#Cloud Hosting Talent

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Top Cloud Hosting Companies NEED TALENT! | 

We discuss a program that has empowered individuals from various backgrounds to transition into the tech industry, specifically cloud computing who are now happily making six-figure salaries without the burden or expense of a four-year college degree. For more visit here

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𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you fall in love and never look back

warning : sexual content included - minors do not interact

you're used to pressure. you live for it. ninety-minute matches in front of tens of thousands, champions league nights under the floodlights, the roar of fans at the emirates singing your name. you’ve made your name in the football world with more than just talent. precision. composure. class. arsenal through and through. lioness by blood.

the media calls you “the rolls royce of english football.” you never let it get to your head. but there’s no denying—you’re top tier.

so when your agent sends you an invite to an exclusive athlete gala in los angeles—hosted by nike, packed with global stars—you don’t blink. you pack a tailored suit, hop on a private flight, and plan to shake hands, pose for photos, then bounce.

you didn’t plan on meeting her.

the event is all flashing lights and clinking glasses. you’re posted up at the open bar, sipping on whisky, nodding politely to athletes you recognize from the nba, the wnba, even tennis. but none of them really spark your interest—until she walks in.

azzi fudd.

you've seen her on social media. uconn guard. sharp shooter. but in person, she’s something else. her hair is soft and curled at the ends, makeup subtle, dress hugging her in all the right ways. she carries herself like someone who knows her worth, but doesn’t need to flaunt it.

she spots you first. somehow.

“english?” she said, tilting her head with a smirk when she reached you.

you raised a brow, sipping your champagne. “that obvious?”

azzi laughed, and you swear the sound settled something in you.

“it’s the posture,” she teased. “and the accent. and the fact that you’ve been silently judging everyone’s outfits for the last ten minutes.”

“fair,” you said, chuckling. “you lot dress different over here.”

“and what, you dress better?” she asked, eyeing your crisp black suit, your open collar, the single chain at your neck.

you smirked. “you tell me.”

she laughs, eyes lighting up. “azzi.”

“y/n,” you say, offering your hand.

her grip is firm. confident.

“i've watched your highlights,” she says. “you make the pitch look like art.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you’ve been watchin’ football?”

“i’ve been watching you.”

that was the beginning.

the night drifted by like something out of a movie. you talked and laughed like old friends catching up after years apart. she asked about your training, your matches, what it’s like playing in front of screaming north london crowds. you asked about uconn, her rehab, what drives her to push even harder despite the setbacks.

“no one ever asks me about that,” she said at one point, her voice softer, almost vulnerable.

you leaned in. “well, they should. you’ve done somethin’ incredible.”

after about thirty minutes of talking—real talking—azzi glanced around the busy crowd, then looked back at you.

“you wanna get outta here?” she asked.

you raised a brow. “and go where?”

she shrugged, grinning. “somewhere quieter.”

you ended up outside—on the rooftop patio, behind a velvet rope that no one seemed to be guarding. the music from inside was muffled now, just a thump beneath the hush of the evening breeze.

city lights shimmered in the distance. stars peeked between clouds.

you stood side-by-side at the edge of the railing, her arms resting on the stone, yours beside hers.

“it’s loud in there,” she said.

“too loud,” you agreed.

silence stretched between you—but it wasn’t awkward. it was easy. comforting. natural.

“i don’t usually do this,” she said quietly.

“do what?”

“talk to strangers this long. especially at these things. i hate the attention.”

you nodded. “same.”

she looked at you. really looked. “you’re not what i expected.”

you turned slightly toward her. “what did you expect?”

she smiled. “something more... intense. more guarded.”

you grinned. “you’re not far off. i just like your energy.”

that made her blush. you noticed. and she noticed that you noticed.

“you’re smooth,” she said.

you shrugged. “only when it’s worth it.”

and it was. god, it was.

you talked for over an hour out there. about music. childhood memories. dream matches. the kind of goals that weren’t just on the scoreboard.

she told you her favorite movie. you made fun of it. she told you she’d beat you in one-on-one. you challenged her to prove it.

eventually, someone called her back in. some media thing. she looked at you like she didn’t want to go.

“so… this was nice,” she said, playing with the edge of her ring.

“it was more than nice,” you replied. “you wanna do it again sometime?”

her eyes met yours. “i do.”

you both reached for your phones at the same time, laughing. you swapped numbers. she leaned in, gave you a hug—warm, slow, lingering just enough to tell you she meant it.

“don’t be a stranger,” she whispered.

“don’t give me a reason to be,” you whispered back.

and then she was gone.

but your phone buzzed that same night.

azzi fudd: u made that party 10x better lol. safe flight back. text me when u land? :)

you smiled.

and replied immediately.

your schedules are brutal. you’re back in london before the jet lag even clears, but she’s already waiting on facetime. she calls from her dorm room—head wrapped in a bonnet, hoodie too big, smile soft.

“hey, england,” she teases.

you’re in bed, shirtless, chain resting on your chest, tired from training but wide awake at the sight of her.

“hey, princess.”

you talk for an hour. then two. she plays you music she’s working out to. you show her your boots for the next match. she giggles when you call cleats “boots,” and you tease her for calling football “soccer.”

“you ever gonna come see what proper football looks like?” you ask one night.

she grins. “only if you come to a uconn game.”

“deal.”

you text daily. facetime every night. she sees you in the training room, laughing with teammates. you see her in the locker room, towel slung over her shoulder.

the connection isn’t just romantic—it’s real. she asks about your childhood. you ask about her faith. you start sharing things you haven’t told anyone. and somehow, even thousands of miles apart, she becomes your peace.

you start sending each other care packages. she sends you uconn merch. you send her your match-worn jersey with your name on the back.

one night, as you're lying in bed, watching her yawn on facetime, she says it first.

“i miss you.”

you bite your lip, feeling that warmth in your chest. “i miss you too, az.”

she flies out on her off-weekend.

you pick her up from heathrow yourself, hat low, hoodie up, trying to dodge paparazzi. she runs into your arms like you’ve known each other forever.

you show her london the way tourists never see it—quiet coffee shops in islington, rooftop views in shoreditch, a walk along the thames at midnight. she holds your hand when no one’s watching.

and then, match day.

you’re starting for arsenal. she's in your box seat, wearing your coat, scarf wrapped around her neck.

you score the winning goal. a screamer from outside the box. and when you run past the crowd, you point to her.

the cameras catch it. the internet loses its mind.

@/uclionesshq: y/n scores an absolute rocket… and points straight at azzi fudd? is this a soft launch or am i delusional??

@/bballxfooty: azzi fudd watching her girlfriend play for arsenal?? they’re so international it hurts. i’m sobbing.

@/woagzone: the way azzi’s smiling from the stands... yeah, we lost.

you’re back in your flat. she’s curled up in your bed, wearing your hoodie, skin glowing in the soft lamp light.

“i’ve never felt this safe,” she whispers, tracing her fingers down your forearm.

you kiss her temple. “you’ve got me now.”

you fall asleep holding her. the kind of sleep where nothing aches. where the world can’t reach you.

you show up in connecticut in a long coat, hat low again, but your frame unmistakable. when azzi checks into the game, she looks into the crowd and beams.

you watch her dominate the court—draining threes, quick cuts, fearless. you’re standing before the buzzer even sounds.

@/espnw: arsenal star y/n spotted court side for uconn vs. tennessee. came all the way from london for azzi fudd. love is real.

@/wosoqueens: y/n clapping court side like a proud wife is my roman empire.

you’re tangled up in her sheets. she’s wearing just a tee. you’ve got your arms wrapped around her waist as she rests her head on your chest.

“you ever think about what this is?” she asks.

you kiss her knuckles. “i think about it all the time.”

“we’re making it work.”

“'course we are. that’s what happens when you’ve got somethin’ worth holdin’ onto.”

she pulls the blanket over both of you and whispers, “stay a little longer?”

you do.

the world doesn’t know what you are.

not really.

they know you’re something, though.

the glances during games. the posts that show two mugs on a counter instead of one. the matching trainers. the way azzi was spotted in london twice in a single month. and you? you’ve suddenly developed a love for women’s college basketball.

you two never said a word publicly. but the internet doesn’t need confirmation. it’s already in love with the story.

you’re doing press before arsenal’s champions league tie against lyon. you sit on the set in a tailored track jacket, crisp fade, diamond stud glinting under the lights. you’ve done a hundred interviews—but this one feels different. because you know what’s coming.

the interviewer smiles, flipping through her notes with a glint in her eye. “y/n, your form lately has been phenomenal. and off the pitch, you’ve got fans speculating about some… cross-sport romance?”

you smirk, sitting back in your chair.

she pushes, teasing. “you’ve been spotted at a few uconn games recently… and i think the world noticed you pointing to a certain basketball player after your last goal.”

you chuckle, shaking your head. “you lot pay more attention to who i’m lookin’ at than the goal itself, clearly.”

the interviewer grins. “so no confirmation? nothing to share with the romantics out there?”

you lift an eyebrow, grin subtle. “i’m focused on arsenal. and my game.”

a beat.

“but i will say… i’m very proud of certain people in my life right now.”

the clip goes viral within minutes.

azzi’s sitting in front of the press after dropping 27 points against south carolina. she’s radiant—sweat still glistening, hair pulled into a bun, eyes bright.

a reporter raises a hand. “azzi, we’ve seen some famous faces court side for your games lately—one in particular. arsenal’s y/n. are they just a fan of basketball, or…?”

azzi smiles, biting her lip.

“y/n is an incredible athlete. and… a great person to have around.”

the room chuckles.

“would you say they motivate you?”

azzi leans forward. “let’s just say… i like having people in my corner who understand what pressure feels like.”

she never confirms. never denies. but the way she smiles as she says it says everything.

you’re in bed, shirtless, chain glinting in the low light. azzi’s curled up on her dorm bed, hoodie swallowing her frame.

“why do i feel like we’re dating and doing pr at the same time?” she says through a laugh.

you grin. “you handled that well, love. straight outta the ‘don’t kiss and tell’ handbook.”

she mimics your accent terribly. “just proud of certain people in my life, innit?”

you laugh hard, chest shaking. “oi, don’t ever do that again.”

her smile softens. “i miss you.”

you close your eyes for a moment. “i know. me too.”

there’s silence, but it’s full. comforting.

“you coming out for the next match?” she asks.

you nod. “wouldn’t miss it.”

it starts small. a video of you cooking in a kitchen that isn’t yours—azzi’s laugh in the background.

her story the next day: you driving, hand on the gearshift, ring on your pinky catching the light.

you post a photo of two nike duffle bags side-by-side on a hotel floor.

she posts a mirror selfie. you’re blurry in the back, sitting on the bed, scrolling your phone.

comments flood in:

@/bballxwoso: this is the softest soft launch in history. just say you’re in love already.

@/footyfangirl: they’ve posted each other’s fingertips and i’m still screaming.

you’ve got a rare week off. you fly to see her and stay in a low-key airbnb outside hartford. no cameras. no noise. just the two of you.

she’s laying on your chest after a movie, eyes half-lidded. you’re playing with her curls.

“you ever get scared?” she asks quietly.

you hum. “of what?”

“this… getting bigger. people knowing. what it means if we go fully public.”

you nod. “yeah. but i’m not afraid of us. just the noise around us.”

she looks up at you, eyes soft. “i’m not hiding you. just protecting us.”

you lean down, kissing her forehead. “i get it. and when you’re ready… i’m right there.”

you fall asleep like that, hearts in sync.

@/wagculture: azzi fudd just called y/n “someone in her corner” and now i’m crying in international couple.

@/ballinnboots: they won’t confirm, but my serotonin confirms for them.

@/sportsnships: this is like if christen press and tobin heath had a gen z reboot.

it’s late. you’re about to kick off in the champions league semis. she’s in her dorm, wearing your tee, facetime tilted just right.

“you got this,” she says, voice soft. “lock in. be brilliant.”

you smirk. “you’ll be watchin’, yeah?”

“always.”

you glance at the camera. “i love you, az.”

there’s a pause.

then her smile blooms. “i love you too, y/n.”

2026 creeps in with quiet ambition.

your days are full of football and facetimes. her nights are full of training and pressure, the wnba draft looming like a bright star on the horizon.

you’ve both gotten better at handling the distance—but the ache never goes away. every goodbye feels a little heavier. every hug at the airport feels like it's not long enough.

but you’re still hers. and she’s still yours.

new york is buzzing. cameras flash. reporters in sleek suits swarm the red carpet. inside the draft venue, azzi sits front and center, dressed in an all-white suit that hugs her like it was tailored by angels. calm on the surface. electric underneath.

you’re there too, seated a few rows back, behind her agent and team. dressed lowkey—black turtleneck, silver chain, dark coat. watching.

not to be seen. just to be near her. just to witness her moment.

when the commissioner steps up to the podium and says her name—

“with the first pick in the 2026 wnba draft, the los angeles sparks select… azzi fudd, university of connecticut.”

—it feels like your chest might crack open with pride.

the crowd erupts. cameras zoom in as she stands, dimpled smile lighting up the world. she hugs her mom, her teammates, her coaches—and just before she walks onto the stage, her eyes flick toward you.

she doesn’t say anything. just meets your gaze and gives you the tiniest, most intentional nod.

you nod back. hand on your heart.

that’s my girl.

later, after the chaos has died down and the press is over, you’re both back at the hotel. she’s taken off her heels, sitting in your lap on the balcony of the suite, city lights flickering below.

she’s still glowing. you’ve got your arms wrapped around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder.

"you looked like a goddess up there," you whisper.

she smiles, hands covering yours. "i kept thinking, ‘y/n’s watching.’ that kept me grounded."

you kiss the side of her neck. "you earned all of it. and then some."

she leans her head back against your shoulder, quiet for a beat. “i want you with me. in la. i know we’ve never said that out loud, but… i want you here.”

you hold her tighter.

