me? Nothing.”

“You fucking liar, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY TO HER?!” Mickey’s shouting and you shudder at the vitriol in his voice as he screams at Bradley. You barely register more footsteps approaching over the commotion.

“She accused me of giving up and I told her she’d know a lot about that given that she just up and quit skating-” Then Mickey’s moving and you think you call out after him as he grabs Bradley by the collar and slams him into the wall. It only really works because the taller man is so startled by Mickey’s sudden attack.

“She didn’t up and quit skating!” Mickey growls into Bradley’s face as you watch his fist swing, connecting with Bradley’s nose, hard as he shouts. “HER MOM DIED, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” You could hear a pin drop or maybe that’s just the sound of Bradley’s blood hitting the tile floor as it drips from his nose until Jake’s pulling Mickey off of Bradley, his face a mask of quiet fury. Javy’s behind him, his eyes on where you’re still curled up in your chair, your cheeks soaked with tears. They’re not the ones you’re watching though. Your eyes are locked onto Bradley’s whisky ones. There’s something unreadable in them but amidst all that you see as much as you feel the regret. Regret and something else. It almost feels like he’s reaching for you with his eyes. You don’t get a chance to read him, however as Dare’s voice, full of fury cuts through the room.

“Bradshaw, go home, you’re done for the day.” Her jaw is set and her eyes are flashing with something unreadable as she jerks her chin to indicate that he should leave now. He nods silently, giving you one last lingering look before he leaves. Mickey is breathing heavily in Jake’s grasp, Bradley’s blood on his knuckles. Dare turns to him, giving him a sympathetic look. “Mickey, let’s chat in my office. Jake, Javy, walk him over.” Jake nods and he and Javy lead Mickey out. Mickey shoots you a look and you mouth thank you to him and he just gives you a grim look as he nods.

“Zam, are you alright?” You don’t notice her come up to you and while she stays respectfully on the other side of your desk, giving you space, you can see the concern in her eyes.

“I don’t know.” You answer honestly. You’re still shaken up. It’s been a long time since you’ve had a panic attack and you’re almost unfamiliar with what to do afterwards. “I’m going to call Bugs over and she can take you home for the day, how does that sound?” Mickey once told you that the greatest strength you can get is from leaning on your friends and right now you know that’s what you need so you leave your pride on the floor and nod. You can’t battle without an army and Bradley Bradshaw just declared war.

A/N: Do you ever look at Bradley Bradshaw and wonder what is going on inside his head? For the first time ever in the SDD, next chapter (yes, a MAIN CHAPTER) will be from Bradley’s POV 👀

#you catch more bees with honey // sdd #ycmbwh // sdd #san diego dogfighters #san diego dogfighters au #san diego dogfighters hockey au #Bradley Bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster Bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster x you #tgm hockey au #top gun maverick hockey au #TGM #top gun maverick

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mellowwillowy · 8 months

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Yan! Philanderer God x GN Reader

CW: Dub-con, Non-con, gaslight, manipulation, sadism-abusive behavior-thoughts, degradations. Reader lost their sanity, Slight NSFW. (XL)

Yan! Philanderer God who was interested in you when they were strolling around the city for funsies.

Yan! Philanderer God who observed you from close, watching how you kill your day and night. They enjoyed their fair share of watching you playing yourself out of desperation sometimes.

Yan! Philanderer God who started to appear in your life as a mortal, worry not, they were only here as your acquaintance. Ah? Oh, now the two of you were friends! Hm? Their name? You could call them A-li or XL!

"My friends call me A-Li while some call me XL! Hm? Ahaha! I have forgotten my name so I can't tell you that!"

Yan! Philanderer God whose touch would always linger around your skin longer than it's supposed to, sometimes squeezing sometimes sliding up and down. They really enjoy feeling the temperature of your body...

Yan! Philanderer God who would peck your cheek at random times and shrug it off as a greeting of them after they puffed out the smoke into your face, kiseru in their hand.

"A peck as a greeting is a nice change don't you think?"

Yan! Philanderer God who would either make your day easier or harder depending on their mood. If they were feeling rather generous, your whole day would almost be the best day you had ever had. If they were feeling rather sour that day though... let's just say you survived.

Yan! Philanderer God who would not hesitate to give you the worst day ever if they were upset over you. The whole thing depended on their anger toward you so try your best to not upset them, let alone make them furious.

"Woah, look at you! Did you have a bad day?"

Yan! Philanderer God who would sometimes pull you into their arms, squeezing you as though they were trying to break your ribs. The toothy smile they showed you washed away all those thoughts though...

Yan! Philanderer God who enjoyed hand feeding you, their thumb would sometimes go past your lip and touch your tongue for a slight second. The feeling of your lips wrapping their finger was enough to make them feel butterflies.

Yan! Philanderer God who would casually rub their thumb over your cheek, eating the rice grain that was once by your cheek.

"One shouldn't waste food, starvation is no joke." They said jokingly yet their face showed a tinge of sadness.

Yan! Philanderer God who would wrap their arms around you as you cooked for dinner, their eyes fluttered close while thinking what to do to the people whose faces turned red at the sight of you, their hugs tightened as they thought about how you did not keep any distance away from them.

Yan! Philanderer God who one day held you in a way friends shouldn't. They sugar-coated their words to the point it made you accept their advances. Just as sweet as the konpeitos, they truly lived to the edges of it.

Yan! Philanderer God who took off your garments while kissing you non-stop, it almost felt as though they were unwrapping a candy.

Yan! Philanderer God who wouldn't stop leaving a trail of hickeys all over your body, marking it as theirs. Oh, how they love to draw blood out of your pricked skin. They'd love to do more, soon.

Yan! Philanderer God who prepared you well before they started feasting you, almost too well to the point it had you squirming around in need. Just how many people have they slept with???

Yan! Philanderer God who would make you accept that it was alright for the two of you to fuck, whispering it all in your ears while they fuck you dumb. Was it only you or did you see their eyes change color for a moment?

Yan! Philanderer God who was very sweet as they showered you with affection after the two of you finished, an aftercare that you couldn't ask for more. The same mouth that drew blood from your skin, the same mouth that pleasured you, and the same mouth that gaslighted you into believing the false truth.

Yan! Philanderer God who would also gaslight you into thinking that everyone around you meant no good, slowly cutting your relation to them one by one without having to dirty their delicate fair hands.

Yan! Philanderer God who would slowly make your life crumble just for fun. They enjoy torturing their loved ones after all~

"Oh dear, I love you so much so don't cry anymore okay? I'm sure things will get better soon." They comforted you as their hand felt your hand that was wrapped with bandages because you accidentally cut yourself.

Yan! Philanderer God who wished they could just somehow tear your limbs off your body and intact a puppet's limbs on you instead so that they could control you like a puppeteer. But they knew they shouldn't do that, especially when you were just a mortal who could die from the pain and shock.

Yan! Philanderer God whose touches grew bolder and tighter around you. They no longer hesitate to leave bruises on your wrist if you dare to anger them just for the slightest bit of inconvenience.

Yan! Philanderer God who would rather not use their delicate hand to feel that cheek of yours with a harsh slap. They wouldn't just yet. Not because they did not want to hurt you but rather because they didn't want to accidentally dislocate your jaw with their inhumane strength,.

"Oyaaah? Why are you wincing as though I was about to hit you?" They cackled as they brought your face closer to theirs, fingers digging into your cheek.

Yan! Philanderer God who knew you no longer had anyone to save you. You were the one who cut ties with everyone after all~

Yan! Philanderer God who enjoyed choking you as their body hovered above you, the two of you may be connected in pleasure but you were too clouded by the idea that you might one day die from their own hand.

And yet that idea no longer scared you, you could feel yourself grow excited. They really broke you in the end.

Yan! Philanderer God who broke you bits by bits every day because they loved you, you silly! Breaking you at once would kill you so they'd rather not take that risk!

Yan! Philanderer God who relished in your cries and plead that slowly turned into beggings for more. They loved the sight of you crying out tears out of desperation to have you bent and fucked into nothingness.

Yan! Philanderer God who slowly planned to bring you to the Heavenly Realm and joined their harem. While you might be the only person who helped them in no way, they were sure the men and women in their harem would only teach you a bit of lesson~

"Hm? Ah, don't worry~ You are just a silly little mortal that can only cry, what more can you do but serve yourself as my silly fucktoy?"

Yan! Philanderer God who did not stop the member of their harem from belittling you for being useless.

"So you are just her little toy?"

"You can't even hold a sword properly! How are you supposed to protect him!"

"So you don't even have any relations that would benefit us? Why did they even bother bringing you here..."

Yan! Philanderer God who sometimes would step in as your hero, reprimanding them for saying such things to you while covering your ears. The moment they turned your back, you would never be able to see the way they smiled eerily at the others. You would never see how the others cackled behind your back.

Yan! Philanderer God who would sometimes bring you to the heavenly meeting as their new doll. Oh please don't mind how that man glared at you as though he was ready to rip you apart the moment they left you. It was so adorable seeing you clutched their robe while fearing you'd be left alone, again.

Yan! Philanderer God who would sometimes make you sit on their lap instead of standing behind them with the man. You could feel daggers piercing you, daggers of fury and embarrassment.

Yan! Philanderer God who would visit you whenever they had the time to, entering your chamber without notifying you earlier. You were not doing anything that would enrage them, right?

Yan! Philanderer God who would contemplate making you immortal, while it would allow them to do all that gruesome stuff on you, it would take away the idea of owning a mortal in their heavenly abode.

Yan! Philanderer God who finally decided that it'd be a great idea to force you to drink the elixir of immortality upon seeing your flustered face when you were talking with another god that they despised. The God who was once their spouse and executioner.

"Did you have fun talking to Yuchen? Looks like I have to fucking cut your tongue so you can no longer talk to him." They growled as their fingers were wrapped tightly around your neck, suffocating you until you felt like you were seeing stars in the broad daylight.

Yan! Philanderer God who fucked you dumb to the point you could no longer feel your legs. They pushed all kinds of boundaries aside and were endowed with the idea of making you immobile from this one night. The treatment from the harem members worsened when the news of you conversing with Hao Yuchen spread. It seemed like everyone in this clan despised that man.

Yan! Philanderer God who did not let you sleep despite the soreness that you were feeling, their hand squished open your mouth before pushing the concoction to your lip, the content flowing into your throat.

"This is the elixir of immortality and heaven forbids me from not fucking you up now." Their eyes were dim and filled with fury and excitement, you could feel something cool and hot working its way in your internals, squeezing your organs to the point you felt the need to cut your stomach open.

Yan! Philanderer God who let you pass out, making you think that they were kind enough to allow you to rest. Right?

"Ah? Aren't you the Liu clan leader's toy? Looks like you could never run away from A-Li anymore, fufufu... Especially not when they were ready to mark you permanently as theirs..."

You shuddered when you accidentally ran into him but his last words made you wonder what exactly he meant. And by god did he mean his words.

CW: Branding

Yan! Philanderer God who made you kneel on the bed of flowers, your wrists bound to each other behind your back while the two women made you stay still, baring your top naked for the cold wind to hit.

Yan! Philanderer God who cooed you as the man handed them the branding iron that was heated earlier by him. The floral pattern that was on it was the same as the one they had on their robe. It once looked beautiful and innocent but it looked deadly now.

Yan! Philanderer God who did not hesitate to press it against your skin, the smell of something burning pierced your nostrils. Had you still stayed in your mortal body, you were CERTAIN you would have died from the pain.

Yan! Philanderer God who wrapped their hands around your face upon finishing the rites, their kisses lingered all over your face while licking the tears that fell out of your eyes, praising you for being so good.

"Good doll, good doll... I know how much it hurts and you are doing so well... ssshhhh..." Even when you were so dazed by the pain, you could see most of the people frowned at their leader's words.

If they know how much it hurts then why are they doing this?

Yan! Philanderer God who was once innocent just like you. You see, the two of you were not different now that you had suffered a bit of their sufferings.

Yan! Philanderer God who couldn't wait to teach you more bits by bits about their sufferings so that the two of you could finally understand and love each other completely!

"Oooohh... my sweet little songbird... I'll make you cry so much before you finally lose the ability to cry..."

Yan! Philanderer God who kissed your quivering blue lips, it felt so warm and addicting. You wished to feel more. More and more!

""I will never allow anyone to love you like I do.""

Even though you never knew their name, you felt like you had known their name all along. XL, was that their name? No.

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

sooooo, do you guys understand why I said she is the most dangerous Yan? What's mentioned here is only half of what she's capable of doing.

FUN FACT: This yan is the reader to the Yan! Emperor.

XL: *hides face* no comment.

So XL is mostly known as A-Li (lore-wise) and IRINA (code-name). In this one case though, we are more focused on XL as A-Li. I did not detail much about her pronouns and gender but there were a few NPCs that clarified XL as a man, woman, and either.

Lore-wise, XL is mostly shown as a woman but she appears as a man in cases where she has to meet her devotees or attend the heavenly meeting. IRINA is used in a different setting and barely appears in any fics.

Characters Mentioned :

Man - Feng Jianyu

God - Hao Yuchen

Unnamed Women - Liu Qinghua (JP: Sayaka) , Liu Wei (JP: Yui)

For their appearances: X , XL(you can scroll and find more here)

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multi-fan-dom-madness · 7 months

Text

Midnight Masquerade - Crosshair

Summary: The bottle chooses your partner, and it lands on Crosshair.

Chapter Warnings: minors DNI; vampire!Crosshair x f!reader. kinks: mind control + marking/biting. spitting, feeding, blood, consent is gained though it's a little fuzzy, praise, oral (m receiving), PiV sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it); if I missed anything, please let me know!

Word Count: 2.6k

Read the intro here! | Suggested listening

...Crosshair.

A round of wolf-whistles rises from the rest of the table (quite literally, in Hunter’s case). Your gaze snaps to Crosshair. His eyes, shining blood red in the strobing lights of the party, meet yours without hesitation. A slow, smug smirk tugs his lips over his teeth. Pointed canines gleam. Core clenching in a mix of anxiety and excitement, you swallow involuntarily. For a moment, you forget where you are, entranced by the ruby color of his eyes, vision tunneling so that all you can see is him.

The moment passes. Tech appraises both you and Crosshair. “Please do take note of any physiological differences or changes during this proce—hmph—”

Crosshair shoves his slim hand in his brother’s face, effectively shutting him up and providing leverage to climb out of the confines of the table. You rise on shaky legs. Crosshair moves to your side; he’s not as broad as his batchmates, but you still feel dwarfed by his presence, the pallid tint his skin has taken on, the sunken circles around his eyes, the faint scars on his neck that remind you what he’s transformed into. Even his clothing, a plain, high-collared black cape and simple button-down, sets your blood into a frenzy. When his hand comes to rest on the small of your back, you shudder.

Peering at you with hooded eyes, Crosshair quirks one eyebrow. “Well, doll?”

“Let’s find somewhere more...private,” you say. Your heart is in your throat, choking your words, but you’re not scared so much as you are exhilarated.

Crosshair’s grip curves around your waist and tugs you firmly against his side. The appreciative look he gives you reassures you; from the few times you’ve interacted, there’s always been an unspoken magnetism that draws you to him. His silent, stoic facade and piercing gaze haunt your dreams on occasion.

The crowd of troopers and nat-born partiers alike parts before the two of you as Crosshair guides you, towards a doorway at the back you hadn’t noticed before. In your periphery, you catch the looks some of the troopers share, the dubious expressions on their faces, but the pulse and thrum of the music drowns out any comments they mutter. All that matters is the way that Cross’s fingers dig into your side, the angry glare he levels at anyone who gets too close to you.

It makes you feel wanted. Desired. You walk with your back a little straighter.

At the back of the large building, the single doorway leads to a hallway that itself branches into tributary halls and connected rooms. Straight ahead, a set of stairs leads up to another level.

“You got a safe word?” Cross asks, voice silky and low, as the door shuts behind the two of you.

Nodding, you meet his gaze again with a daring smile, lifting your chin to expose your neck more than you normally would. His eyes flicker down from yours to trace the column of your throat, before returning to your face. In the low light, his red eyes gleam. Your breath grows shallower.

“Meiloorun,” you finally say.

“Good,” he hums. Tugging you forward once more, he leads you down a series of twisting hallways that leave you disoriented and confused. The longer you walk, the more you yearn for him to slide his hand down to your ass, or to push you against the wall and take you there, or even to just sink his fangs into you and—

“You have loud thoughts, dollface. Patience.”

Startled, you peer up at him with wide eyes. “Can you read my mind?”

Drawing you to a halt, he glances into the nearest chamber and seems to come to a decision. Pushing you gently, he guides you into the room. A light, dim and soft yellow, blooms to life from a lamp in the corner, revealing—a bed? In the center of the room, a massive bed with plush pillows awaits, and hanging along one wall are a myriad of tools, toys, and implements. Your body flushes with heat at the sight.

Crosshair slips his arm from around you. “I can hear vague impressions of what you’re thinking,” he finally answers.

“Oh.” You hesitate in the midst of the room as he shuts the door behind you. “So, uh, are you good with this?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

“Right,” you say, “yeah. Just asking.”

He hums, wrapping his arms around you from behind, caging you in place, as he dips his head to breathe in your scent. Nose skimming over your skin, he inhales deeply. The groan he lets out rumbles against your back. Goosebumps skitter down your skin.

“You think too much,” he grumbles, then presses a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to the spot where your neck and shoulder meet. “Let me help with that.”

“H-How?” you breathe out, nerves coming alive in reaction to him. Kriff, he’s barely touched you, and you’re already so sensitive, so open, so curious.