“i know,” you say softly. “i want that too.”

you knew it was coming. you’ve known for a while.

but when the press release drops, the football world still spins on its axis.

"y/n to leave arsenal after eight seasons, signs with angel city fc in los angeles"

the post goes up on all platforms—black and red graphic with your profile, a quote from you in bold text: “sometimes, even home changes shape. i’m ready for a new chapter.”

you didn’t mention azzi.

you didn’t need to.

@/arsenalwosofans: y/n leaving arsenal? my world just shattered in four languages.

@/uswntdaily: y/n to angel city??? she’s really going to be in the same city as azzi. i’m eating this power couple up.

@/footygirlunited: they won’t say a word and yet i’m crying like they just proposed on live tv.

@/bballxfootycore: the way azzi went #1 to la… and a few months later y/n signs with angel city… do you believe in fate or do you believe in fudd x y/n?

you move into a place just outside downtown. a three-bedroom loft, all hardwood floors and open windows. azzi’s duffel is already by the door when you arrive.

she walks in, tank top and sweats, smile soft. “welcome home.”

you drop your bag and walk to her, arms sliding around her waist.

“i missed you,” you murmur into her neck.

she exhales, relief flooding her. “missed you more.”

you rest your forehead against hers.

“now i can be there for all of it,” you say. “your first game. your rookie season. your bad days. your best ones.”

she blinks slowly. “we’re really doing this.”

“we’ve been doing it.”

“but now we don’t have to leave.”

you kiss her—slow, deep, and full of promise. “not for a while, love.”

it’s late summer in l.a.

you play first—angel city vs. portland thorns. you assist a goal and nearly score one yourself. the crowd roars when azzi’s spotted in the stands, rocking your kit, hair in a bun, proudly clapping.

later that night, the roles reverse. you’re court side at crypto.com arena as the sparks face the liberty. she hits the game-winning three.

she points to you as she runs back on defense.

and you? you’re already standing, arms in the air, grin splitting your face.

and twitter? still losing it.

@/angelcityhq: y/n dropping dimes in the afternoon and cheering on her girl court side at night… this is the crossover episode we deserved.

@/wosoxwnba: power couple. first pick. big leagues. big love. big dreams.

you’d forgotten what it was like to not wake up next to her every morning.

no countdown to goodbye. no long-haul flights. no screen between you and her smile.

just sunlight pouring into the la loft and azzi, bare-faced and warm in your hoodie, mumbling something about coffee as she wraps her arms around your waist.

you’d give up the world to freeze this version of life.

you settle into a rhythm faster than expected. you train at angel city’s complex, she trains with the sparks. you both come home exhausted most days, but there's a new kind of peace in the tiredness—because it leads back to each other.

you take turns cooking. she sings in the kitchen sometimes, off-key but confident, while you season everything with a heavy hand and a smirk.

“why do you act like paprika is personality?” she teases, resting against the counter.

“and why do you act like boiled broccoli is gourmet?” you shoot back.

she throws a dishtowel at you. you catch it midair. she rolls her eyes and kisses you anyway.

you walk hand-in-hand through downtown when no one’s really paying attention—hoodies up, fingers intertwined. you sit together in low-lit corners of cafés, her leg pressed against yours beneath the table. it’s not hiding. it’s guarding.

but the city isn’t blind.

photos surface. grainy shots of the two of you laughing in line at trader joe’s. a blurry picture of you with your hand at the small of her back, guiding her through a crowd. a fan tiktok captures azzi running into your arms outside the sparks’ practice facility, her voice saying “baby” clear as day.

at a post-game interview, a reporter tries to slide it in, casual.

“you’ve been looking more settled off the court lately, azzi. happy. is there someone special we should know about?”

azzi just smiles, grabs her water bottle, and says, “i’m focused on basketball. but i’ve got good people around me.”

at an angel city press day, you’re cornered too.

“you’ve been in la for a few months now—fans have noticed you’ve been spending time with a certain sparks rookie. can we expect a power couple debut anytime soon?”

you chuckle, cool as ever.

“i think people should focus more on the way she plays than who she’s with. girl’s a star. let her shine.”

no confirmations. no denials.

just fire. just finesse.

@/wnbaxwoso: they’re so good at dodging questions it’s actually elite. ballers and pr-trained? iconic.

@/laduo_daily: they really said “mind your business but also yes we’re in love” and i respect it.

@/cuffingseason: the way azzi fudd lights up when she’s asked about y/n? i’m writing my vows now.

she’s fresh out the shower, hair damp, wearing just one of your oversized tees. you’re on the couch in grey sweats, watching highlights with the sound low.

azzi crawls into your lap, legs tucked on either side of you. her skin is warm. she smells like vanilla and citrus.

“you okay?” she asks, fingers resting lightly on your chest.

you nod. “just thinking.”

“about?”

you hesitate, then sigh. “feels like we’re on the edge of something. like… people are starting to really see us.”

she leans her forehead against yours. “and?”

“and i don’t want it to ruin this.”

“it won’t,” she whispers. “they can look all they want. what we have? they don’t get to touch it.”

you wrap your arms around her waist and pull her closer.

“you’re everything,” you murmur into her skin.

you start walking her into the tunnel before every sparks game now. you don’t even try to be discreet anymore. you stand behind the barrier while she warms up, nodding to her when she looks your way.

she always does.

before your own matches, she’s there too. in black sunglasses, fitted angel city gear, and your kit number in a chain around her neck.

fans notice. fans scream.

@/angelcityhearts: azzi waiting in the tunnel for y/n after the game? she’s giving supportive wife energy.

@/sparksxacfc: this isn’t just a crossover. this is an era.

@/wnbaxnwsl: they keep acting like they’re not the hottest couple in la. sweethearts, you are.

it’s quiet on the roof of your building. you’ve got a blanket over your shoulders, azzi between your legs, her back against your chest.

below, the lights of la shimmer. but you’re not looking at the city. you’re looking at her.

"you ever think about forever?" she asks suddenly.

you tilt your head, cheek against her curls. "yeah. with you? all the time."

she smiles, closing her eyes, fingers laced with yours.

neither of you says anything else.

because sometimes, love doesn’t need explaining.

it just needs space to breathe.

and in la—together—you’ve finally got it.

los angeles had changed everything.

what used to feel like distance now feels like grounding. you wake up next to her. you fall asleep with your hand resting lightly on her hip. the city buzzes around you, but all you care about is her voice in the morning and her laugh in your kitchen.

you never wanted the fame. you wanted football. but somehow, the world kept looking.

the pitch is clean. nike wants a joint campaign. you, the english footballing phenom. her, the wnba’s brightest new star. both in la. both on the rise.

“power. precision. partnership.”

that’s the tagline.

they film the campaign over two weeks—split screens of you in angel city black and pink, her in sparks gold and purple. shots of you sprinting down the wing. her launching a perfect three. your silhouettes passing in the tunnel. a final moment where you stand shoulder to shoulder, backs turned, “fudd” and “y/l/n” side by side on your jerseys.

the internet loses it.

@/nikewomen: two sports. two cities. one force. [#dualforce | coming soon]

@/sapphicsports: why is this the sexiest campaign in sports history? they didn’t even touch hands and i screamed.

@/ballerbaesunited: i saw a full second of eye contact in that trailer and now i believe in love again.

still, neither of you confirm anything. just coy smiles in interviews and “we respect each other’s game.”

but something is shifting.

you're tired of loving her in the shadows.

you rent a house away from the city for a weekend. just the two of you. no cameras. no fans. just ocean, pine trees, and silence. she’s been working nonstop, and you’ve watched her shoulders sink lower every time she checks her phone.

on the second night, you cook dinner. nothing fancy—grilled salmon, her favorite roasted potatoes, wine on the deck. she’s wearing your hoodie and her curls are loose and wild in the sea breeze.

you give her the ring after dessert.

no kneeling. no speeches.

you reach into your pocket, pull out the box, and slide it in front of her while she’s mid-laugh.

she freezes. looks at you. then the ring.

“y/n…”

“i want forever with you,” you say quietly. “i don’t care if the world knows. i just want you to know.”

she opens the box with trembling fingers. the diamond isn’t flashy—but it’s clean, clear, timeless.

tears rise in her eyes.

“yes,” she whispers. “yes, yes, yes.”

you pull her into your arms, holding her like you’ll never let go.

you don’t plan to.

back inside, rain begins tapping against the windows.

you lead her to the bedroom with your hand gently cradling her jaw, thumb brushing over her cheek. she’s still a little breathless, eyes wide and glistening. you kiss her like she’s sacred—like you’re thanking the universe for giving her to you.

clothes fall away in the quiet.

your hands are reverent, movements slow. her name leaves your lips like a prayer, whispered against her neck, her shoulder, her chest. you don’t rush. you trace every inch of her skin like it’s poetry you’ve waited your whole life to read.

she holds your face while you move over her, guiding your rhythm with soft touches and sighs. you kiss her fingers—especially the one with the ring. her hips rise to meet you, and when she comes undone, it’s with her head buried against your throat and your name on her lips like gospel.

after, you lie tangled in the sheets, heartbeats steady, her leg draped over your waist. she looks at the ring again, smiling so hard it hurts.

“this is ours,” she whispers.

you nod, eyes half-closed. “always.”

the invite arrives on crisp ivory card stock. your name printed in gold: y/n y/l/n – nominee, ballon d’or féminin.

you’ve dreamt about this moment since you were a kid in england, dribbling a ball on concrete playgrounds. and yet all you can think about is who you want by your side.

you ask azzi to come.

she says yes immediately.

it’s the first public event you attend together as a pair. no hiding. you walk the carpet first—tailored black suit, clean line fade, quiet confidence. cameras flash. reporters call your name.

then azzi steps out beside you.

she’s in a sleek black gown, hair slicked into a bun, the engagement ring tucked behind subtle waves. she’s radiant. and standing so close to you that it’s impossible not to notice.

reporters pounce.

“azzi, are you two…?”

you grin, arm around her waist. “we’re here to celebrate football tonight.”

a red carpet interviewer smiles slyly. “just football?”

azzi chuckles. “just greatness.”

they laugh. you both redirect. nothing confirmed. nothing denied. but the way you look at each other in between flashbulbs says more than words ever could.

“and the 2026 ballon d’or féminin goes to…”

a pause. a drumroll.

“…y/n y/l/n.”

the applause is thunderous. you rise slowly, heart thudding against your ribs. azzi grabs your hand as you pass, squeezing once, her eyes gleaming.

you take the stage, accepting the golden ball with both hands, blinking into the lights.

“thank you,” you say. “to my clubs. my country. my teammates. and to someone watching tonight… who’s shown me that love doesn’t weaken focus—it sharpens it.”

you glance toward azzi. she beams, eyes glassy.

a photo circulates from inside the ceremony—azzi cheering, hands raised, the ring catching the light on her finger.

@/femmesoffooty: that’s a ring. that’s an engagement ring. you can’t lie to me anymore.

@/gaysinsport: y/n just won the ballon d’or and she’s engaged to the love of her life. is this tomdaya all over again?

@/sportslesbians: azzi in that black dress with a diamond on her finger and y/n winning the biggest award in football. it’s their world. we’re just sobbing in it.

you toss your blazer on the couch, loosen your collar. azzi sits on the bed, scrolling through her phone with a half-smile.

“think they noticed?” she asks, showing you the zoomed-in ring tweet.

you laugh, walking over. “let ‘em.”

she looks up at you, pride and softness in her eyes. “you’re the best player in the world.”

you lean down, hands on either side of her face. “only thing i care about is being yours.”

she pulls you down into her arms.

the world is watching now.

and for the first time… you’re letting it.

you never thought you’d get excited about countertops.

but here you are—azzi by your side, hand in yours, arguing about quartz versus marble with an interior designer who is both frightened and fascinated by how seriously you take backsplash color schemes.

you’re standing in the middle of an empty living room, all high ceilings and sunlight and possibility, and she’s looking at the space like it already belongs to her.

to you both.

you squeeze her hand. she grins. “feels real now, huh?”

you nod. “yeah. real—and forever.”

you buy it just outside west hollywood. a spanish-style bungalow with arched doorways, a tiled patio, a garden in the back where azzi swears she’ll grow tomatoes but forgets to water succulents. you spend weekends building furniture, painting walls, and arguing over where the couch should go.

(it ends up in the exact spot she picked. you don't mind.)

one afternoon, you catch her slow-dancing to no music in the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon like a mic. you lean against the doorframe and watch her with a smile tugging at your mouth.

this is what peace looks like.

this is what love feels like.

the engagement is private. the wedding won’t be.

you both know the headlines are coming. wnba star and ballon d’or winner to tie the knot. you don’t care. not anymore.

you sit at the dining table one night, laptops open, pinterest boards synced, and a bottle of wine between you. she wants an outdoor wedding. you want something small, intimate. you settle on a coastal venue north of malibu—cliffside views, lots of open air, and the sea close enough to hear.

guest list? selective.

just friends. family. teammates. the people who know you, not just your stats.

you make the playlist yourselves—slow r&b, golden-era soul, a few old-school uk garage tracks that make her roll her eyes and laugh when you dance around the room like a fool.

you add “adorn” by miguel and “like i’m gonna lose you” by meghan trainor to the slow dance list. she adds “golden hour” and your eyes almost well up.