His hands guide you to turn around in his embrace. Snaking your arms up around his shoulders, you fiddle with the short, silvery locks at the nape of his neck. Slowly, you raise your gaze from his chest, where silver hair peeks through the unbuttoned top of his shirt, to the strong column of his throat, to his pouting mouth, to his crimson eyes. Again, peering into him, you lose awareness, just for a moment, of the room around you.

He runs his tongue over his fangs and grins, predatory and feral. “Just let go, doll. I’ll take care of the rest.”

You glance at his mouth, biting at your own lips, heart stuttering. “Kiss me first.”

Grip tightening around your body, he captures your lips in a bruising kiss. You moan, unashamed and loud, against him. His mouth is rough, demanding; his sharp teeth catch at your bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to remind you of why you’re here. Heat pulses through you.

When he pulls back, his eyes darken, lips parted and swollen. Your chest heaves. Fingers tightening in his hair, you chase his mouth, but he just chuckles and steps out of your embrace.

“Undress,” he says, peering into your eyes. “Then wait by the bed.”

A warm tingling sensation spills down your spine as his eyes seem to glow crimson. The weight of your thoughts seems to lift, ever so slightly. With a shiver, all you can do is nod, filled with the urge to comply.

Stepping out of your shoes, you tug off your clothing as quickly as you can, discarding the offending garments haphazardly, uncaring where they go. In the chilled air of the room, your nipples pebble. The thought occurs to you to touch them, let Crosshair see you play with yourself—a thought that is immediately dashed. That hadn’t been part of the orders.

You wrench your attention back to the current moment as you position yourself by the side of the bed as told. Against the far wall, Crosshair leans, fingers absentmindedly caressing the worn grip of a flogger, an amused smile playing across his face as he watches you.

“Good,” he says, and a flush of pride skitters through you. “Kneel.”

Even across the room, the weight of his chromatic gaze presses on you, and you again succumb to the warm, floating feeling as you drop to your knees. You rest your palms on your thighs. Crosshair approaches, toys left behind on the wall, and you crane your head back to maintain eye contact. One hand, long and cool and tender, caresses your face, thumb swiping over your bottom lip.

You lick his thumb, enticing him to touch you more, feel you deeper.

“Behave.”

The command washes over you and settles into your bones. The longer you stare into his eyes, the lighter you become, until all you’re aware of is the cold press of duracrete against your knees, the feel of his skin against yours, and those red, red eyes.

“That’s it,” he praises. “Open your mouth.”

You anticipate the words before they leave his lips and your jaw is open halfway through his statement, tongue sticking over your bottom teeth. It’s like you can feel what he desires of you before he expresses it aloud; the pleased expression that curls over his face makes you happy. You’re doing so well for him.

Crosshair leans over you, still fully clothed, and while normally you’d be concerned with freeing his cock from his pants, right now all you’re worried about is making sure you follow orders. Keeping your mouth open, your eyes never leave his.

He spits in your waiting mouth. “Swallow that.”

You do as told, thighs clenching together as you become aware of another thing: the slick coating of arousal dripping down your legs.

“Crosshair,” you whine, breathless.

“Patience,” he chides again. His hands move to undo his pants; you blink and his cock is fully free, swollen and flushed and drooping in front of your face. “Remember your safe word, pretty thing?”

It takes you a moment, sifting through hazy thoughts and muddled memories, but it comes back to you. “Meiloorun.”

“Good girl.”

This time, he doesn’t even have to voice what he wants from you. Once you drop your mouth open again, he slips the flushed tip of his cock past your lips. You hollow your cheeks, sucking on his leaking head, humming in contentment at his taste. Cross watches you with hooded lids, a flush blotching his neck and face. Stars, he looks good like this. You bob your head, fighting off your gag when he touches the back of your throat.

“Kriff,” he grits out.

You repeat the motion. The only sound you’re aware of is the wet suck of your lips wrapped tight around his length, and it only makes the wetness between your thighs grow worse. Whining, you sense the order Crosshair wants to give: stay still and let me fuck your face.

So you do. Cross’s hands come to rest on your jaw, cradling your head gently, and you breathe deep and even through your nose as he pushes his hips forward. Gagging, your vision blurs with tears as he holds you on his cock—and when he releases, you sputter, coughing.

“Filthy little thing,” he says, but the undertone of his voice is laced with praise. You flutter your eyelashes up at him, thick with tears.

For a moment, the two of you remain like that, a string of spit connecting you to his dick. His chest heaves, straining against the buttons of his shirt. Your eyes flicker away from his ruby gaze long enough to soak in the sight of his bulging muscles; his fingers on your jaw angle your face back up.

“On the bed,” he murmurs.

You rise to your feet and perch your ass on the side of the bed, your slick and aching cunt at the perfect level for him to sink into without any angling. Eyes on his, you sense what he wants—what he needs. You trail two fingers through your sopping folds to gather some of your juices. Spreading your arousal over his hard length, you whimper at the velvety feel of him in your hand.

“Such a good pet,” he croons.

He grips at your hips, yanking you forward so you’re supporting yourself by your elbows, entire body hanging off the bed. His jaw tightens as he rubs his cockhead through your folds, rutting into you, the tip catching at your entrance. You both moan.

And then he’s pushing into you, or maybe he’s pulling you onto him, but either way all you can feel is his thick length spearing you, deeper than you’ve ever had another partner before. His balls rest heavy against your ass as he holds you still, his fingers likely leaving bruises where he holds your hips. Your cunt flutters around him.

Another of his thoughts begins to form, and you sense it over your connection to him. Immediately you convulse, desire and pleasure rocketing through you.

“Yes, please, Crosshair, mark me,” you beg. “Show everyone who I belong to. Fucking bite me.”

Face contorting into a snarl, he snaps his hips against yours. His cock sliding nearly all the way out of you before he impales you once again, you let your head fall back, moans clawing out of your throat with every thrust. Stars, he’s so deep, reaching parts of you that you only ever dreamed of, and it makes your entire body light up with pleasure.

He continues to fuck you as his arms slip around your body, pulling you flush to him, supporting your entire body weight.

And then his mouth is on your skin. He sucks a trail of hickeys across your chest, lavishes your nipples with licks and love bites, skims his fangs over your hot, sensitive buds. You pant. Snagging his hair in one hand, you gently guide his head up to your neck, your actions an extension of the burning desire coursing through you both.

“Please,” you whimper, “please please please feed on me.”

“Kriff, girl,” he groans into you.

There’s a split second of overwhelming pain when his fangs sink into you—but it is immediately dispersed by a rush of pleasure so blinding that you think you cum. You can’t tell. Your mind is too far gone to fully process anything but the fact that his cock is driving into that one devastating spot inside you and that his lips are latched around the double-puncture wound in your neck as he suckles from your life-force. His thumb finds your clit and rubs it in precise, tight circles. Sobbing from pleasure and overstimulation, you cum again around him, body locked up as he fucks you through it.

“That’s it, just like that,” he praises, sounding absolutely wrecked, tongue smoothing over the bite mark on your neck. “K-Kark, gonna—”

“Please!” It’s the only word you’re capable of. “Please, please.”

He lifts his head, eyes finding yours once more, as he thrusts once, twice, thrice more before stilling, cock buried as deep in your cunt as he can get. As his length throbs in your soaked pussy, you can’t help the ragged whimper that tears from your chest at the sensation, nearly tipping you over the edge yet again.

Slowly you become aware of your surroundings again. Against your back is a plush, soft surface: the bed. Crosshair’s voice, still silky and raspy, but lacking the previous hard edge, caresses your ears. “Did so good, doll. Come back down to me.”

Blinking, you loll your head to the side. Lying next to you, Crosshair gives you the barest hint of a smile, expression softer than you’ve ever seen him. His eyes have returned to their usual amber smolder, his skin devoid of the pallid, waxy hue. His fingers brush your cheek.

“I hurt you.”

He doesn’t phrase it as a question. You reach with weak fingers to poke the sore wound at the base of your neck, wincing slightly but chuckling nonetheless. “I wanted it. It felt amazing.”

Settling his hand in the center of your chest, the two of you bask in the pleasant silence, studying one another. Faintly, music reaches your ears—the party is still going, and you can return when you’re ready. Crosshair slowly recomposes his expression into the neutral scowl you’re so familiar with.

“What happened, fully?” you finally ask.

“Mind control,” he says. “Sent you into a trance. Tried to, at least. Got carried away.”

His eyes drop to your bare body and you follow his gaze. A gasp escapes you. Oh, that’s so many more hickeys and marks than you expected. You’d been lost in the heady pleasure, the cloudlike feeling of drifting and only being tethered to the real world by his cock.

The thought makes you giggle; once you start laughing, you find it hard to stop. After a moment, Crosshair joins, his low rumbling laugh echoing with yours. You’ll get back to the party eventually. For now, you just enjoy the comfy bed and good company.

Ragu list: Ragu list: @the-hexfiles @thorsterstrudle @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickixx @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @dreamie411 (if you'd like to be added or removed, click here!)

#tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader #hallowkink23 #mdfm hallowkink 23 #kinktober 2023 #midnight masquerade #rhiwrites #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader #crosshair x f!reader #crosshair x fem!reader #vampire!crosshair #monster!clone au

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delopsia · 8 months

Text

Thinking about autumn in Wabang.

When the sweltering heat subsides into chilly afternoons and crisp breezes that nip at your skin. The crickets chirp a little louder, and the tree in the front yard transitions from vivid green to warm yellows and reds. Delicate leaves falling from sturdy branches and landing in the driveway, crunching beneath the tires of an old blue GMC Sierra.

It's that time of year when Rhett comes home with furrowed brows and frigid hands, grumbling about how "it's 'bout time we get them damn shirts outta the attic again." And gradually, his wardrobe begins to shift to thick flannels, cozy hoodies, and hefty jackets that insulate heat a little too well.

Those rodeo nights grow colder, and the adrenaline-laced kisses that follow get a little warmer. Festivals pop up in the fields around town, pumpkins mark the corners of Wabang streets, and corn fields are converted into twisting mazes. Fragments of broken leaves cling to the wild curls that rest on the back of Rhett's neck, picked up from wrestling with farm dogs and napping beneath trees.

Saturdays are consumed by venturing to neighboring towns to visit festivals, buying decor that you don't need, and sharing treats that you've never heard of before. The house perpetually carries the warm scent of the season. Rhett's lips taste like caramel apples and cider.

"Rhett," your palms roam across those thick, broad shoulders as you sneak up behind him, "is that apple cider or beer?"

His head tilts backward, messy hair bumping into your cheek, peering up at you through thick lashes, "You'll have to kiss me to find out."

You already know that it's cider.

It's always cider.

But you kiss him anyway.

Cowboys are the first to notice the change in the seasons. Can detect the first golden leaf of the season simply by the scent of the air. Overly familiar with the sight of extravagantly colored leaves and the musky, sweet scent that they bring. Seeing it so often that such a sight should be boring.

Yet, Rhett insists on those cheesy nature walks anyway. Content to hold your chilly hand in his as your shoes crunch through a leaf-littered path, marveling at the beauty of the season.

Sometimes those walks are filled with endless conversation, laughter loud enough to rattle leaves off trees, so wrapped up in your stories that you hardly recall what you saw. Others are quiet. No need for words as you sit on a frigid bench, unable to shiver because a warm arm has long since wrapped around your shoulders.

Sometimes the days are too cold for just an arm.

Those days end in a heavy jacket resting over your shoulders instead. Your hands tucked into pockets filled with hard candies and an oddly shaped rock that he found. And it's like the first days of your relationship all over again, giggling, bickering about who needs the jacket more, and rubbing cold noses together.

There are things that never change.

Just as the forests change color every year, Rhett brings you his jacket during every frosty rodeo. Always seems to come wandering over when the temperature drops and your skin has begun to go numb from the sharp bite of the wind.

"Y'look awful cold, darlin'," he hums, his breath like smoke, puffing past his lips in thin, wispy clouds.

"Aren't you supposed to be getting ready to ride?" The crowd erupts into a roar of cheers as you speak, nearly erasing your voice entirely.

That big arm slides around your waist, drawing you up to his burning chest, frozen lips stealing a kiss, "I got a couple minutes to spare."

He leaves you with a heavy coat draped over your shoulders, a lazily scrawn note hidden in the left pocket.

'Everything s'more fun with you :)

Archie's having a bonefire tonight. Wanna go?'

And, of course, your answer is yes, because Archie's bonfires are nothing short of spectacular. His speakers always softly hum the tune of indie artists you've never heard of, and though there's alcohol, it's never the center of the event. His wife ventures out in her pajamas, sleepily making conversation with you as Rhett and Archie argue over their idea of a perfect roasted marshmallow.

"Y'aint got a fuckin' lick of sense 'n you know it, Rhett!" If Archie's hands weren't preoccupied with crafting his wife's obligatory s'more, they'd be waving in the air. "What kinda fool chooses to char the shit outta their marshmallow?"

Rhett's head shakes, fumbling with a graham cracker, "I do!"

And that's all it takes before Archie's attention turns to you, defiantly ignoring Rhett. "Yer boyfriend's got more teeth than he does sense."

Despite the warm, crackling fire, these nights always end the same. Tumbling through the front door, all cold noses and frozen hands as you both make a mad dash for the shower, each vying to be the first to hop beneath the hot water. Limbs awkwardly tangling and bodies bumping into one another because this shower wasn't meant for two.

Then comes the honorary plaid blanket as you snuggle on the couch, not ready to sleep yet, but getting there. Your head against Rhett's chest, heart thumping in your ear, his unshaven chin scratching at your forehead.

You don't recall falling asleep, but the next time you open your eyes, you're in bed. Wrapped up in the arms of a snoring cowboy, flakes of snow pitter-pattering off the windows, listening as he sleepily asks for just five more minutes.

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #outer range #delgato's warmups #delgato's thinking #x reader #outer range amazon #rhett abbott fluff #rhett abbott outer range #fluff #tw food #tw alcohol mention #very very brief #like one sentence brief lmao

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amethystfairy1 · 2 months

Note

Ttsbc glamor, I have a few different questions about it because it's something very cool

What is the weakest type of species that has glamor? I know it changes depending on the person, like Tango glamor being weaker compared to the average blazeborn, but on average, who has the weakest glamor?

Can you change the speed at how fast you can shoot glamor out of your hands? We know it can be shot as fast lighting bullets to play tag, and they can be normal bullets.

Can you change the size of the bullet of glamor you shoot (I'm going to assume you can but still)

Can you slowly release glamor, so it's like a trail? Kinda like when Disney Channel will take the magic wand and draw micky mouses head, then it will show up ?? (Or like produce fireworks type of design in the air using glamor?

Can you shoot glamor using other body parts besides your hands? (For example, your eyes or your toes?)

When glamor releases from the hand outwards, does that glamor slowly fade as it goes through the air, or does it stay the same strength until it hits impact with something? Also, what happens once the bolt of glamor hits something? Does it hit the object and splat, then fade, or does it hit like a bullet, and the impact will slow it down, then it fades out?

Does glamor leave marks? Like, I think you said it can leave bruises and stuff, but do the bruises look a little different than normal? (If your glamor malfunctions and you try and shoot it out, can you bruise your fingers?)

When you use glamor to hide body parts that don't want to be seen does it fade from top to bottem, bottem to top, fades everything at the same time or does it not fade at all and it just disappears like it was never there?

Why does the under city only have glamor and the over city doesn't? I know that the under city finds it important but what did they do for it to happen??

One last question about glamor (hopefully) if a human is holding a hybrid/mutant hand, can that human use their glamor?

I hope these questions made sense (I tend to get sidetracked while writing asks this long), but I wish you well, and I hope you have an amazing day/night/eve!

(One last extra question!)

Did the old main lab scientist from the under city work with the over city? Like the under city does the experiments to keep over city out of trouble and the over city gives them the stuff they need to do the bio technology and they trade out information??

Questions questions questions...

I took awhile to answer this because I wanted to think about it and make sure the answers all lined up and made sense! If I'm vague anywhere keep in mind I do still plan to expand on some of these worldbuildy bits in the stories themselves so I don't wanna spoil everything! 😆

There isn't just one specific subspecies that's much weaker than others, it's more that there's certain subspecies who are particularly good with glamor (blaze-borns, voidwalkers, mushroom mutants) and everyone else hangs around an average. Some subspecies have special skills to do with glamor that are unique to them though! Blaze-borns manipulated fire, avians and butterfly hybrids manipulating weight, that sort of thing...also keep in mind because glamor can't pass through inorganic material people like Doc or Cleo who have large parts of their bodies replaced with augmentations can't use glamor very well!

I mean, I'm sure they could change the density of the glamor bullet and therefore change the speed!

Yes, if you're skilled enough with glamor (like Grian) you can most certainly manipulate the size/affect/color of your glamor! But that's a skill that's on the upper end of glamor ability, Grian is uniquely very very talented with the stuff!

Again, if you're talented enough, have enough glamor, and you've practiced that particular skill, sure you could!

Yes! Once more, it's a talent + practice scenario! It's easiest to use glamor with your hands or fingertips because...I mean, that's where you'd be the most coordinated, but if you wanted to fire from another part of your body you could if you had enough glamor and practiced that specific skill!

Depends on the shooter and what they were trying to do! Grian's bullets as Cute Guy make impact like paintballs! Again though it's the talent + skill + practice scenario, glamor is very versatile and malleable if you've got enough of it and practice a lot!

If a glamor bullet strikes someone it'll leave a bruise like a paintball would! It's the same as any old bruise, the size and how bad it is depends on how powerful the glamor bullet!

It's like heat haze on tarmac! That's my favorite way of describing it in the stories anyway. I also often say that it's like fog growing denser and then turning clear. So basically the haze of glamor, which is tinted the persons natural glamor color, fogs over whatever they want to hide and then fades away, and the thing they wanted to hide won't be visible anymore!