“why that one?” you ask softly.

she looks at you, eyes shining. “because that’s what being with you feels like.”

the night of the housewarming party, your home is filled with laughter, music, and the smell of grilled chicken and baked mac and cheese.

angel city teammates show up first, bringing ridiculous gifts—like a neon sign that says “goal diggers” and a framed picture of you mid-slide tackle with “our king” scribbled across it in gold marker.

then the sparks players roll in, loud and rowdy, and immediately start challenging your friends to beer pong in the backyard.

paige bueckers and nika mühl arrive with azzi’s old uconn friends. you’d met them once before, but this time they act like old family. paige throws her arms around you like a sister. caitlin hands you a bottle of wine and says, “if you ever hurt her, i’ll ruin your credit score.”

you laugh. “noted.”

your family had flown in the night before—your mum already tried to rearrange your spice rack, your dad had teared up walking through the garden.

azzi’s parents arrive last. her mom brings a massive casserole dish and her dad immediately grills you about wedding logistics.

“beach weddings get windy,” he warns, sipping lemonade. “i hope your suits are tailored tight.”

azzi rolls her eyes. “dad.”

you just smile and say, “they’re perfect.”

midway through the evening, you find her in the kitchen, crouched on the floor with a plate of cake and a fork in her hand.

she looks up at you, cheeks full.

you laugh. “you hiding?”

“they keep asking about the wedding,” she mumbles.

“mine keep asking when we’re having kids,” you say, crouching beside her.

she snorts. “they don’t waste time, do they?”

you brush a crumb off her lip. “we could run away.”

she hums. “we already did. just in a very well-furnished house.”

you kiss her softly, slow, ignoring the distant sounds of music and shouting and someone—probably paige—trying to start karaoke.

“i like this life,” she whispers.

“i like it with you.”

you collapse on the couch together, lights low, dishes half-washed. she’s in one of your tees again, hair up in a messy bun, bare feet resting in your lap.

you play with her fingers, gently spinning the ring on her hand.

“so this is it,” she says, half-asleep. “i’m excited for forever.”

you nod. “and it only gets better.”

she yawns, then turns into you, her body melting into your side.

and as you hold her in the quiet aftermath of celebration, in the home you built together, you realize something simple and beautiful:

this isn’t the beginning of the end of your story.

it’s the beginning of the best part.

the day of the wedding begins slow.

the world outside is still wrapped in fog, but inside the coastal venue, sunlight begins to filter through glass windows and soft white curtains. you wake up in separate rooms—old school tradition, azzi’s idea—and yet your first instinct is still to reach for her.

you resist. barely.

your suit is classic—clean black, tailored within an inch of its life. your cufflinks are a gift from her. “always yours,” engraved in tiny script.

the ceremony is outside. white flowers, pale green vines, and a view of the cliffs that seems to go on forever. every seat is filled with someone who’s shaped your story. your mum dabs at her eyes. azzi’s grandmother clutches a handkerchief like it’s holy. teammates whisper excitedly.

then she walks down the aisle.

you forget how to breathe.

she’s in a custom off-the-shoulder gown that hugs her body and moves like water. her hair is pinned back with soft curls brushing her cheeks. she meets your eyes and smiles—and in that moment, nothing else exists.

your hand shakes slightly when you reach for hers.

she grips it tight.

after the ceremony, you sneak away. just the two of you. up on the cliff, overlooking the sea.

no audience. no pressure. just love.

you sit together on a low stone wall, legs touching, holding hands.

“i wanted to say this without the world listening,” you begin, voice low. “because some things are too sacred for microphones.”

she nods, eyes already shimmering.

you breathe.

“i’ve spent most of my life being strong. stoic. people expect it. but with you, i learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s trust. and i trust you with every part of me. the loud ones. the quiet ones. the ones i still don’t understand. i choose you—every day, in every way.”

she blinks, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

her voice is soft when she speaks.

“i used to wonder if someone like you could ever love someone like me. i never had the answers. but you didn’t give me answers—you gave me home. you gave me safety, joy, laughter i didn’t know i needed. i love you, y/n. all of you. and i’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how much.”

you kiss her like it’s your first and last time.

the wind dances around you.

you fly out two days later, in island villa over crystal blue water. just enough distance from the world to make it feel like paradise.

your days are sun-soaked. mornings with lazy breakfasts, late afternoon swims, dinners barefoot in the sand. azzi wears oversized sunglasses and your shirts as cover-ups. she’s never looked more at peace.

but the nights? the nights belong to you.

you take your time.

that first night, she’s in black lace, skin glowing from sun and champagne. you press her against the glass doors of the villa, the moonlight catching on her ring.

“i married the most beautiful woman in the world,” you whisper, lips trailing down her throat.

she moans. “prove it.”

her back hits the bed with a soft thud, legs parting on instinct as you crawl between them. azzi looks up at you with wide, expectant eyes, lips already parted, chest rising and falling with anticipation. she’s already breathless, and you haven’t even touched her properly yet.

your hands trail slowly down her sides, fingers teasing the hem of her shirt before pulling it over her head, revealing smooth skin and toned curves you’ve craved all day. she bites her lip when you lean in, mouth ghosting over her collarbone, not quite kissing—just letting your breath skim her skin until she shivers.

you smirk. “so needy already.”

azzi nods, flushed and eager. “please…”

you take your time stripping her, peeling off her shorts, then her underwear, slow and deliberate. she lifts her hips to help you, her thighs already twitching as your fingers graze the inside of them. you press a kiss just above her mound, and her fingers instantly knot into the sheets.

one long lick. that’s all it takes to have her gasping, her hips jolting up into your mouth.

you don’t let her set the pace.

your hands grip her thighs, holding her open as you flatten your tongue against her, dragging it in slow circles that have her moaning your name like a prayer. every time her hips buck, you press her down harder, forcing her to take it your way. her taste is addicting, sweet and slick, and every whimper she lets out just drives you deeper.

you swirl your tongue over her clit, then suck it between your lips until she cries out, legs trembling. she’s already close—you can feel it in the way her body tenses, the way her breathing stutters. but you don’t let her go over the edge just yet.

you pull back, fingers replacing your mouth. you slip one inside her, then two—tight, warm, soaking. she clenches around you hard, her hips grinding into your hand as you curl your fingers just right, stroking the spot that makes her eyes roll back.

“more,” she begs, barely able to speak.

you grin. “i’ve got you, baby.”

you reach for the strap, already harnessed and slick with anticipation. you tease her with it first, dragging the head through her folds, making her squirm and whine. then you press in, slow at first, inch by inch until she’s full, until her nails dig into your shoulders and her head drops back, jaw slack.

you set a rhythm that’s all dominance—deep, steady thrusts that leave her a moaning mess beneath you. her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you in harder, and you give her everything she wants. the sound of skin slapping, her desperate gasps, the creak of the bed—it’s all fuel.

you reach down to rub her clit again, syncing your thrusts with the motion of your fingers, and she’s gone—screaming your name as she cums hard around you, shaking and breathless.

but you don’t stop. not until her body’s limp and her voice is hoarse from moaning. not until she’s completely wrecked, ruined by your touch, your control.

and when you finally collapse beside her, she curls into you, lips brushing your shoulder, still trembling.

“god,” she whispers, “you’re gonna kill me one day.”

you just smirk, wrapping your arm around her. “only if you’re lucky.”

her breath is still shaky, skin flushed and damp as she tries to recover, her thighs trembling from the aftershocks. you don’t give her long. you slide your hand slowly up her stomach, fingers trailing lazy circles just under her breasts, watching her twitch under your touch.

“already done?” you murmur, voice low and taunting as your fingers skim back down to her inner thigh. “didn’t think you’d give out this fast.”

azzi’s eyes flutter open, dazed but defiant. “i’m not… done.”

you raise an eyebrow, pleased. “good girl.”

you kiss her—slow, deep, possessive. she moans into your mouth, her body already arching toward you like she’s begging for more. you don’t make her wait this time. one hand slides between her legs again, fingers slipping through the wet heat you left behind. still so sensitive—her whole body jerks when you touch her, but she doesn’t stop you. she spreads wider.

“such a mess for me,” you murmur against her throat, biting gently at the skin just beneath her ear.

she gasps when you push back in with your fingers—this time three—and her nails claw at your back as you set a slow, torturous pace. you feel every twitch, every squeeze, as you curl your fingers deep and press your palm right against her clit, keeping that pressure steady.

“f-fuck—” she pants, legs kicking a little.

you glance down, watching your fingers disappear into her over and over, her slick coating your skin. she’s dripping, her body reacting like you never stopped touching her. you lean in, lips brushing hers.

“you’re gonna take more.”

she nods before the words are even fully out of your mouth. you pull your fingers out with a wet sound and stroke them against her entrance once more before grabbing the base of the strap again. she barely gets a second to breathe before you're inside her again—deeper this time, rougher.

the rhythm is fast and hard, her body bouncing with every thrust. her legs are spread wide and trembling, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. she’s completely undone—moaning nonstop, voice cracking, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.

you lean over her, one hand gripping her throat—not squeezing, just holding. just letting her feel your control. her eyes roll back when you start rubbing her clit again in quick circles, all while the strap pounds into her harder, deeper.

“i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“again,” you growl, keeping the pressure on. “give it to me again.”

her back arches and she screams your name, body going rigid before falling apart in your arms. her whole body spasms through the second orgasm, her nails digging into your shoulders like she’s holding onto reality.

you don’t stop until her legs are shaking uncontrollably, until her whimpers fade into soft, overstimulated cries and her hands are pushing weakly at your chest.

then you slow. you pull out carefully, gently. she’s wrecked—flushed and soaked and twitching. you kiss her cheek, her shoulder, her chest, letting her breathe again.

azzi looks at you through heavy lashes, her voice hoarse. “you’re insane.”

you laugh softly, pulling her close. “you love it.”

she doesn’t even try to deny it. she just nods, curling into your chest, her fingers weakly gripping your side like she never wants to let go.

she’s sprawled out, thighs parted, skin slick with sweat and arousal, chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon. her cheeks are flushed, lips kiss-swollen and slightly parted. you hover over her, watching her body twitch with aftershocks, your hand tracing lazy circles over her belly as her breath stutters beneath your touch.

“you done?” you whisper, voice low and teasing.

azzi shakes her head slowly, even though her legs are still trembling. “no… i want more.”

you grin, dark and hungry. “that’s my good girl.”

you don’t waste time. your fingers return to her swollen, dripping cunt—slicker than before, throbbing, oversensitive. the second you brush over her clit, she whines—high-pitched, desperate—but doesn’t pull away. she arches into you, aching for it.

“look at you,” you murmur, dragging your fingers through the mess between her legs. “this pussy’s soaked. so needy. still not satisfied?”

“n-no,” she stutters, face contorting as you press down on her clit with your thumb, making her hips jerk. “please—please, fuck me again.”

you grip her thighs and flip her effortlessly onto her stomach. her ass is round, flushed, begging for attention. you give it a sharp slap and she moans into the mattress, pushing back against you.

“goddamn,” you mutter, palming her ass as you guide the strap back to her soaked entrance. “you’re unreal.”

you slide it in again, deeper this time—different angle, fuller. her moan rips out of her like it’s been building, her hands fisting in the sheets as you bottom out inside her.

you don’t give her time to adjust. you set a brutal rhythm right from the start, snapping your hips forward, the sound of skin-on-skin bouncing off the walls. she’s a mess—drooling into the sheets, crying out with every thrust.

your hand comes down hard on her ass again, then you lean over her, your chest pressing against her slick back, lips brushing her ear. “say my name.”

she gasps, voice breaking. “y/n.”

“louder.”

“y/n! fuck—don’t stop!”

you reach around her body, fingers back on her clit, and she loses it. her body spasms, legs shaking, her moans growing louder, messier. you don’t ease up. you keep fucking into her hard, fucking through her orgasm as she thrashes beneath you, completely undone.

you pull her up by the hair, just enough to whisper against her mouth. “one more.”

she whimpers, nodding furiously. “yes—yes—please—do it.”

you shift again, pulling her into your lap as you sit back on your knees, keeping the strap deep inside her. you grip her hips and bounce her on it, hard and deep, her body limp and pliant in your arms. she’s so far gone—crying, moaning, begging—nothing left but want.

her head falls back on your shoulder as she grinds down, desperate to feel every inch of you.

“good girl,” you whisper, biting at her neck. “cum on my cock again. let me ruin you.”

and she does—again.

harder than before, louder than before. screaming your name, body convulsing, hips jerking erratically. her whole body tenses in your arms, then collapses completely. she falls forward, chest to the bed, shaking and soaked.

you pull out slowly, letting the strap fall against your thigh, then gently turn her over. she’s flushed, sweaty, lips parted, legs still twitching.

totally. fucking. wrecked.

you lean in and kiss her slow, soft, like a contrast to everything you just did.

she breathes against your lips, voice barely there. “i can’t move.”

you grin, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “that was the point.”

you run your fingers down the inside of her thigh, watching her flinch at even the lightest touch. her pussy’s red, used, still leaking from the last orgasm—and you’re not done watching it tremble for you.

her eyes flutter open just enough to look at you, dazed, soaked in sweat, lips swollen from moaning your name for what must be the hundredth time.

“color?” you ask, hand paused right above her inner thigh, even though you already know the answer.

she nods, voice rough. “green.”

“good.”

you kiss her neck, soft and slow—contrast to the way your fingers dip back between her legs. she gasps, the sensitivity making her jolt, but she spreads her thighs again anyway. you hum in approval.

“still so good for me,” you whisper, sucking a fresh mark into her collarbone as your fingers circle her clit again—barely any pressure, just enough to make her body twitch. “still letting me have this sweet pussy.”

she lets out a shaky moan, back arching off the bed.

you press two fingers inside her—tight, so tight, even after taking you over and over. she clenches like her body’s not sure it can handle more, but her hips move, desperate for more depth. you give it to her slow this time—just your fingers first, curling deep, scissoring gently, dragging the swollen heat from her all over again.