They just have it! They didn't do anything, they've just always had it as long as anyone can remember! It's a trait unique to hybrids/mutants!

Nope! Humans can't use glamor! Hybrids can use their glamor to affect humans, see Jimmy concealing Scott when they went to the under-city together or Grian shooting human criminals with glamor bullets to knock them out, but humans cannot use glamor, no matter what!

No problem! It's neat to try and pick apart the power system a bit, and I want to make it clear that glamor is also something of a catch-all term for powers in the under-city. Tango being able to light things on fire is considered glamor. Shelby's glowing mushroom cap is considered glamor. Voidwalkers purple particles are considered glamor. It's not something that has a super solid set of rules because everyone learns to manipulate it in their own way to suit their needs!

The example I've given before is athletics...if you train super super super hard at a sport, you're going to get quite skilled at it, but you'll always be held back by your physical capabilities. By talent + practice + skill I mean that you need to be born with the capacity for highly skilled glamor usage, you need to practice those particular things to get good at them, and then you need to hone the skills over time! Grian's glamor bullets are a great example. He can manipulate them to kill or stun, he can change their size, density, and color, and he can fire them off in pretty quick succession. He needed to start out with having the glamor capacity to do that, but he also needed to practice and hone that skill!

As for that little bonus questions, I don't wanna confirm or deny anything to do with any relationships between the over-city and under-city in any capacity beyond what we've already seen, it's all spoiler territory and I promise we'll get into that as the AU continues to grow! I've got big plans! 😉

#fanfic #ao3 fanfic #through the sky blue cracks #worldbuilding #grian

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ohtobeleah · 1 year

Note

Leah, hear me out:

Mickey and scratching (think picking out his favorite color and having them paint it on your nails and him going feral and begging you to scratch him)

😳 i think i need to take a shower now bye

Oh and it gets even better when you’re on annual leave and can actually have acrylic nails!

Warnings: This is Strictly Scandalous. Smut Ahead.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

“Holy fucking christ–” Hangmans eyes are wide as they can possibly go when hes turning around to see Fanboy pealing his standard issue black T-shirt up over his head. The group had just finished for the day, hitting the showers before heading back to their respective homes. “What the fuck happened to you!?”

“Jesus–” Rooster to crooning, smirking as he dips his head to hide his indecent thoughts. “Mickey, it looks like you've been mauled by a rabid dog.” There's deep red raw lines trailing up and down the expanse of his back. Littered with tight muscles. The sweat he’d worked up from today's session only made the memories of last night even more vivid in his mind as he tried to focus on the drills they'd been running. But it was no use, not when he knew you were at home, enjoying your annual leave time with that pretty baby blue colour painted onto the acrylics you'd gotten.

***~***~***~***~***~

“Ohhh fuck!!” Mickey swore up and down that if he had been standing? His knees would have buckled and given out beneath him as your nails dug into the muscular flesh of his back. “Shit—yeah you like that huh sweetheart?”

“Don’t stop, please Mickey don’t st—stop!” The way you dragged your acrylics down his exposed back as you clung to him, biting at his shoulder to stifle your moans as he drove his length between your velvet walls, had Mickey Garcia hissing at the painful delight. Your act had your husband hearing colours and seeing sounds. “Baby—baby harder.” When you asked for Mickey to rail you just a little more he wasn’t sure he could, purely because of the way you were already raking his back to the point of drawing blood as he held himself above you. The headboard smacking against the wall.

“I got you sweetheart I got you—“ There’s a brief window of time that Mickey contemplates if he can handle you digging your nails into him any harder than you already are—but then he catches a glimpse at your o face and he’s suddenly in heaven with all the will power and determination to be your designated scratching post for the rest of his life: “You want me to go a little faster huh?”

“Yeah—wanna be fucked dumb.” Holy shit holy shit holy shit you’ve never sounded so hot. This annual leave had really helped you relax a little.

“I can do that sweetie.” Mickeys leaning down to take your lips hostage with his own. Thrusting into you at a merciless pace. With the change of pace comes a gasp that escapes from the depths of your soul that had Mickeys orgasm pooling at the base of his shaft. “Ohhh fuck baby, scratch me—“

“Huh?” You’re asking when you wrap your legs around the small of his waist. Using your heels to draw him in closer and closer.

“Claw the shit out of my back baby, I’m so fucking close.” It’s damn near painful the way Mickey is whining, but he grits his teeth as he fucks you feral and sweat drips from his curls down into your chest. “Ahhh fuck!” You’re drawing blood, pulling him down onto your chest as he exhales a guttural moan so pornographic it puts Owen Grey to shame.

The marks are still there the next morning, swollen and red raw for his fellow aviators to witness when he’s getting ready for a shower.

“Y/n got acrylics—“ Is all he says to explain himself. Rooster looks at Phoenix with a raised eyebrow. She just groans in response and hits his chest.

“Don’t even think about it Bradshaw—“

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Strictly Scandalous // Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia

#ohtobeleah 3k celebration #strictly scandalous mickey ‘fanboy’ garcia #mickey garcia x female reader #mickey fanboy garcia #fanboy x female reader #fanboy x reader #avaleineandafryingpan ✨

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aerkame · 1 year

Note

I’m curious what the others finfolk forms look like, what kinda tails and colors do they have, markers, etc. I’m so excited for the au!

I am not feeling well enough to really draw so I will just give descriptions instead! I'll be sure to draw everyone at some point though, but if you want me to ping (or just message) you or anyone else just private message me or let me know in replies.

__________________________________________________________

For all neighbors minus Home:

Each and every neighbor will grow claws, teeth, increased height, increased strength, and webbed hands when fully transformed. As for clothes, they're designed to change with their form.

Wally Darling

Wally may still be the shortest of the neighbors, but he's still quite tall when compared to normal puppets (most finmen are huge regardless). When he comes off as a normal-looking puppet, he wears a blue glass colored (blue glass is a color, it is my favorite color-) clothing, or sometimes loose-fitting beach clothes if he feels like relaxing. He often keeps a red shell pendant around his neck area and a black single earring on his right ear.

When Wally is a finman however, his yellow felt turns to scales that range from yellows, purples, teals, and different shades of blue. His ears become thick and finned, each end going up into a small S-shaped curl. Underneath the clothing, his body is covered in soft red swirling and spiraling markings, something you can he on his cheeks. Unlike the finwomen, finmen don't turn into mermaids/mermen, so he does not have a tail at all and he instead grows various fins on his body, all very colorful. Oh, and don't forget the fangs and claws...those are pretty sharp.

Barnaby

Barnaby is one of the taller finmen, but not the tallest. You can usually find him wearing shorts, sandals, shell necklaces, and a sunhat. It's just so darn hot sometimes so don't expect to see him in a shirt really. If anything he'll probably be under a shady area or relaxing in some cool water.

While he does already have teeth and claws, they are pretty dull until he transforms, having his teeth become more shark-like and claws much sharper than anyone else's. However, Barnaby is the only one here who does not grow scales at all. Instead that blue felt skin will turn into something far more smoother and paler in color almost becoming grey but not quite grey. The spots all over his body stay of course, but they become darker and more larger, creating marbled patterns. Not only is Barnaby the only one without scales, but he is the only one to grow a tail and keep his legs. The once small fluffy tail turns into a strong shark-like one, being capable of causing someone a concussion or head trauma if he really swung hard enough with it.

Sometimes everyone suspects he isn't a finman, but even if Barnaby wasn't, everyone would still love the big guy.

Howdy

Being a fisherman has its perks. One being that it tends to be a good workout, another being that you can get all kinds of stuff from the ocean. That being said, Howdy is a giant when compared to the others. In his normal form, the fisherman has medium long blue hair that's often slicked back or just braided all under his hat. You'd think that running a shop and being a fisherman would leave little time for this man to tidy up his clothes but you'd be wrong. Everything remains completely clean no matter the weather, it's almost scary. Even the shell pendant he wears on his apron is constantly shining.

Obviously having double the legs and arms leaves him with double the amount of claws to tear someone up with. As a finman, Howdy's height becomes outright terrifying to anyone he meets. Forget the scary claws and fangs, his height alone is enough to scare the fear of God into anyone.

The colors of Howdy's scales match himself much like it does with Wally and the others. Green scales fade from blues to teals and tiger-like stripes decorate his body, leaving oval spirals on his cheeks.

Eddie

Probably the friendliest captain out there with the coat to match! Often times Eddie will be wearing his white captain's coat and hat, having a shell pendant pinned to the black suit he wears under. He always stays tidy, keeping his red hair slicked back under his hat.

As a finman, Eddie will also grow in size. This is when his usual friendly appearance turns more scary to some. Being large and having a giant captain's coat squaring your shoulders can look intimidating. Along that, Eddie's hair tends to get more rougher and slightly wavy, so he lets it down every once in a while.