“sensitive?” you ask against her ear, licking the shell of it.

she nods, but her legs still try to wrap around your waist. “i don’t care.”

you pull your fingers out, slow and wet, then suck them clean while she watches. her breath catches in her throat.

then you reach for the strap again.

this time, you flip her onto her side, spooning up behind her, sliding the tip between her folds. she whines, body shivering from head to toe as you tease her entrance.

you push in slowly. every inch dragging against oversensitive walls. her mouth drops open, no sound even coming out this time.

“shhh,” you murmur into her ear, hand sliding up to her chest, gripping a breast while your hips start moving. “you can take it. you were made for this.”

your thrusts are deep and angled perfectly. one leg slung over yours, her ass pressed right up against you. you slide your arm under her neck, cradling her as you fuck into her slow and punishing.

your hand drops between her thighs again, rubbing slow circles around her clit in sync with every thrust.

she starts crying.

not from pain. from being absolutely, thoroughly destroyed.

“please,” she sobs. “please, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” you growl, thrusting harder now. “you’re gonna cum again for me. you’re gonna soak my cock like the filthy little slut you are.”

her whole body shakes.

you bite her shoulder as your pace builds, the slap of your hips against her ass getting louder, faster. her pussy tightens around the strap, and you feel it—she’s right there again. her cries grow high and choked, her legs spasming uncontrollably.

then she screams.

you hold her tight as she convulses in your arms, another orgasm ripping through her so violently she nearly pushes you out. but you hold her there. deep. still. letting her shake around you, her nails digging into your arm, tears wetting the pillow.

and finally—finally—you slow. you gently pull out, her body twitching at the loss, her legs unable to close.

you shift her onto her back, brushing the hair from her face. her eyes are barely open, lips trembling. she looks absolutely ruined. blissed-out. used in the best way.

she tries to speak, but all that comes out is a broken, “f-fuck…”

you kiss her forehead, her cheek, the tip of her nose.

“you’re perfect,” you whisper, stroking her stomach softly now, letting her finally come down. “all mine.”

she nods weakly, voice barely audible. “yours…”

the first thing you notice is the sunlight creeping across the sheets.

the second is azzi, curled into your chest, naked, her leg thrown lazily over your waist. her skin’s warm against yours, her cheek soft where it rests on your shoulder. you let your fingers trace lazy shapes into her hip, brushing over the faint red marks you left there the night before.

she stirs a little when you shift, letting out a soft, sleepy whine that turns into a broken, “mmm… don’t move.”

you smile. “didn’t think you had energy to complain.”

azzi groans, burying her face against your neck. “i don’t. everything hurts.”

your hand slides lower, brushing over the curve of her thigh. she tenses when your fingers graze the inside of it—still sore, still so used.

“you okay?” you ask softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

she nods, but her voice is hoarse. “i’m wrecked. my legs feel like they don’t work.”

“mm. wonder why that is,” you murmur, dragging your knuckles slowly along the inside of her thigh, right up to where she’s still slightly sticky between her legs.

she flinches. “y/n…”

“sensitive?”

“you’re evil.”

you chuckle, kissing her cheek as she squirms in your arms, trying to pull the sheet up higher to hide her face. but you don’t let her go. you roll her gently onto her back, sliding your leg between hers and leaning over her. she’s all flushed again, body remembering everything you did to her last night with every shift of her hips.

your hand glides down her stomach, and she catches your wrist—not stopping you, just holding you there.

“i can still feel it,” she whispers, not meeting your eyes. “you. inside me. i swear it’s still there.”

you hum, low and satisfied, kissing just beneath her jaw. “it should be.”

her breath hitches when your fingers drift lower, teasing again—just light pressure, not even pushing in. her whole body tenses.

“god, i’m so sore,” she mumbles, but her legs part anyway, muscles trembling.

you glance down at her—messy hair, love bites scattered across her chest and neck, thighs still flushed and twitching. she looks perfect.

“you want more?”

she bites her lip. “i want… a shower. and breakfast. and maybe… later.”

you grin and kiss her softly. “later, huh?”

she arches an eyebrow at you with a sleepy smirk. “maybe.”

you pull her into your chest again, hand still resting low on her hip, your fingers casually stroking the curve of her ass.

“we’re not leaving this bed for a while,” you say, voice low in her ear. “you’re not even ready to stand up.”

azzi groans, burying her face in your neck again. “don’t remind me. you broke me.”

you hum, satisfied, brushing your lips against her temple. “damn right i did.”

coming home feels… different now.

not because anything’s changed about the house—your keys still stick a little in the lock, the laundry’s still piled in the guest room, and the kitchen smells faintly of that candle azzi always lights when she bakes—but because you’re different.

married. still freshly sun-kissed from spending the days under the golden light. still catching yourself staring at her ring when she gestures in conversation.

still in awe.

azzi steps into the house first, barefoot, suitcase dragging behind her. she turns to look at you over her shoulder, eyes soft, mouth tilted into that half-smile you fell for.

“we’re home,” she says quietly.

you shut the door behind you and drop your bag. “we are.”

the first few days back are quiet. peaceful.

you wake up late, tangled in sheets and her limbs. you make coffee slowly, watching her dance around the kitchen in one of your oversized training shirts. you water the plants you forgot to set timers for before leaving. you rest.

there are no press tours. no practices yet. no calls you can’t ignore.

just her. just you.

one afternoon, you both sit on the living room floor with wedding photos spread out across the rug.

azzi’s in your lap, her head on your shoulder, scrolling through the digitals on your laptop. you hold one of the polaroids in your hand—one her grandmother snapped at the ceremony. the one where you’re looking at azzi like she’s the sun.

“i still can’t believe we did it,” she murmurs.

you glance down at her. “married or survived your mom’s guest list?”

she snorts, nudging your side. “both.”

you kiss her temple. “best decision i’ve ever made.”

she tilts her head up to kiss you, slow and full of quiet joy. the kind that lingers.

training resumes.

you return to the pitch with angel city, sharper than ever. the staff welcomes you with soft smiles and cheeky grins—everyone saw the ring. no one says a word. respect.

azzi’s season is winding down, playoffs approaching, but she still shows up to your practices with smoothies and baby carrots and that proud look she always wears when watching you play.

you find each other in between the chaos.

late-night facetime calls when she’s traveling. her falling asleep on your chest after your matches. cooking together in silence. folding laundry with music playing. sunday mornings spent reading on the patio, legs tangled under the same blanket.

everything feels like a shared rhythm now.

even your space.

you were already living together technically. but this?

this is your first time in your shared home as wives.

there’s a slow reverence to everything now—unspoken meaning behind the little things. when you rearrange the mugs, when she organizes the books by color. when you hang framed wedding photos in the hallway. when you both look at the guest room and wonder if maybe, soon, it’ll be something more.

one night, you’re curled on the couch, both in sweats, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching a documentary neither of you are really paying attention to. azzi’s head is on your chest.

“you know,” she says softly, “i never thought i’d have this.”

“this?” you ask.

she looks up at you. “this love. this life. a home. a future.”

you press a kiss to her forehead. “i didn’t either. but now i can’t imagine anything else.”

your home is louder now.

years has passed. 

tiny feet run through hallways. giggles echo off walls. cartoons hum faintly from the living room.

you and azzi are moms to two beautiful children—your daughter, ava, and your son, zion. ava has azzi’s big eyes and your strong jaw. zion has your dimples and her curls.

your lives have changed—but the love? that’s only grown.

you still wake before sunrise for training. azzi still shoots hoops in the driveway with zion on her hip. ava already kicks a football around with frightening precision.

the world still watches. but you’ve built something untouchable.

until now, you’ve never confirmed your relationship publicly.

no statements. no interviews. just love in private.

but today, you decide it’s time.

@azzi35 & @yourinstagram “our greatest win. our forever team.”

[first photo]: you and azzi on your wedding day, foreheads pressed together, tears in your eyes. [second]: a quiet beach shot from your honeymoon—her laughing in your arms. [third]: you two in your home, ava between you, zion on your hip, the sun pouring through the windows. [fourth]: ava in an angel city kit and zion in a sparks jersey, both wearing custom “#1 mom” caps. [last slide]: your hands, fingers intertwined. her ring shining. yours next to it.

@/sportsqueens: azzi fudd and y/n have kids. kids!!! i didn’t even know they were dating and now i’m crying over a family i didn’t know i needed.

@/lesbianhoopsfc: we’ve been shipping them since that nike campaign and now they have two babies and a house and rings? i’m emotionally wrecked.

@/ballonbabes: when y/n said “forever team” i actually ascended.

@/wnbaxnwslfamily: this is what sports power couples should look like. loyalty. legacy. love.

you read the comments with azzi curled against your side, zion asleep on your chest, ava drawing nearby.

she looks up at you, smiling.

“you happy we posted it?”

you nod. “we’ve never hidden—but it feels good to share. on our terms.”

she kisses your jaw. “we deserve to be seen.”

and you are.

by the world. by each other. by the two beautiful kids who call you mama.

it’s not just the end of a love story.

it’s the beginning of a legacy.

[wangxianficrecs]

Rewind 2024 - Follower Recs

WangxianFicRecs - Rewind 2024

For our Rewind 2024, our dear followers were also able to submit Follower Recs of their favourite stories published in 2024 for you to enjoy! Thank you to everyone who shared their recs and make sure to give the authors some love!

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Hey! Im submitting for the rewind 2024! Nominating because its the perfect mix of hilarious and heart-wrenching, theres sword lore AND blue haired Lan Wangji! Plus @hellinglaozu art! @mdzsrewind

🔒 Help!!! I’m a Broke College Student How Did I End Up With a (Hot) Amnesiac Sword Spirit For a Sugar Baby??!??

by spookykingdomstarlight

M, 43k, Wangxian

Summary: Wei Ying is a normal first-year college student. He lives with his parents. He gets good grades. He has friends. Or a friend, at least. Everything is going well, at least until a stunning man in hanfu with white hair manifests right in front of his eyes on a field trip. Suddenly he’s stuck introducing a sword spirit to the modern world, dealing with a mystery involving metal shards appearing all over Jiangsu province, and grappling with the possibility that Siri from his old phone might be sentient. What’s a normal first-year college student supposed to do under these circumstances? He dives right in, of course. A collaboration with the amazing HellingLaozu!

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This story is modern, sexy missing WWX times and proactive LWJ doing what he can to cope (robot). @petirrojo57

Starry Sky

by auberjing (@wrecklwj) & lamusadelils

E, 8k, Wangxian

Summary: In the absence of Wei Ying, Lan Zhan deals with his grief by trying to replicate him. It's not the same, but the replica brings him some comfort. And maybe more.

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Just pick any Scrippio work, really, but modern actor WWX works! @petirrojo57

Falling for You

by Scrippio

T, 8k, Wangxian

Summary: In which Lan Zhan's new stunt double decides that they're BFFs...and Lan Zhan finds that he agrees. Or: Five movies Lan Zhan makes with Wei Ying and One he makes alone.

~*~

I'm sure many other people have recommended this story for the Rewind 2024 event but I'll throw my vote in too for this incredibly well-written, amazing take on how things could've gone if Lotus Pier didn't fall and Wei Ying realized he loved Lan Zhan earlier. It features genius Wei Ying, supportive Lan Qiren, learning-to-be-less-naive Lan Xichen, and lazy but talented Nie Huaisang. The world-building is gorgeous and the storytelling phenomenal. @doctorbunsenhoneydew

Dispersing Clouds

by dreamingofcake

E, 283k, Wangxian

Summary: While the Wen Clan is embroiled in subduing internal conflicts within Qishan, the Jiang Clan hosts the annual discussion conference. It has been one year since the disastrous archery competition where Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji last met but Wei Wuxian remains as optimistic as ever. An unlikely friendship begins to blossom and without the looming spectres of conquest and war to strengthen his ties to the Jiang family, the trajectory of Wei Wuxian’s life changes.

~*~

A Qin Sue fic! I enjoyed this where she survives and lives in Lotus Pier. - Anon

now you’re tearing through the pages and the ink

by Stratisphyre

M, 70k, Jiang Cheng/Qin Su & Wangxian

Summary: “I can’t stay here. Please don’t make me!” The words dragged themselves out of Qin Su's chest, feral and half-bloodied by her grief and fear. “A-Cheng is leaving tomorrow,” Jiang Yanli said. “You could go with him.” Or, Qin Su in Lotus Pier.

~*~

This story is a fairly recent WIP. No first siege of bm, yilingwei sect, wei yuan, wwx takes in a bunch of street kids as disciples, some guidao cultivation world building, jzx and jyl live, wwx semi isolates in bm for 13yrs and founds a sect, sect politics - Anon

Our Beautiful Homes

by Randomness_is_my_order

M, WIP, 21k, Wangxian

Summary: I, Jin Guangyao, a senior disciple of the Lanling Jin Clan write to you regarding a matter of grave importance. Kindly pardon the abrupt correspondence but I hope the situation will warrant such measures and the offence incurred will be minimal.  Wei Wuxian’s day had really become so interesting, hadn’t it? The Lianfang-zun writing to him–this lowly practitioner of the heretic path? My, my, his life was always filled with surprises, wasn’t it?  Sometimes, it takes a hundred sacrifices and a dozen heroes to change fate. Other times, it takes a rock and a sentient corpse tripping on it mid-fight to avoid a lifetime of tragedies and send destiny into a tailspin. In which Wen Ning misses his attack, Jin Zixuan lives and Wei Wuxian builds a sect for all those who don’t have a home. It is only thirteen years later that the cultivation world bothers to acknowledge him and his people, and only when they’re desperate for a favour. Never let it be said that Wei Wuxian would allow himself to be used.

~*~

Really awesome fic for what if LWJ became sect leader after the Wen attack on Cloud Recesses. There are some really good wangxian moments and I really like how the fic showcases sect administration and how the sect works now with LWJ as the leader. - Anon

🔒 The Straightest Path

by meyari

T, 30k, Wangxian, Nielan, JYL/NMJ, Sangcheng

Summary: The moment of Xiongzhang’s death would live forever in Lan Zhan’s mind. He’d turned towards Lan Zhan, qiankun pouch holding the library in his hands. Then he’d gasped as arrows flew towards them both in a hail no one could survive.

~*~

I would like to rec this story. It is currently a WIP started this year and every update is amazing. There’s so many details and I love that Wangxian are dragons and that WWX gets all the love and support and he fights really well too. - Anon

With This Shadowed Blade

by Anonymous

M, 145k, WIP, Wangxixian, Nielan, Wangxian, Sangxian, Mingxian, Nielanxian, Wangsang, Xixian

Summary: Wei Ying needs to find his soulmates before the madness turns him into a horrific monster. There's just the slight problem of Madam Yu shipping him off to the stuffy Lans in a contract bonding. Oh, and she didn't tell them he's on the verge of losing it. So they just think that he's, well, there must be something wrong with him after all...

~*~

I would like to recommend this story, because it is so unique and vividly written, one of the best fics I have ever read. @aerouinde

🔒💙 Building it back, stone by stone and seal by seal

by KizuKatana (@kizukatana)

M, 134k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: It had been over 200 years since the war between cultivators left more than half the land ravaged and uninhabitable and the practice of cultivation punishable by death. Despite the risks of being caught as a practicing cultivator, Wei Wuxian took on the hunt of a dangerous yao that had destroyed a small village and killed all of the civilians. While searching for the demon, he encountered a mysterious cultivator dressed all in white. Wei Wuxian was excited to finally meet another cultivator, but instead of greeting him or making pretty much any conversation at all, the man attacked Wei Wuxian on sight. - - - - - - There is NO WAR in this fic. This takes place two centuries after the war happened, and it has a sort of post apocalyptic vibe. This is a story of rebuilding and finding safety. It's about found family and forming a new society away from the old one that persecuted them.

~*~

I want to recommend this story, because it was a very unique story with so much atmosphere, the settings were wonderful, and it was well paced. @aerouinde

grimoire

by WithLoweredVoices

M, 95k, Wangxian

Summary: ‘Alright, fine,’ huffs Wei Ying, blowing out his cheeks. He adjusts his grip on the smooth hilt of the sword, as cold as wet stone beneath his palm. ‘How do I give this back to you?’ ‘I must trade with you something of equal worth,’ says the strange man. ‘Uh. Okay.’ Wei Ying rubs his forehead with his free hand. ‘How about your name? Your real name.’ In case he needs to file a police report or stalk this beautiful, scary man on google or something. The man looks even more angry. He pulls his shoulders back and draws himself to his full height, which is rather impressive and forces Wei Ying to tip his chin up slightly. ‘My name is Lan Zhan,’ the man says. ~ (The one where it’s a dark academia AU - only it’s not.)

~*~

I want to recommend this story, because it was an immensely exciting story, one of the best Kaiju/Archon stories I have read. @aerouinde

Axiom –A Mo Dao Zu Shi Mecha AU

by Hinu (@imnotacleverman)

E, 331k, Wangxian

Summary: “I’ve always known it’s my destiny to be coupled with a cute girl and fall in love in the archon!” Wuxian winked at the nearest girl, who just so happened to be Mianmian, the prettiest girl in their class. Lan Wangji’s eye-roll was loud. “What?” Wuxian had noticed the boy’s reaction. “You never striked me as a romantic, Lan Wangji, but you know studies have shown that a notable percent of alters end up married, right?” “Oi!” Someone exclaimed. Everyone shot their eyes back on the screens, onto which text had appeared: Their coupling results. Everyone was too busy looking up their own name on the list to pay attention to the fact that the stickler-to-the-rules nephew of major general Lan Qiren had been coupled with Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji had been coupled with Wei Wuxian! *** In a world threatened by monsters, giant robots known as archons are piloted by "alters", a neuropsychologically coupled pair, to protect humanity. As Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji begin their piloting career as unlikely alters, they have to contend not only with the fame and idolization that comes with being a pilot, but also the conflicts that rise from within as their psyches are connected within the archon.

~*~

I want to recommend this story, it was a very exciting, clever and well paced story. @aerouinde

Chronicles of Sect Leader Wei Wuxian

by Muggle_Diary (@kshithi-and-stories)

E, 114k, Wangxian

Summary: Wei Wuxian is ten years old when he joins the Jiang sect. Fed up with his treatment at Yunmeng Jiang, Wei Wuxian leaves the Jiang sect. Wei Wuxian is ambitious and wants to open a sect based on merits alone. Years later he stands at the top of cultivation world.

~*~

I want to recommend this story, because it is one of the best ballet fics I have read, loved it. @aerouinde

Ugly Duckling

by Witch_Nova221 (@witchnova221)

T, 57k, Wangxian

Part of the MDZS Big Bang 2024

Summary: When talented but untrained ballet dancer, Wei Ying, is offered a scholarship by Lan Huan at the prestigious Gusu Ballet Academy he knows he will have to work hard to prove himself especially to his stern teacher, Lan Qiren. At a school that values tradition, Wei Ying struggles to find his place, constantly criticised and compared to his talented classmate, Lan Zhan. Whilst negotiating the trials of training under Lan Qiren, Wei Ying struggles to remember why he loves to dance until costumier, Nie Huaisang, gifts him a very special pair of shoes that open up a whole new world of ballet.

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for these hard-working authors if you like – or think others might like – these stories.)

[lunachy]

New Limited 6★ Defender: Yu

Primal Protector Defender

Illustrator: 1000_Kangk

Trait: Blocks 3 enemies, and can inflict Elemental Damage

Talent 1: The Golden Rule

Whenever Yu blocks an enemy, he gains Shelter. Enemies blocked by Yu take Arts Damage/second and ATK% Burn Impairment/Second.

Talent 2: Hidden Clouds

If there are a certain amount of deployed Operators or more, heal health and Elemental Impairment every second.

Skill 1: Today's Host

Passive: +1 Taunt.

Active: +DEF, +HP. Whenever Yu is attacked, deal Burn Damage to that enemy.

Skill 2: Generous Gifts, Distinguished Guests

+2 Block, +Max HP, +ATK. Yu's attacks deal Arts Damage. When You activate this skill, deal Arts Damage to all ground enemies in range, then teleport them into Yu's tile.

(Note: Yu only teleports enemies whose pathing would be lined up with where Yu is. So you can not yoink enemies from entirely seperate paths, like say in 1-7.)

Skill 3: All The World's a Stove

+ATK, +DEF, +Max HP. Yu gives Talent 2 to all deployed Operators. When You activate this skill, create a firewall in front of Yu, that spans across the entire width or length of the battlefield. Whenever an ally attacks an enemy across the firewall, they also deal Burn Damage. Whenever an enemy projectile would cross the firewall, it has a chance to be deleted.

Translated Weibo Introduction:

"Hello, you must be the doctor. I'm here to visit my brothers and sisters. Is this where visitors register? Okay - Logistics Officer Entry Contract? Sister Nian! You lied to me again!"

__________________

At dawn, Yu set up a breakfast stall in front of his store.

The first batch of customers had already been waiting on the street. As usual, they asked for a few steamed buns, left coins, and hurried to work. Some of them left their things in a hurry, and Yu had to run a few steps to stuff them into the hands of the customers.

As the sun gradually rose, the elderly who were exercising in the early morning and the residents who went out to buy vegetables came to the stall in groups to buy breakfast for their families. Some wanted the fried dough sticks to be older, some wanted salty paste with spicy sweet paste and less sugar, five or ten portions were all different requirements, but this did not prevent Yu from chatting with the neighbors while turning the fried dough sticks over and putting them into the oil pan. Soon, they carried large and small bags to their homes.

The hawkers were calling out from all around, and the bells and horns were ringing on the street. Students were rushing to class, but they didn't mind spending a few minutes watching the chef, who was about the same height as them, making pancakes or rice balls. Those accompanied by their parents would occasionally be nagged by gossips like, "Look at the young chef", so Yu had to quickly smooth things over and hand the breakfast he had just made to the customers. After they opened their mouths and took a bite of the food, they had no time to criticize or refute.

Stop the chattering mouths and feed the hungry stomachs, whether it is the morning market, afternoon tea or dinner, this is what cooking is all about.

The food delivery cart stopped in front of the store, announcing the official end of breakfast time. After Yu sold and gave away the remaining meals to several latecomers, he took the stall back to the store. The waiter Lao Jiang got off the car and helped his small shopkeeper chef to move the dishes into the back kitchen, cleaned the shop, set up the benches, and lit the stove.

Thus Yuweiju was officially opened.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Snowed In

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, light teasing, being snowed in, food descriptions, lots of love.

Author’s Note: This was such a cozy and heartfelt story to write! I loved imagining Soap and his beloved tucked away in a little Scottish cottage. Let me know what you think!

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The Highlands were everything Johnny had promised and more. A vast expanse of untouched beauty, the rolling hills were dusted with snow, and the towering mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks hidden by thick gray clouds. You’d been enchanted the moment you arrived, your breath taken away by the serene quietness of it all.

Johnny had been just as excited, his boyish grin practically splitting his face in half as he guided you up the narrow, winding path to the little stone cottage he’d rented for your honeymoon. The way his Scottish accent thickened in his excitement was enough to make your heart flutter all over again.

“Wait till ye see the view in the mornin’,” he’d said, unlocking the heavy wooden door and stepping aside to let you in. “Sunrise over the hills—ye’ll think yer dreamin’.”

The cottage was perfect. Warm and inviting, with its exposed wooden beams, a roaring fireplace, and plaid blankets draped over every surface. It felt like stepping into one of Johnny’s stories, the ones he’d told you over late-night phone calls during his deployments.

But now, just two days into your stay, a blizzard had rolled in, trapping the two of you inside.

---

You sat curled on the plush couch, a soft blanket draped over your legs and a steaming mug of tea warming your hands. The large window beside you framed the storm outside, snow falling in thick, blinding sheets, obscuring the world beyond.

Johnny stood by the window, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the snow pile up against the glass. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, and his messy blond hair was sticking up in every direction—likely from him running his hands through it every few minutes.

“Looks like we’re snowed in for a while, love,” he said, turning to face you with a rueful grin. “No celebratin’ in the village tonight.”

You smiled back at him, your heart swelling at the sight of his dimples. “Well, if anyone could turn being snowed in into a romantic adventure, it’s you.”

His grin widened, and he crossed the room in a few long strides, dropping onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh. “Aye, that’s true. Ye married a man o’ many talents, after all.”

You laughed, leaning into his side as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer. “Oh, really? And what talents are those?”

“Cooking,” he said, his voice filled with mock seriousness. “Buildin’ fires. Tellin’ stories. Keepin’ you entertained. Name it, lass, and I’ll deliver.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Cooking, huh? I seem to remember you nearly setting off the fire alarm last time you tried to make breakfast.”

Johnny gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as though you’d wounded him. “Ach, that was one time! And I still made the best bloody eggs you’ve ever had!”

You laughed again, the sound echoing in the cozy room. “Alright, Mr. Chef. Why don’t you prove it? The kitchen’s all yours.”

His eyes lit up with excitement, and he jumped to his feet. “Prepare tae be amazed, bonnie. Ye’ll be beggin’ me tae cook every meal from now on.”

You watched him disappear into the kitchenette, shaking your head with a fond smile. He began rummaging through the cabinets, narrating his actions like a host on a cooking show.

“First, ye take the bread. No’ just any bread, mind ye—Scottish bread. It’s got soul,” he said, holding up a loaf as though it were a prize.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, biting back a smile. “And the soup? Does it have soul too?”

“Aye,” he said solemnly. “It’s a soup o’ champions.”

Minutes later, he returned with two plates of grilled cheese sandwiches and steaming bowls of tomato soup. He set them down on the coffee table with a flourish, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Bon appétit,” he said, sitting beside you again.

You took a bite, your eyes widening in surprise. “Okay, I’ll admit it—this is really good.”

Johnny beamed, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Told ye. Stick with me, lass, and ye’ll never go hungry.”

---

Later, as the storm howled outside, you and Johnny sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, wrapped in the same blanket. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the softness in his blue eyes as he gazed at you.

“You know,” you said quietly, resting your head on his shoulder, “this isn’t exactly how I imagined our honeymoon.”

His hand stilled where it had been tracing idle patterns on your back, and he tilted his head to look down at you. “No?”

You shook your head. “I thought it’d be more… extravagant, I guess. But this? This is better. It’s just us. No distractions, no big plans. Just you and me, snowed in, eating grilled cheese and soup by the fire.”

Johnny’s expression softened, and he reached up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. “Ye mean that?”

“I do,” you said, leaning into his touch. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that made your heart skip a beat, and leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“Good,” he murmured against your mouth. “Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here with you, love.”

You closed your eyes, savoring the moment—the warmth of the fire, the sound of the storm outside, and the steady beat of Johnny’s heart beneath your palm.

“Here’s tae the first o’ many adventures,” Johnny said, his voice low and filled with love.

You smiled, tightening your arms around him. “Here’s to us.”