Frank

Frank is the only one that wasn't a finman before moving in on the island, having been a normal puppet before. He still prefers to remain as his normal puppet self on most days unless it's rainy or stormy. Usually he is wearing vests, casual clothes, and colors that are muted in color, preferring to keep the shell pendant he has on a butterfly bow, keeping the bow as a reminder of his old life.

In the rare times that he decides to be more fin-like, the only things about Frank that change is that he grows teal, purple, and grey scales, square-ish finned ears, squared swirls, and fangs.

Julie

Being a finwoman (or mermaid) has it's perks.

Julie will on most days wear light colored fluffy dresses with thick high sandals, a large sunhat, and a shell necklace to match. If not a dress, then she'd be happy to wear anything good for the beach so she can go ahead and jump in the water at any time.

As a mermaid, Julie transforms her legs into a long and strong tail, being just as strong as finmen (no really, you do NOT want to get hit with her tail). Her scales often reflect the dresses she usually wears, which are deep shades of coral reds, pinks, oranges, and yellows. The fins at the end of her tail are wide and flowing, sometimes she'll even wrap herself up in them for fun.

The ears differ slightly from the others as they appear more softer and fluffy with light pink swirls and sparkles dusting her face.

Sally

Sally is sometimes nicknamed Sally Scarlet for several reasons. One reason being the clothing she wears. Everything is always extravagant or just screams passion, having everything in shades of red and black.

Sally is the only one who is almost always in her mermaid form. No really, she even has a part of her house with an indoor pool that leads to the ocean because she just doesn't feel like getting out of the water yet. Her tail is much longer than Julie's but more slim and much sharper, some scales being so sharp they can be flung or used as throwing knives. The weapon tail is made up of blood red scales with speckled black and gold scales scattered on her body.

She often wears a golden crown around her already existing crown (she's a star so duh) and dark makeup to compliment her scales. Of course, she painted her claws black to match. Dramatic...

Poppy

Poppy is probably the most colorful out of the neighbors, having literally every color in the rainbow on her. You can usually find her outside gardening with Julie, wearing nothing (because she has feathers) or just wearing a light colored shawl with a matching sunhat. She often carries her shell or clips it to a shawl.

However, Poppy is a little bit different like Barnaby when it comes to her original form, but no one questions it really. Like the other mermaids, Poppy will form a tail consisting of the rainbow, but the rest of her body becomes much larger and longer, resembling something closer to a serpent. The feathers soon turn into long spikes and sharp scales that could easily cut through steel. Her wings become giant fins and her beak grows a sharp curved end. She doesn't transform ever much like Frank due to her scaring herself and others sometimes.

Home

It is known that Home has a physical body, but no one other than Wally has talked to him. The only time anyone ever gets a glimpse of Home is when a shell is being given to a neighbor. Large clawed and black scaly hands reach out from the dark whirlpool to take the shell and imbued his magic into it before it's given back.

Sorry for any spelling errors, I'm a bit tired right now.

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scarydeadlavender · 9 months

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꧁༺ 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓪 𝓝𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓮 ༻꧂

If there was one thing Daniel didn't like, it was when he had insomnia, but what he hated the most was having nightmares.

Every time, it was the same thing, the same events replaying in a loop, that horrifying memory haunting him. Despite being used to this situation, he would always wake up in a start, on the verge of tears, sweating with fear, clutching the covers as if his life depended on it.

So, in those moments, he would get out of his bed, leaving the comforting warmth behind to encounter the cold of the Slytherin dormitory. He tried to make as little noise as possible to avoid waking his sleeping roommates, making his way to the toilets where few people ventured due to Myrtle's haunting presence. While he had to endure the crying and crocodile tears of the ghostly girl, at least he was left in peace.

As he tried to shake off the memories of the nightmare, he attempted to brew a potion that could stop him from having these visions every time he closed his eyes, which left him increasingly fatigued day by day. Stirring the mixture, which had a deep midnight blue hue, he felt drowsy, but the bitter smell kept him from falling asleep, or perhaps it was the presence of the ghostly girl that kept him awake.

However, this time it was different. He received a surprise visit from his best friend, Tp.

Tp: Daniel? What are you doing here?

He jumped at the sound of his voice, widening his tired eyes, and saw his friend Tp dressed in his pajamas with his uniform cape over it.

Daniel: Can I ask you the same question?

Tp showed him a book with a green cover adorned with complex drawings made with gold leaf. Despite the dim light, star and constellation designs were discernible. He shrugged.

Tp: I went to the library; I had forgotten my mythology textbook.

Daniel: Ah.

His friend approached him, sitting next to him against the cold toilet wall, never taking his eyes off the dubious mixture.

Daniel: I guess it's pretty obvious what I'm doing.

Tp: Brewing potions at 3 am? You only do that if something is bothering you, Daniel...

Daniel lifted his head slightly, fixing his gaze on a point in front of him. He wanted to avoid the conversation, not wanting to worry Tp.

Daniel: There's no problem.

Tp: You're a terrible liar.

He hummed just a response, continuing to stir the potion with a wooden spatula as it began to change color.

Tp chuckled a bit, placing his book next to him on the tiled floor. He patted Daniel's shoulder to indicate that he could talk to him about anything. Daniel then rested his head against his friend's shoulder, letting a few strands of his auburn hair fall.

Daniel: Just... a nightmare.

He sighed.

Daniel: I don't like it.

Tp: Nobody does...

He looked at Daniel with a look that said, "Really? No kidding?" making his friend uneasy. After all, he didn't want to offend him.

Tp: I didn't mean to... I'm sorry... Do you want to talk about it?

Daniel simply shook his head in a negative response, and a cold silence settled between the two. The only sounds were the whimpers of Moaning Myrtle.

Tp smiled a little, then rested his head against Daniel's, and it would be a lie to say that Daniel didn't enjoy this intimate moment with his best friend.

Tp: One day, I heard that nightmares are events that traumatized us, stressed us out, or even experiences that left a deep mark on us...

Daniel: Is that supposed to reassure me?

Tp: Let me finish, oh!

Daniel chuckled a bit, still keeping an eye on his potion.

Tp: Often, nightmares are like... a way for us to reject our feelings, to express emotions that are impossible to deal with at the moment. It's like your body fighting back in a way.

A slight silence enveloped them.

Tp: I understand that it's scary... but if you keep depriving yourself of sleep, that fear will always be present... what I mean is...

Tp straightened up a bit, looking at Daniel, who also sat up. She placed her hand on his hand.

Tp: You mustn't let this fear bring you down; you have to conquer it.

She smiled at him, but seeing Daniel staring at him without knowing what he might be thinking, Tp panicked and stammered, which made the auburn-haired boy laugh. Seeing this, Tp started laughing a bit before leaning against the wall.

Tp: You know, if you want, you can use a dreamcatcher.

Daniel: A dreamcatcher?

He chuckled.

Daniel: I thought those were only given to children.

Tp: Well, you see, no.

Tp laughed nervously, while Daniel rested his head against his friend's shoulder, finding it rather comfortable.

Tp: If you want to talk about your nightmares... don't hesitate, I'll always listen, Daniel.

In the silence of the restroom, the two looked at the flames beneath the cauldron, where some marks of wear were present. The simmering and bubbling of the potion could be heard. Daniel was grateful that it was dark, preventing his friend from noticing his blushing. By the way... why was he blushing? And why did it suddenly feel so warm? It must be because of the cauldron... right?

Despite that, Daniel couldn't stop looking at our hands, which were intertwined with Tp's.

Daniel: Hey, since you seem to know more about the world of dreams, can you tell me more?

He felt a slight movement from Tp, who picked up the book that was next to her.

Tp: You're lucky this happens to be the theme of my book! Want me to read it to you?

Daniel chuckled lightly and replied in a sarcastic tone.

Daniel: Oh yes, please, Mom !

He smiled at his own remark while listening to what Tp was telling him. It was calm and soothing, and the gentle warmth emanating from the cauldron made the situation feel light. As minutes passed, his eyelids felt heavier, and he couldn't resist falling into the arms of Morpheus...

For once, he felt fully energized and not tired from a bad night's sleep! He felt reassured and was no longer afraid of the evening, of having to wait for the night to pass, counting the endless hours and trying to catch up on sleep during classes.

A sense of security and being far from the shadows that sought to disturb his mind was brought about by Tp's presence, and this thought made him blush... why? He couldn't figure it out.

Of course, both Daniel and Tp risked being late for class as they fell asleep in the restroom, and Moaning Myrtle had to wake them up by yelling at them! Despite this, Daniel felt relieved after having been able to talk with Tp...

Once night fell at Hogwarts, and all the students returned to their dormitories for the night, he noticed that his owl was carrying a small package in its beak. He took it, caressing the bird as a thank-you gesture. Unfolding the small package, he found a letter.

❝"𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥!

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮! 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧… 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫!

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐓𝐩"❞

He couldn't help but smile at the letter and see that Tp had given him a dreamcatcher. He examined it carefully, handling it delicately as if it were something very fragile and might break with the slightest wrong move. He lay down, falling into his bed, a place he feared to enter due to the fear of not being able to sleep.