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[sleeps-au-bag]

i have to throw this into the all consuming void

hsr roleswap where clara, yanqing, and misha take the place of our favorite nameless trio while march 7th, dan heng, and the trailblazer take their places. it doesn't matter that i'm still in the beginning of the 2.0 main quest, i needed to get this out. no spoilers please.

clara is now the host of a stellaron. she was left behind on the herta space station to be found by the astral express. she's incredibly talented when it comes to machines, has a strange habit of going around barefoot, and possibly the most normal one on the express.

yanqing is now the amnesiac swordsman of the express. he was found as a block of six-phased ice floating through space on april 4th, which is now his name. he's crazy talented with a sword, a wonderful photographer, and has quite the adventurous spirit.

misha is now the mysterious loner of the express. he was the first of the trio to be invited on by himeko and welt and has stayed since. his customer service face is unrivaled, he cares quite a bit for his fellow trailblazers, and tries to keep them as far away as possible from finding out his past.

march 7th, now called marcy, is the daughter of svarog. she was taken in by the robot and was raised by him ever since. she's very hyperactive, interacts with everyone in the underground a lot, and charges into a lot of problems without thinking of solutions.

dan heng is now a lieutenant of the cloud knights and the retainer of jing yuan. he doesn't care that much about his past since he now has a duty to the general who raised him. he's not that well liked by the vidyadhara, he keeps getting strange visions about something, and the general has been getting distant recently.

the trailblazer is now the bellboy of the reverie hotel. they're constantly switching between male and female. they have a weird obsessions with clocks, often carry around a baseball bat, and can be found collecting trash in their free time.

[nixcloud]

Jiang Cheng x Lan Xichen ABO drabble

just a little scene from a fic im drafting ~

He could hear the threads cracking beneath his fist as he yanked Wei Wuxian higher off the ground. Two tanned hands tapped at his own where he gripped the collar of those black robes. His brother had always had a talent for provoking him, and he couldn’t even remember how this argument started. Still, rage coiled hot in his gut. Zidian crackled at his wrist. His jaw ached from how tightly his teeth were clenched, barely holding back the vitriol he so desperately wanted to spit out.

The red anger clouding his vision only beginning to clear when he saw the semi glassy look of Wei Wuxian’s eyes. Jiang cheng took in the face of his brother, he had noticed too late the way his cheeks were slightly too pale, and the way redness was starting to tinge his under eyes. Too late, he realized this fight had long since veered from an argument between brothers.

When they were younger, Jiang Cheng was excellent at recognizing this look. Even when he pushed too hard, even when he refused to stop yelling, he knew when his brother was actually hurting. Sad. Never quite able to hide this from his shidi. 

But in this new body, he was slow to pick up on it, Jiang cheng released Wei Wuxian’s robes like he had been burned. 

Watching as he dropped onto the ground awkwardly. A pit growing in his stomach as he looked down at the man he had spent his whole childhood looking up at to yell. 

Suddenly Jiang Cheng felt small again. And all that irritated rage that had been bubbling up boiled over into a new rage. The hurt rage, the painful rage that was attached to blood and family. 

None of this would’ve happened if Wei Wuxian hadn’t invited him to Gusu.

The letter had arrived a week ago, scrawled in that messy handwriting. Jiang Cheng couldn't fault the man for at least attempting the impossible. Wei Wuxian wrote almost weekly since returning from the dead. Usually fickle stories of  night hunts, or rules he broke in Gusu. Occasionally he would include a nostalgic paragraph or two. Or ask after the Jiang clan. 

But this letter had been different. A request to come to Gusu. Not for a day or two like they'd attempted in the past, but for an entire month.

A joint night hunt conference. To be co-hosted by the Lan clan and the Jiang clan. A project designed, apparently, to "strengthen inter-sect bonds" after everything that had happened at Guanyin Temple. (Lan Wangji's words, no doubt.)

It made sense on paper. In the 2 years since the fall of Jin Guangyao the sects had been unstable. Trust was in short supply. Every alliance frayed thin, each one questioning which seemingly docile omega or outspoken alpha was hiding darker intentions.

But logic didn’t account for emotion. And Jiang Cheng had written back immediately: No. That the Lan sect could deal with a conference themselves. 

But in the coming days mail carriers from Gusu rained down on lotus pier, each with more letters then the last. And in a moment of weakness… here they were. 

The deal had been: Gusu this year, Lotus Pier the next. If, of course, they didn’t kill each other first.

“Jiang Cheng, look, why don’t you just—”

His voice grated against him. Of course his idiot brother couldn't shut his mouth even when he was already upset. Trying to smooth things over as if he wasn't the one that started this whole thing. 

Jiang cheng was trying not to completely lose his temper, he had always been quick to anger. But ever since he started raising Jin Ling he had made at least an effort to rein the worst of his outbursts in. Sometimes more successful than others. But in the last few months he was uncalmable, and now he could feel his throat straining as he yelled back 

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. “Don’t stand there pretending you're so calm, so fucking reasonable! You don’t know anything about—”

The redness under his brother's eyes only intensified but he stood still, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. 

And that made it worse.

Because somehow, somehow, his impulsive once alpha brother, revived as an omega for fuck’s sake, was still calmer than him. More controlled. More stable. Able to keep a better handle on his emotions and omega instincts then Jiang Cheng ever could and he's been an omega his whole life! 

Though he supposed (from what he's been taught) that mated omegas, especially those who were blessed enough to find their fated mate, had a much easier time regulating their instincts. And his brother, his brother whose fate is of the utmost convoluted nature ended up with both. While Jiang Cheng, was struggling with his suppressant regime as the last barrier between himself and the cultivation world. 

It's not that omegas couldn't be cultivators, in fact omegas had potential to be some of the strongest cultivators, much more so then a common beta, whose senses were so much weaker it made most nighthunts, and connections with the spiritual world twice as difficult. But omega’s were rarely allowed the dignity of authority. Omegas were those who bore legacy, those who kept morale high, those whose life cumulated with serving and soothing those more dominant then them. 

So when the Jiang’s had their first son, they’d hoped for an alpha. After their beta daughter, they’d prayed for a leader. But Jiang Cheng had presented early at fourteen, just after his brother, and his father had never looked at him the same again.

His mother, in her attempt at his best interest, had wasted no time. She locked him in his room with a jar of suppressants and strict instructions: Take it with a meal each morning. No exceptions, no missed days, no mistakes. 

And he obeyed. Every day, for well over a decade. Long past when anyone said it was safe. A medication frowned upon by the cultivation world. He obeyed and he pushed down every omegan instinct until everything inside him went silent. 

And it was for this reason that he couldn’t be surprised that after so much medicinal abuse of his instincts, all his hormones were out of sorts. His inner omega clawing out of its cage.

It was rage, it was volatile mood swings, exstream territorial tendencies, it was textbook feral omega. He had grown up with children teasing each other about it, or claiming an omega was so unwanted that they'd go feral, that no one could ever want a feral omega. And here he was actively creating one in the privacy of his own body. 

He never resented this choice, knew it would give him the life his parents wanted. It had allowed him to be an unquestioned sect leader, even if he was underestimated as a beta and not an alpha. So then why, why had he been feeling so damn lonely lately? 

His brother came back, his pack alive again, and all he felt was lonely. 

That first year, he’d ignored every letter out of spite. Lan Wangji hated him, and he hadn’t trusted Wei Wuxian not to leave again. But over time, he responded. Small missives. A visit or two. The beginnings of something like family again.

But no matter how angry he was, or how guilty he felt, Wei Wuxian kept reaching out to him. Trying desperately to make a spot for one and other in their lives. 

And fate might have other plans for them both but he could try, and so he was feeling particularly lonely when that ridiculous night hunt proposal arrived, and he came to Gusu

And all that came of it was this bullshit. 

The dust swirled beneath his boots as Jiang Cheng surged forward, shoving Wei Wuxian hard. He watched his brother stumble back. A frustrating wetness started to gather at the corner of his purple eyes.

And then, a growl. 

The commanding, cold, terrifying growl of an alpha who's been wronged. 

Suddenly a large hand wrapped around Jiang Cheng’s arm and yanked him backward. 

“Sect leader Jiang.” Lan Wangji’s voice was deceptively calm. If it weren't for the way his eyes glowed gold, the way all lan alphas did when their instincts were taking charge, Jiang Cheng might have mistook it for his regular speaking voice. 

Something in the back of his mind wanted to cower, but Jiang Cheng is one of the strongest sect leaders, he is a proud beta, the purple lightning protecting his people, and he will not bow to any Lan. Zidan crackled defensively at his wrist. 

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan!”

Wei Wuxian’s light hearted calling broke the static, the way his voice shook on the last word the only thing that gave away their reality. 

“It’s okay! Don’t get so upset, it’s just my little shidi. I teased him too much, that’s all! Just let him go!”

His little act of talking down his husband should have soothed him, and yet it only added more fuel to the fire. Jiang Cheng wanted to scream, and cry and stomp his feet like a petulant child. Because his once dead brother was still doing everything to protect him. Even when he knew that Jiang Cheng was the one to start this fight. 

On top of it all, for anyone, even a betta, to put their hands on a mated omega, that was grounds for a duel. At minimum. 

An apology wasn't on his tongue, but whatever was was beginning to taste like regret. He met Lan Wangji’s gaze, intent to speak, when—

“Enough.”

A new voice. Calm. Commanding. Soothing.

Lan Xichen.

Unlike his younger brother who moved with near deadly silence, most of the time one knew when Lan Xichen was coming. His clothes rustled like the wind stirring grass. And the jade token tied at his waist chiming softly with the few beads strung below it, so delicate it was almost as soothing as Jiang Cheng’s own clarity bell. 

Still Jiang cheng startled, blinking in disbelief at the looming ethereal presence before him. Of course, this was the Lan compound. And Lan Xichen was still their sect leader, technically. But as far as Jiang Cheng knew the older Lan had been in seclusion. For years. And yet here he was luminous, and composed,  and incharge. 

The iron grip on Jiang Cheng’s arm finally loosened, and he yanked it free, clenching his fists.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Wangji said, voice sharp as a blade, “It would be best if you joined Xiongzhang in the library.”

“Fine.” Jiang Cheng grit out, before storming past him, barely missing knocking shoulders with the taller man. And he didn't stop to look at Lan Xichen as he passed him either. He didn't have any patience left for niceties. 

His boots struck the ground hard, each step disturbing the tranquil Gusu afternoon. But he wasn’t walking alone. Every one of his steps was being punctuated with that quiet chime of Lan Xichen in the distance. 

Slowly allowing the noise to settle his riled omega instincts until he finally reached the library pavilion.

“Allow me, Jiang Zongzhu,” came that voice again, deep and calm like heavy snowfall. Refreshing in the afternoon heat.  

And he finds himself stepping aside without protest. The larger man opened the door, welcoming him into the cool quiet library. It had been a long time since he was here, and it had changed so much since he was a child, both the building and what it contained. But it still smelled like sandalwood, and it still dwarfed any library Lotus Pier had ever built. 

Lan Xichen led them to a low table at the center of the room and gestured for Jiang Cheng to sit across from him. Watching carefully as those large hands began to pour him a cup of tea. 

He hadn't seen the older man in nearly two years and yet he looked much the same. His robes hung in soft layers over his broad shoulders. Carefully continuing their slope into muscular forearms. He kept his posture perfectly straight emphasising how tall he was even among the Lan’s.  His silky black hair had been brushed into a simpler hairstyle then Jiang Cheng remembered of him, but it still cascaded carefully around him, framing his form in all its Lan perfection.

And yet something was different.

His beautiful face graced by his sharp jaw, soft lips and surprisingly gentle eyes, was drawn thinner than Jiang Cheng remembered. Lan Xichen looked so much more tired than the man he had grown familiar with over the years. It aged him slightly, and yet reminded Jiang Cheng too much of his face during the reign of the Wen. Slightly too hollow. Slightly… unsettling. 

Jiang Cheng chewed the inside of his cheek to keep his opinions on this to himself. He didn't like it. But after everything that had happened, what else could he have expected? He hadn’t even expected to lay eyes on the man.

“I was surprised,” Lan Xichen finally spoke, “to hear you agreed to co-plan this night hunt with us.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes snapped back to the soft gold ones, embarrassed to realize he’d definitely been caught letting his gaze roam over every inch of the older man.

“Obviously I didn’t easily agree so much as get pestered into it,” he said sharply, chin lifting. 

Lan Xichen chuckled softly. “Don’t take it the wrong way,” he said, an unreadable glint in his eye. “It’s good to see a familiar face. Especially after so long in seclusion.”

“I hadn’t known you left it.”

“I haven’t left it entirely,” Lan Xichen replied, with the ghost of a smile. “Partial seclusion. I can still manage writing invitations, at least. Especially if Jiang-zongzhu is willing to assist me.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth felt inexplicably dry. “Well. Let’s get it over with, then.”

He stretched a scroll of parchment out in front of himself, dipping his brush into the inkstone while Lan Xichen murmured the phrasing for each letter. They worked in companionable silence, copying names and titles with practiced strokes. Though if it were a competition, Jiang Cheng would have lost because just like all other pristine elements of the lan clan, their writing was obnoxiously perfect. 

They scripted out invitation after invitation. And Jiang Cheng couldn't help but let his mind wander, every few words his thoughts turned back to the man across from him, the shock of his presence yet to wear off. 

Sometimes when he had nightmares of his past, the face Lan Xichen made that night would linger in his mind too. The pain, the blood on his sword, the way he crumpled into a broken mess when all was said and through. The love of his life murdered at his own hand. 

Jiang Cheng had been quietly watching Lan Xichen his whole life, from the respectful distance of allied sects, from across conference halls, from the desks of Cloud Recess's lecture hall.  So it would have been hard to miss the way the older man looked so fondly upon the Jin disciple. 

Everyone had known, or at least suspected, that Lan Xichen had loved Jin Guangyao. Many whispered that they had been secretly mated, that Jin Guangyao simply hid the mark beneath the high collar of his robes. They always sought each other in a crowd. Leaned close when they spoke. And the great and honorable Zewu-jun would never tolerate a harsh or damning word against his sworn brother.