While still gazing at the dreamcatcher, he realized that it was made from a brown wooden circle, several colored threads were woven. White, a symbol of hope and purity; pink, for health; yellow, for intelligence and kindness; and blue, a symbol of trust and peace. Several beads were present, and three large feathers hung.

He smiled to himself, then closed his eyes, whispering,

"Tp, thank you, but I think you are my dreamcatcher..."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

total word : 1520

ugh i wrote this at 3am due to insomnia, but i like the plot...I hope I didn't make a lot of mistakes haha

And not having done as an English teacher said "a rabbit, carrot" lol

#daniel page #fanfic #harry potter magic awakened #HPMA x MC #daniel page x reader #hpma x reader

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asterjennifer · 11 months

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“Can you draw a cloud next to the spaceship for me, Saeyoung?” Saeran asked mumbled tender as his older brother measured him.

Saeyoung found the tone of voice fitting for the face he's able to look at in peace for once. No tears to be found in these round eyes, neither fear nor sadness. It's not often his little twin stared up in awe.

He hummed then, nodding his head at the small request. “Sure! I can do that.”

The other squeezed his wrist in excitement. They've been able to spend most of the day together since their mother had to leave for an reason unknown. She didn't elaborate on anything, simply told them to stay put if they wanted to see the next day coming.

But like Saeyoung has always been in the soul, he took the opportunity for his brother and himself to get up and do all kinds of things they've only been talking about before. Like eating ice cream outside. Or going for a short, hidden walk around the house. Especially for Saeran was it nice.

His legs hurt at first due to the aching in his bones, that's when you're not used to walking his big brother explained. Taking his fear of stepping forward when holding onto his arm tightly for support. Soon afterwards they managed a round around the house.

The pride in Saeran's eyes in that moment after reaching the door again had been undeniable and ever so gentle. Saeyoung read another book to him as well considering they didn't find the right timing for it since it's an adventure book.

Saeyoung had promised to read it right; implying they needed the freedom to play with the action it contained. Luckily today's the perfect situation to finally open these pages together and read through them. Saeran often giggled and made big eyes whenever Saeyoung empathized sounds or actions with his hands. Like the gunshots.

“Bam! Bam!” His fingers formed a pistol, shooting into the air with an eye pinched close to aim. “They shot like that, grazing the enemy so very skillfully.”

Saeran titled his head at the display in front of him. “Do you like guns? They are scary, don't you think?” He asked obvious.

“Hm… well, they are bad. That's true.” Saeoyung had concluded, sitting back down next to his twin at the ground.

He looked at Saeran for a short while, who waited for an answer. The innocence written all over his features despite the hardships of the days they spend in that hellhole. The pain and suffering never changed his soft heart, Saeyoung thought. Feeling his own heart melt in love albeit regret.

Saeran flinched out of reflex as Saeyoung reached out to stroke over his hair. “It's just to make it exciting, nobody gets hurt I promise.”

The day flew by outside the window and by the time they sat outside for some sky gazing. Sunrays shining down at the rather uncolored earth around them, yet giving it the perfect color to have it appear all warm. They sat beside each other and enjoyed the sun to the fullest, not really talking that much anymore.

They didn't need to; both figured individually. It's the feeling that counted, just like the fact of calmness they're capable of claiming for themselves. The house's often hectical in the most negative ways, not that they could face it very much. They're forced to regardless. Letting these days become so much more brighter in comparison.

An idea popped into Saeyoung's head, then. Anticipating the willingness of his little brother to write their heights at the wall. Sometimes, when their mother wasn't in the condition to catch them doing their own thing, they would do the small actions that brought them immense joy.

Like measuring their heights and see how they've grown over the last time they marked down the results. It's a reminder they both treasured – telling each other they survive and get to become bigger and bigger until the day they finally could escape the house they're trapped in. Living together for the rest of all days.

A dream shared within their hearts since the moment they could think, it's something that connected them. This kind of strength outshone the hatred of their parents; they lived on because they got a goal to reach once the heights were enough.

“You look taller to me now…” Saeran's words caught Saeyoung's attention right away. Looking down at him, he saw the same expression from before.

However, it still felt slightly different. “Do I?” He asked as he raised an eyebrow. The twin continued rubbing his wrist.

Then he shifted his stare to the window. “You always have been taller, but I sometimes forget that you're a lot taller than me.”

The one wearing the black tank tops frowned by these words, unsure what to make of them. He took the pen off the paper as he closed it. “But you have grown a lot, too. Look!”

He pointed the end of the pen to the new line. Saeran took a step away in order to gaze at it before blushing lightly. His lips parted and yet no sound came out of him. For a moment silence dominated the air between the two.

Thus Saeyoung placed his hand to his shoulder. “I think you have a good height, you're not too tall and not too short.”

Both could tell Saeran didn't quite believe the statement. On the contrary, he shook his head almost unnoticeable. “I don't know…”

The sad hint inside that doubt left Saeyoung to swallow a bitter taste. What could he say to make it better? To assure Saeran it's not about how tall or physical strong someone was? That his warm hands and heart were the true definition of strength?

Saeran sighed, closing his eyes while trying to gather himself. He didn't mean to ruin the nice moment. Never was it his intention to make things worse, somehow his emotions always ended up doing the opposite though. No matter how much he struggled to repress them, they're always on his sleeve. Therefore he rubbed his eyes.

“I'm sorry…” The high voice husked. “I mean… I'm glad I grew. And I feel good to have a taller brother, too. It's just…”

His words cut off in the back of his throat, taking in the difference on the wall. It's true and he meant it when saying he's happy that Saeyoung was the taller one of the two. It felt more like safety that way, giving him a place to hide away behind without being seen by the dark things.

On the other hand it's leaving an itchy feeling to his skin. Being the smaller one, the weaker of two made him the easier target for misery. Their mother came a lot more at him because of that. Of course he didn't desire for Saeyoung to be in trouble instead, that's never the case. It's more about the weakness that's glued to his bones ever since he's been born.

He both admired yet worried about Saeyoung always being the stronger one. How should he protect him in return? Could he ever repay him in some way for standing up for him as well? He's uncertain about it.

Saeyoung put the pen aside, the noise bringing Saeran out of his circling thoughts. “We are twins, aren't we?” He said with the familiar confidence.

Saeran stiffed slightly when his brother rested both hands on his shoulders, giving him eyes between certainty and care. “You are me and I am you. We are the other and that doesn't get defined by our height.”

“Are you sure…?” He couldn't help the question, but Saeyoung didn't seem to be mad at it. He just smiled.

“Of course! We share the same strength in here.” He poked the chest of his brother, right there were his heart was beating underneath. Saeran blinked frequently for a few times and relaxed again.

It felt good, knowing he's not beyond saving. That there's a chance for them both when hearing a verbal confirmation that his depressing thoughts weren't the reality of their future and even their present. Saeran reached out without another word, putting both arms around his older brother.

Saeyoung's air left his lunges at first by the sudden pressure, quickly he returned the hug anyway. They stood there, unsure how much time passed while holding onto each other. Neither of them cared as it's been something that calmed both their souls.

“Before mom comes back,” Saeoyung said after letting go. “Do you want to eat cake? I got some earlier from the woman at the church.”

These amber colored eyes glittered with the mentioning of something sweet to eat, Saeyoung was aware how much Saeran loved food that pleased his sweet tooth. The young boy made two fists with his hands, nodding his head hard. “Really? Yeah! I'd love to eat it with you!”

“Then let's get to it now, I'm sure it's going to be even tastier when we eat it together.”

Happy early birthday, Choi Twins 💕

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chronicallyonlinewriter · 5 days

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Bright Fire, if you please

Bright Fire is fun. I started writing it, but it just never ended up going anywhere. Basically, Ellie and Joel make it to Bill and Frank's compound, but Bill and Frank are still there. Not much has changed - Frank is still sick, but because they're still alive they (they = Frank) insist they stay for a night, and rest up before continuing out west.

Joel considers pawning Ellie off on Bill, but it's very apparent he won't leave Frank, who doesn't have a lot of time left. There is angst about Tess, of course, who was a friend to Bill, and a dear friend to Frank.

It pretty much means everything to Ellie, meeting two queer men happily in love at the end of the world.

Small snip:

“Stay there.”

For once, Ellie didn’t need to be told twice. Joel approached the fence alone, the DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE sign zip-tied to the chain-link already enough of a warning to curb any spark of defiance. She could hear it, anyway; the low hum resonating through the air, audible over the breeze and the twills of birds in the nearby trees – and this was far from the first electric fence she’d been around, so she knew better than to get too close to it.

She watched, instead, a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach; observed him shift on his feet slightly, hesitating for only a moment before he reached out, his hand still swollen, his knuckles scabbed and puffy. His thumb tapped a keypad quickly, six beeps stinging at her ears before a deeper hum groaned from the fence, a button on the keypad gleaming green. She didn’t miss the slight sigh of relief that pushed out of his lungs when the gate unlatched itself and swung open just a few inches, or the way he rounded his shoulders before he turned to face her again.