Jin Guangyao had been an omega. Loyal to his sect. And so, there was never any true way to marry outside his clan and preserve his dignity. Or at least that’s what everyone thought. Still, many expected them to eventually go public. A dominant alpha so clearly enamored with a brilliant, hospitable omega, an ideal mating.

But then everything happened at once. In the blink of an eye, Jin Guangyao was no longer  the son of a prostitute but a sect leader. With power came the need for image, and he took a wife. Untraditionally, it was another omega, raising eyebrows but also preventing any power imbalance. They seemed happy together. And to be honest although uncommon for two omegas to be together formally, it was more acceptable then two alphas, or an unmated omega, and so most did not question him too harshly. 

And in an even more unconventional show he bonded with her, and she had shown off her mark proudly like any sect leader's wife might. No one ever knew if his wife bit him back as was custom with omegas. He still wore his collars too tight, too high.

A gap between Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao seemed to grow and grow. Still Jin Guangyao looked happy in any public appearance, and Lan Xichen never showed interest in another omega or even beta. 

So when Jin Guangyao was exposed as a traitor, a murderer, and, in the end, was killed by the one man he claimed he would never harm… it wasn’t surprising that Lan Xichen retreated into seclusion.

It was said that a broken bond  between mates, especially soulmates, was an empty kind of grief. It left one split open and bleeding for one's whole life. There were ancient tales of fated mates dying in succession. It was always a romantic idea, to live and die with your love. But the reality of it was so much more bitter. 

Many feared Lan Xichen would waste away after the fall of Lianfang-zun. And in some ways, he had. Yet here he was. Very much alive. Sitting at this low table across him.

Jiang Cheng chose to blame his perseverance on his strong golden core and Lan will power. 

Well over an hour passed, and they’d finished the invitations for the major sects. For a while now Lan Xichen had been musing over who else he thought should receive an invite. Weighing pros and cons of different peoples from all over their lands. But to be honest Jiang Cheng hadn't been paying much attention to him since he mentioned the Jin clan maybe half an incessant stick ago. Just nodding and watching the way his lips formed around his words. 

“Zewu-jun. It’s good to see you. It’s been a while.” The words spilled out of him unbidden, and he realized too late that he had cut Lan Xichen off mid-sentence. That little surprised “o” of his mouth confirmed it. 

A red blush crept up Jiang Cheng’s neck at his own rudeness.They stared at each other awkwardly for a long moment before Lan Xichen’s expression warmed again. 

“Thank you. It has been too long, hasn’t it?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Wangji asked me to help plan this conference. And, ah… I couldn’t say no to my little brother.”

Jiang Cheng huffed and sat back, forcing his eyes onto the half finished scroll in front of him. “Well then it seems we have something in common then. Except my insufferable brother didn’t ask. He sent a dozen damn letters like it was some kind of hostage negotiation.” he slapped his hand down on the table jostling their discarded brushed “And stop smiling like that,” he added, sharper than necessary. “This isn’t some grand reunion. We're working.”

Lan Xichen smiled at him then too, expression out of place with how rude Jiang Cheng knew he came off. But soon they were back to discussing whom to invite, and inking more letters, working together in comfortable quiet as the sun plunged from the sky.  Making way for the cold light of the stars. 

Only interacting when one passed a complete invitation across the table for the other sect leader to stamp on their official clan insignia before folding it neatly into the pile for couriers.

And maybe it was his imagination, but Jiang Cheng was fairly certain that as he worked those gold eyes were burning holes into him, and began glowing when they passed the other a letter and their hands brushed.

authors note: tried to write a abo smut scene ended up with this character study tragic siblings monstrosity with 16 pages of plot bullet points.... gona try and actually write it all. i have 15 scenes plotted out and this is just the first one so who knows if ill finish but for now. xicheng abo characters study i guess

[spinn-virus]

My brother in Primus, you sure worked quick! Your art, once again, kicked up the serotonin level in my energon stream (very hinged and normal thing to say to a person).

Have a snippet! [and I will work on a small doodle and other dumb prompts and tiny conversations to send to you.]

Usually, Rodimus does not like one-sided speech from mechs, any mech really – it’s not that he only likes the voice of himself.

Okay, maybe a little bit of that, but he did win the “No Talent Talent Show” by doing voiceovers in one of those settlement colonies many lunar cycles ago. It’s definitely NOT a telling thing about his personality, if he can’t even remember the name of the colony, or the event host, or why they have been hosting that event in the first place.

Wars tore them all apart, and they took what happiness they can still have and feel as it comes. It’s much less about happiness or being gaudy, more so a necessary anesthetic – because what else do they have really?

Rodimus likes to listen to Drift talk though. Yeah, yeah, that surprised him too. Something about Drift always made him feel like “a small piece of metal hovering in energon stream, floating down the ancient canal of Primus till it reached an active hot spot to be melt apart and forged in something new.” And no matter how far Rodimus’s thoughts wandered, he could always come back to Drift.

“… You should always use the strength of your larger hydraulic groups to swing the weapon, without shifting your center of gravity. It’s important to remain nimble, and yet firm on your pedes during parry, or any other form of combats. Now, Rodimus, if you’re serious about receiving the training, we should work more on your stances – you rush in too much and throw your whole weight. If you did not land the blow on first try, it will leave you wide-open and very vulnerable.”

Rodimus just stared at Drift’s faceplate. He always liked to imagine how it would feel if he gently covered Drift’s mouthpiece with his intake – wait hold on, that doesn’t sound right, okay okay, with his servo then. Will the sentio metallico keep shifting? Touching different parts as Drift kept speaking. Or will Drift freeze up.

Piercing through a hazy cloud of thoughts, most of which about Rodimus poking at Drift from different angles, came Drift’s question.

“Rodimus, do you understand the training itinerary for today?” Drift seemed so expecting and happy when he turned to ask Rodimus. Rodimus never pretended to listen to avoid hurting any mech’s feelings, but he’d hated to keep Drift hanging, so he quickly run through the instant audio recording he had been capturing this whole time, and said, a bit dumbly.

“I sure hope so? We will train the hydraulic groups in isolation to build strength, right? That, and then pede-work practice.”

Drift almost beamed at that. Rodimus felt his spark begin pulsating at a weird rate.

Com’on now, stop acting weird, stupid spark. Rodimus would yank out his spark and have a serious one-sided conversation with it if he could.

But he can’t. So he just sat there, a bit confused about why he wanted to make Drift happy and keep him that way.

Must be this friendship thing I kept hearing so much about. He thought.

This was living rent free in my head through my entire shift and I couldn't do anything about it!! So unfair because this is great. This is perfect! Oooough I live for the silly sweet interactions between Drift and Rodimus. The vibes are immaculate. The potential is incredible. Like. The soft inexperienced pining ahahhaahaha I'm normal

I support him. I hope he figures it out soon.

Thank you for sharing. It's wonderful. I hope you know that I am eating this for breakfast lunch and dinner

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: The Gleebringer Battalions

Gallard Gleebringer only ever wanted to make people happy. By using his skills as a toymaker and inventor he sought to fill the world with devices that would bring wonder, and save people from the drudgery of labour to give them more time for play.

Seeking to save his neighbours from the horrors of war, and under the patronage of the battlehungry local margrave, Gallard has a constructed an autonomous army of toy soldiers that in some weeks time will go berserk and begin rampaging across the land, playing out an inexplicable war-game that will leave villages sacked and the entire region destabilized.

It’s up to the party to notice the looming crisis and do something about it before the toys begin their march, As the powers that be are not only blind to any fault in their shiny new war machines but actively willing to imprison the party for jeopardizing "the defence of the realm" .

Adventure Hooks:

Scraping together enough coin to fund a construct army has left the margrave’s treasury more than a little tight pursed, leading them to skimp on things like repairing infrastructure, public festivals, and resupplying their garrisons. There’s plenty of opportunities for adventurers as bandits and monsters propagate through the wilderness, and the lesser nobles rely on mercenaries to guard their holdings. Its only so long before the cracks begin to show however, as roads wash out and the realms defenders turn to brigandry. 

The party end up in a tavern drinking with an old military officer previously employed by the margrave. She’s iresome and illtempered, but she’ll crawl out of her cups long enough to tell the tale of how after twenty years of loyal service she was let go for protesting when some of the troops under her command were killed in a training exercise.  If the party press a little she might just let it slip that it wasn’t training so much as a field test of Gleebringer’s machines, which her boss insisted be against real troops. Later on, they’ll find an official bounty posted for the woman, who’s rallied some of her fellow discontented soldiers and started on a campaign of sabotage. 

For his part Gleebringer is quite blind to the looming threat, having been carried by his ever shifting attention to yet another new project once the design and manufacture of the armies were complete. The party might get a chance to talk to him however if they manage to sneak into the excursive exposition he's hosting in the province's capital, either by riding in on the coattails of a wealthy patron, or by sneaking in among the serving staff. Actually getting an audience with the toymaker will be even more difficult as the margrave has set his agents to watch and protect Gleebringer, and it's only so long before they notice the uninvited guest have crashed the private function.

Setup: While many gnomes dabble in artifice, it was early in his apprenticeship with the village toymaker that a young Gallard discovered both his love and prodigious talent for the technical arts. It wasn't just a magical knack, it was an eye for detail that had people saying that the gnome's creations seemed to be alive long before he figured out how to make them move on their own.

Soon Gleebringer toys were in demand across kingdoms, and Gallard found himself not only patronized by innumerable wealthy merchants and nobles but sought out by engineers and craftsfolk of all kinds who realized the genius packed away in his creations.

Gallard didn't let the fame or the fortune go to his head, instead using his growing connections and commission budget to experiment with even more complex designs. For example: scaling up from music boxes to clockwork bands, and eventually an automated opera house.

As a man who dreamed all his life of building a flying town, it was safe to assume that Gallard had his head in the clouds. He hated to see people suffer but seldom thought through the implications of his inventions, Such as when an automated lumber mill intended to supply materials for his projects put an entire town of foresters out of work. This penchant for distraction was only encouraged by the margrave, who saw the military applications of Gleebringer's gifts from the moment a clockwork dragon bought for one of his children ended up badly maiming one of the servants who saught to tidy up the toyblock castle it had been charged with guarding.

Over the past ten years, the Margrave has become Gallard's most generous patron, supplying him with workshops ( staffed by apprentaces who's loyalty can be counted on) and an endless series of new projects ( which always end up increasing the margrave's power and standing at the cost of the common good).

Art 1

Art 2

[a-little-ray-of-fantasy]

Lullaby

Sometimes memories are cruel... and dreams can be unkind... But you don't have to face them alone.

Not anymore.

(A sweet collaboration with my friend @studio-petrichor, to properly celebrate BBU's 8th anniversary! Please go check their blog, they're super talented, and their "Little Bird" series is made of adorableness! This fic is a tribute to their amazing work! I hope you enjoy it! ^^)

1 o'clock.

Only a single sound from the clock rang inside the manor. The bellow lasted no less than 5 seconds, bouncing off the walls of the long, empty hallways, and yet it didn't disturb the residents' deep slumber. 

A peculiar bunch, one could say: a lovely family of two... hundred plump, orange ghosts hovered about, donning little sleeping caps as they snoozed midair. Some had found a cozy corner in the kitchen, some laid comfortably on the sofas of the dead room... Why, if you looked up, you'd also find a couple of ghosts nesting on some chandeliers.

And yet, none of them were to be found in the bedroom, where only one being could be found fast asleep: the owlish owner of this place, completely conked out after another day/night of party. 

Not unlike a bat, their wings were completely tuckered in their upsidedown form, as they hooted soundly in their sleep.

The only noise that could be heard inside the manor, clear and yet somehow incredibly gentle, so not to wake the little bundle that he had lovingly tucked in her bed, not too far from his sleeping form. 

Just that morning, earlier, she had insisted she could sleep on her own now: at the age of 4 she was a "big girl" now, she could handle sleeping alone.

So self reliant at such a young age: truly, a feather of her old papa, who felt his dead heart grow warm still, and he did comply with her request... by positioning a lovely wooden bed in his own room.

So he could make sure...

...

...no. 

No no no. 

No use for those grime remainders. That was in the past, now. She was back in his "life", she was happy to see him, he could stroke her feathers and hear her laughter again. He could be the father he wasn't back then, and always be there for her.

He was granted a new chance. And he won't squander it. Not again.

And so it went. Both were sleeping, together yet in their own space, as their minds were filled with oniric scenarios.

In his mind, stars and clouds, raining golden candy bars, names and faces he'd long forgotten and now moved on from... Another typical night for the ghostly host.

In hers... 

…………….

A flowery meadow she was running in. The sun was setting, the daisies waved in the breeze as if they were greeting her... And her beloved papa, in the distance, called out her name.

"Emmy, dear! Dinner is ready!"

"I'm coming!" she replied with a smile. And so she waddled as fast as possible towards her voice. Still lots of grass and flowers in her way, but she kept her stride with determination. Only a couple of minutes later, the voice called out to her again.

It felt... different. More... frantic?

"Emmy, are you coming?"

"I'm here, Papa! I'm coming!" The little owlet kept running, and started panting: she didn't remember getting herself so far from home. A small unease started creeping up in her chest: something wasn't right. The grass looked dried up, and there was no flower in sight.

"Emmy! Sweetheart, whERE are yOU?!" It was that voice again... was it not? It was her father's, and yet it sounded... panicked... And... off... as if it was split apart...? Could a voice even do that? The owlet had to ask her father later... at least, she hoped she could do that, if only she could reach him.

"Papa, wait! I'm here, I'm here!" The little one cried out, as she ran as fast as possible in the barren wasteland that was once the floral moore she was playing in not even...

How long was it, again? The little one still hadn't learned how to tell time, that was another thing she had to ask her father.

After what felt like forever, her house was finally in sight, just as she remembered: so big, and tall, and run down, and falling apart...