“Listen to me,” he said, and there was just enough gruffness in his voice to draw her gaze up to him. His jaw was set, his mouth a hard line. “You stay close. Don’t talk to ‘em, don’t answer any questions they ask you – I’ll handle everything. You keep that –” he gestured vaguely to her arm, neither her bite marks nor her bandages visible under her jacket sleeve, “covered the whole time. Y’hear me?”

“Sure thing,” she responded, somewhat dully. “You got a muzzle you want me to wear, while we’re at it?”

He didn’t answer; only huffed impatiently without bothering to rise to the bait, and she scowled even as he gestured for her to walk ahead of him. The gate groaned shut behind them, the latch snapping with a finality that severed the world outside, even if she could still see it between the metal links. That persistent hum immediately returned, prickling the hairs on Ellie's neck and setting her teeth on edge.

They walked together down a wide street now, her eyes sweeping across every building that they passed. She hadn’t known quite what to expect from Bill and Frank’s, but it certainly wasn’t this – what amounted to a whole town contained within electrified metal, the houses and other buildings comprised of peeling paint and sagging siding, but still whole, standing tall. Fall gnawed at the edges of summer here, and what the trees hadn’t managed to hold onto now blew across her feet, colorful leaves swirling in the wind and catching against the curbs. Ellie had never been in a place like this before; still filled with the remnants of Before, while so open, smelling of fresh air and crisp leaves. “How many people live here?” she asked, finally noticing that she’d begun to lag behind his much longer strides, and jogging to catch up.

“Just Bill and Frank,” he replied, though his mind seemed to be elsewhere, his gaze focused on a large white house looming on their left.

It was by far the largest one on the street, the paint a little less faded, the grass more neatly shorn. There were colorful flowers set into two large clay pots at either side of a white-painted wooden gate at the edge of the yard, and Ellie paused in front of one of them, bending down to sniff at the bright orange blossoms experimentally. “Don’t touch anything,” he called over his shoulder. Ellie, sure he wasn't looking, quickly squeezed a petal between her fingers. It gave away quickly, darkening and becoming slick against her skin, and she wiped her hand off against her jeans just as he paused, turning to look at her with an expectant expression. “C’mon.”

They didn’t even manage to make it halfway down the walkway before the door to the house burst open. “Oh, shit,” Ellie breathed, and it was instinct that made her duck behind Joel. A broad figure, his scruffy face contorted in a mask of fury, stormed down the porch steps, a shotgun clutched tight in his hands and the muzzle aimed right at them. She shot a panicked glance at Joel, expecting some decisive action, a whispered instruction, maybe even a mirror image of the weapon currently pointed at them. But he only grunted slightly, his fingers twisting over the pistol still holstered at his side but not drawing it free.

“Seriously?” he asked, clearly unimpressed.

“The hell you think you’re doing?” the man practically barked, his eyes still squinting down the barrel of his gun. “You just show up, don’t even radio ahead –”

“Didn’t have time, Bill,” said Joel impatiently. “Put the damn gun down.”

“Who is that?” Bill demanded, the shotgun dipping momentarily towards Ellie's direction as she peered around Joel’s back. Before she could react, Joel, with unexpected swiftness, moved a step sideways, placing himself squarely between her and the barrel of the gun – and this surprised her more than she would have liked it to. “Easy, there,” said Joel, his voice edged with warning. “We’re just passin’ through. Headin’ west, figured we’d stop here for supplies. You owe me after that last run, Bill –”

“I owe you – what, is this a damn joke–”

“Bill!” Another voice echoed from within the house, laced with exasperation. The shotgun dipped momentarily, Bill's jaw clenching like a vise. He didn't relax, eyes still narrowed at them, but his shoulders slumped, his righteous fury simmering down to a grudging suspicion. “For god’s sake, Bill, will you put that thing down?” The door to the house still stood wide open behind him, and there was a heavy thud from somewhere inside.

“Frank!” Bill turned on his heel, disappearing into the house without another glance at them. They could hear him inside of the house; more thumps following a string of muffled cursing.

“Dude.” Ellie took a step back from Joel. “What the fuck. I thought these were, like…friends of yours.”

“Just…stay here,” Joel huffed, shaking his head – and then he left her, too, disappearing into the house, his hand drifting away from his pistol with every step.

#the last of us #tlou #ao3 #fanfic #joel miller #fanfiction #Ellie

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queer-ragnelle · 5 days

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I would love your opinion on Black Sails! I was never able to finish it (even though I want to). Seasons 1-3 felt linear and natural in the way the characters were driven and motivated. Season 4 changed so much... undoing character growth, scrapping character beliefs for new motives that were narratively weaker, and using way more shock/gore than there had been used previously. I would love to know your opinions on it, and if I'm talking out of my ass on this. Love the show! Would love to finish it. Would genuinely love to hear you do a character analysis, if you felt up to it. Ty!

Hi Anon! I'm going to put this below a cut since it's not strictly relevant to this blog and yet I have much to say about it lol

It's been over a year since I watched Black Sails in it's entirety, but I'll go on record saying it's the best show I've ever seen. I love the writing, the acting, the costuming, the filmography, the music, the everything. It is [almost] perfectly balanced. Ironically I felt season 1 was the weakest and didn't take the same issues with season 4 as you did. My biggest criticism of season 1 involves the plot regarding Max's captivity on the beach. I think connecting her with Anne could've been achieved some other way (or even a similar plot just overall less sexual violence/quicker resolution). But even so, I still stand by that I recommend it, particularly to those who love a blend of historical and fiction/mythic characters.

I would love to see an Arthurian retelling on that scale and with that tone. Starz had produced their show Camelot in 2011, three years before Black Sails, and while that first season also has some issues, I'll forever be heartbroken it wasn't renewed. I fully believe they would have developed Camelot into an epic tale ala Black Sails, particularly with strong female characters and queer storylines. We could've had it all....

On that note, Black Sails was absolutely vital in my journey as an author adapting Arthurian legend in a historical 6th century. The meta about ambiguous storytelling subject to biased perception or outright misinformation and thus misconceptions about people involved in historical events fascinated me. On one hand you have Jack Rackham's obsession with his legacy, almost uncannily aware he's in a story and his limited time to leave his mark. Then there's Charles Vane's hanging in Nassau, when the history books say he died at Port Royal. It circumvents expectations, not with shock value (looking at you, Game of Thrones finale), but in service to the narrative by calling into question the validity of our accepted reality. Beyond that, it seamlessly blends historical figures, the cast of Treasure Island, and original characters created to incorporate more women and people of color into the narrative. Everyone's developed and fascinating and complex with clear motivations and fleshed out backstories (except for Silver, lol, which itself makes him compelling). Bernard Cornwell's Warlord Chronicles does similar things. He utilized Saint Derfel as his point of view character to analyze the Arthurian legend through a [semi-]historical lens. But I think Black Sails does it better. It also seems to transcend genre at times. It's adventure and action, but it's got everything from romance between a network of characters in all different Stiuationships to the horror of Flint's past haunting him (literally). And yet it never feels like too much. It doesn't lose track of what it's doing. Nothing set up is dropped or forgotten about. It's frustrating when the goal post moves yet again, but in a way which draws us in closer to the characters and makes us all the more driven to see it through. When another hiccup arises we must overcome, or even a devastating and insurmountable shock (Miranda....), it feels earned. Of course that was liable to happen. How could we have been so foolish to think things would have worked out?

This show gave me permission, and frankly, the determination, to experiment with my own retelling. The people who made Black Sails knew when to stay true to the past, drawing on facts to develop the story in accurate ways (such as utilizing the colony of escaped slaves to bring Madi and her people into the story (which also ties into Treasure Island in which Silver had a black wife!)) and when to follow the rule of cool (Jack Rackham in his definitely-historically-unviable-but-undeniably-cool shades). Literally life changing.

I don't think I could narrow down the characters enough to do a full analysis of one of them, I love them all for different reasons. But I did name my borzoi Long John Silver, so, I kind of have to talk about him, right? Well I think the character's lack of a backstory, ie his unwillingness to disclose it, acts as a surrogate for the viewer. We ride the wave with Silver, thrust into this predicament with the map and the gold and the very culture of Nassau's pirate trade whilst Silver somehow remains a blank slate mystery as he navigates this dangerous world with a quick mind alone. While Flint could certainly be considered the main character, and we're quite often in his head, his memories, his nightmares even, I don't think the viewer's supposed to identify as him so much as with him. Flint is Flint. But we are Silver. (Scary thought lol)

If you couldn't tell already, I'm long winded. :^) So I'll stop here and the real deep dive character analysis happens in my books. Gawain is just landlocked Flint if you squint<3 Thanks for asking about Black Sails! Everyone go watch it.

#black sails #arthurian legend #ask #anonymous

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