Wait... whose house was that? The owlet started backing out: silly head she was, she got lost again...

No, wait... a figure was near the door. It was facing up in the opposite direction, she could only see the purple vest.

No no, no mistake! That was her father!

The owlet leapt with joy and ran to hug him. She found her way all on her own: why, she bet he was proud of her!

"Papa! Did you see? Did you see? I found you, all on my own!" She laughed with pride, while her father stayed silent, still not showing his face.

Yet the owlet didn't notice that, for how overjoyed she was. "Oh, and look! I got you some flowers- oh...". She tried looking for them inside her scarf, but couldn't find anything.

"They fell down...". The poor little one felt herself coming with tears, she took so many daisies earlier, just for him... "Can I go back and take them again...? Please, papa?"

Her father still said nothing, without even budging from his place. Stiffer than the dead.

The owlet started growing apprehensive: there have been times her father would be unable to respond to her, always looking at some funny papers. Sometimes he wouldn't be able to even tell she went in the garden while he was working, but would still eventually turn around and smile at her.

Why wouldn't he do it now...? Unless...?

"Papa? Are you... angry...? I'm sorry..." the owlet asked timidly, fearing she would get scolded for taking so much time.

"Emmy... Why wouldn't you come back...?" Her father finally responded, still not looking at her, his voice devoid of any emotion.

The little one bowed her head in shame. "I was... looking for flowers..."

"Couldn't you hear my voice? I've been looking for you, EverYWheRe...". Her father started shifting, as his voice grew more trembling, like it did before. The owlet still couldn't see his face, despite the shift in position, and yet that earlier fear crept up once again.

"Yes, I hearded you, Papa! I ran for you!" she insisted. She did what she was told, she was a good girl!

"AnD YET! YouR PapA haD Been WaitING FoR a CENTURY for hIS DARLING DeARIe to coME HoME! ThAT'S not VeRY NICE...!" now the bigger owl had started moving his head towards the owlet. Only now she could see his face: orange, swirly eyes poking from the abyss that was now his face were looking at her instead of that gentle, golden glance.

The owlet started hyperventilating, and backed away as she covered herself in her wings: that was NOT his father, where was he?!

"WHERE'S PAPA!? I WANT MY PAPA!!"

The dark being chuckled a creepy, hooting laughter, as he slowly inched towards her with open wings, somehow looking even bigger.

"Hoo-hoo-hoo! BuT He'S RIGHT HERE, SwEEtIE!" he smiled maniacally. "AnD nOW WE'll AlL Be TOGethER..."

The little one started screaming and completely covered her eyes before she could feel the world around her going black.

"FOREVER!!!"

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

Emmy's resulting scream of terror wasn't enough to help herself break away from the nightmare she found herself in, yet the same couldn't be said for the serene stillness of the night...

...nor Barnaby's own slumber.

"HOOT???" he jolted awake with a flail of his own wings, so shocked he lost his balance and found himself back on the floor, face first. With a huff, he forced himself on his feet, trying to get his now floor stucked face upwards, but it wouldn't cooperate. So he applied much more force, pulling with all his neck.

And pulled he did, as finally his face got unstuck as it flayed upwards along his neck. When it came down, it looked no less flatter than a pancake on the bouncing spring that was now his nape.

Whew, he's going to feel THAT in the morning...

But that was for later! His sweet owlet was screaming her little heart off, he had to do something about it! So he quickly shook his head to regain his senses, and got closer to Emmy's bed.

"Emmy! Emmy, sweetie pie! Hoo-hoowhat's wrong?!" he trembly asked as he tried to scoop the little one in his wings.

To no avail, as Emmy kept flailing her limbs everywhere and tried to avoid even getting closer.

"NOOO! GET AWAY!! I WANT MY PAPA!!!" She was still trapped in her dream, those eyes taunting her mind.

Barnaby started getting agitated, familiar himself with nightmares, yet still tried to reach out to her. Some Barnaboos even came close to help him out with her, and he managed to have her shaking frame into his wings.

"Shhhh. It's alright, my dear. Everything will be okay, papa is here... Papa is here..." he cooed as he started rocking her using as much care as he could.

Barnaby's words seemed to finally reach out to Emmy, as her eyes jolted awake: she frantically looked at her surroundings, with panicked breaths. He could hear her small heart beating uncomfortably fast.

"*gasp* *gasp* ...Papa?" Emmy looked at her father with eyes full of fear: such a sight tugged his long dead heart, and he started nuzzling her fluffy head, hoping to ease her fears.

"Yes, my pumpkin. I'm here... I'm here..." he sweetly cooed.

Emmy snuggled her beak against his nape, still shaking with fear.

"Papa! You're okay! The monster didn't get you!"

A monster?? Oh, of course: his little one had a nightmare. Barnaby shook his head in endearment.

"Hoo-hoo, Emmy, my sillyhead. There are no monsters here."

"Yes, there is!" She insisted, with eyes filled with tears, Barnaby fatherly nodding at her affirmation, going along with her fantasies. "He was big, and black, and had biiig wings like this!" She made a motion with her own tiny wings to show her father just how big they were. "And-and he had big orange eyes!"

....oh.

Realization hit Barnaby's chest just like one of his knives.

"Hoo... I see..."

(art by @studio-petrichor)

"And-and he tried to get me! And I couldn't find you anywhere! The-the monster! He got you too!"

Barnaby shivered in horror, as faint memories flashed in his mind: those sleepless nights, feeling his sanity slipping away, hoping until his last breath he could finally find his daughter once again...

After he foolishly took her for granted, too caught up in his work to be the father she deserved...

Unbeknownst to Emmy, the monster had claimed him a long time ago.

But perhaps... he wasn't too late.

"Oh, dear, sweet Emmy." he cooed, and started preening her head with loving care. "It's all over, now. The monster is gone. Your papa is fine, see?" And he stuck his tongue out crossing his eyes, making that goofy face she always loved to see.

It made her laugh faintly, just as he hoped.

She looked at him, her eyes still wet with tears, but at least she was smiling again.

"Yes!" Emmy hugged her father, relieved. "You're fine, Papa!

"Hoo-hoo! Of course I am!" he chuckled. "We're together once again, and everything will be okay!"

Emmy had no idea how much Barnaby meant those words, and she nuzzled her head on his chest, now completely calm. The ghost still rocked her gently, to fully ease her worries.

He looked at her, filled with warmth and love towards his small, but sweet darling. He really couldn't believe, after all those lonely years, he could finally hold her in his wings once again.

That thought threatened to make him spill the tears that were slowly building up in his eyes.

"...Papa?" That poignant silence was broken by Emmy's small voice.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Are you... angry?" Her voice betrayed the hint of worry in her heart.

"Hoo, why would I be angry, sweet pea?"

She stayed silent for a couple of seconds, afraid to reveal it.

"I... I just wanted to give you some pretty flowers... and I couldn't find the house anymore..."

Barnaby hummed thoughtfully. She must have been referring to her nightmare... right?

"Hoo, Emmy, sweetie. I'm not angry. I am... happy." 

"Really?" Emmy looked at her father, apprehensive. "But... I was far, far away!"

"You were." Barnaby nodded, and he started nuzzling his cheek against hers. "And your Papa got very, very sad and lonely".

"Oh no!" Emmy exclaimed with childlike horror.

"Hoo yes." Barnaby affirmed, lovingly, trying to mask the actual sadness he was starting to feel as he recalled those lonesome days. He then carefully moved his forehead against her own, once again nuzzling with love, so she couldn't see his tears.

"But you're back, and you're okay. And your Papa is so... so very happy for it. Why, I couldn't be happier, my sweet Emmy."

"Really?" she timidly asked.

"Really really..." he sweetly replied, and she giggled at that, and she once again gingerly laid her head on his chest.

They stayed like this for a while. Barnaby had started crooning along, as he resumed with rocking her to help her fall asleep once again.

"...Papa?" Emmy's voice rang once again, this time filled with fatigue.

"Yes, Emmy?" he replied gently.

"Can we... get more flowers... tomorrow?"

Barnaby hooted a soft giggle. "Hoo-hoo, of course, my dear. All the flowers you want. And we'll have a biiiiiig flower party! It will be wonderful!"

"...can Billie... come too?"

"Of course. Billie would love to play with you." 

He would have had to deal with that funny axolotl's apprehension for it, but this and anything for his owlet. And he knew the young goat, now his dear friend, would have accepted right away.

"...yay... Thank you, Papa.... I love... you..." and she fell asleep, lovingly tucked in his wings.

And with that, Barnaby swore his heart came alive once again for how much love he felt for his owlet. 

This time he let his tears fall on his face, unable to hold them in, anymore. He gently cradled Emmy in a hug, and between sobs, a sweet lullaby resonated from his chest. The hauntingly beautiful melody filled the once silent manor with notes of love and joy, and the wandering ghosts around couldn't help but sing along.

Truly... a kind of magical feeling not even his own skills could match. And he'd hold on to it... and especially her... until the end of days.

"I love you too, my special, little star..."

[bisexualiteaa]

We’ll Meet Again

Alastor x GN! Reader

TW: Fluff! Alastor and Reader were lovers in life, soulmates, slight memory loss, brief mention of reader taking their life, a little OOC Alastor.

AN: I heard PARANOiD DJ’s take on Alastor singing We’ll Meet Again and just couldn’t help myself, it seemed far too perfect. While I know he says the song is “past his time” it felt too perfect. Please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors, otherwise! Enjoy! :)

You were delighted with the sound of someone playing the piano and humming as you left your room to start the day. You descended the stairs of the hotel to see the radio demon at the piano in the parlor, delighted to hear his skillful playing. It reminded you a lot of when you were alive. You moved closer to see him play and potentially talk and sing with him. You stood listening to him play for a while before he looked up to notice you had been lured in by his music.

“Ah! I didn’t see you there. Don’t be shy, make yourself comfortable” Alastor spoke as he played a little tune on the piano once again while speaking to you, his fingers dancing absentmindedly along the ivory keys. “You play?” You asked as you sat down next to him on the bench, making him chuckle at the rather obvious answer to your question, but he was delighted to see your recognition nonetheless. “Surprised? I’ve been known to tickle the ivories from time to time” he replied, a laugh track playing afterwards that you couldn’t help but giggle along with. “You make it look so effortlessly easy. I knew someone once who was extremely talented at playing and singing like you are” you responded, making him smile a little softer at the compliment and connection you had made. “Ahh there’s few things more entertaining than a good song, don’t you think?” He asked, making you hum and nod in agreement as you awaited to hear what he had in store to play for you. “I’m rather fond of this one! It’s a little after my time but it is such a…thoughtful melody” he added, emphasizing the word thoughtful as if the song had a more personal meaning to him. He cleared his throat before playing the soft melody, the crackling radio static filling the air for a moment before he continued and began to sing.

”We’ll meet again”

“Don’t know where”

”Don’t know when”

”But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day”

He began to sing, and your eyes widened a little at the lovely sound of his voice. For a demon you were shocked that he could have such an angelic voice, yet something about that song, something about that voice felt so…familiar. You couldn’t quite place it, perhaps you’d heard it in passing when you were alive?

“Keep smiling through”

“Just like you always do”

“Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away”

He continued to sing and you couldn’t help this festering feeling within you that you knew this song, that his voice sounded so familiar. Hearing him sing this brought you home, to back when you were alive. You closed your eyes for a moment as you reminisced on old times, a smile rising to your lips as you recounted the way you would lean over a piano with a loving smile and sing along to songs being played by your lover. He was a radio host back then, just like Alastor. You recounted the way his mother used to praise his skills and his voice and yours as you would sing together, the smell of her famous jambalaya filling the air. Strange how the face of your lover seemed to be a blur to you, it had been quite some time since you’d died, and unfortunately they had died before you did.

“And I will just say “Hello””

“To the folks that you know”

“Tell them you won’t be long”

“They’ll be happy to know”

“That as I saw you go”

“You were singing this song”

It was then that it clicked, the song he was singing was a song you used to sing quite often. You saw it, remembering the way you would visit your lover’s grave and sing to him as if he could hear you from beyond the mortal realm. It was the song you sang at his funeral as you comforted his loving mother who couldn’t bear the news that her son was gone and about to be lowered six feet below the cold dirt of the earth. You had visited his grave everyday, giving him life updates as you could, wishing, praying you could hear his voice again just one more time. You had hoped that perhaps in some way he could hear you until you could find one another again in the afterlife.

One day the sadness had just become far too much for your heart to bear, the depression and loneliness consuming you to the point you hardly could will yourself to leave the house unless it was to visit him. Hardly able to bring yourself to leave his tombstone in the cemetery once you had arrived, and in a flitting moment of pure heartbroken melancholy one evening, you took your own life. That was how you unfortunately got here, granted you didn’t live the purest life, your lover and you were partners in crime outside of your otherwise pure moments together at home. Then his face came to you, and in an instant the pieces all fell together in your mind. It was him. You had finally found your lover after so long spent apart and so long searching and yearning.

“We’ll meet again”

“Don’t know where”

“Don’t know when”

“But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day”

He began to hum the previous melody, tears coming to your eyes as you looked at him, finally understanding why that smile reminded you so much of someone. So much of home. He had been here before you for so long and it took just now to realize it. How you longed to cup his face and kiss him like you used to, or to simply hold him within your embrace after so long.

“We’ll meet again”

“Don’t know where”

”Don’t know when”

“But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day”

You finished the song with him as tears streamed down your face, the droplets landing along the ivory keys with a soft “plap” before looking to him. He smiled a little softer, his brows more relaxed as he heard you sing along, happy to see that you made the connections at last. Your singing was as angelic as he remembered. “Alastor…” you said in realization as he turned to you, seeing the tears in your eyes and the streams rolling down your soft cheeks, almost bringing tears to his own eyes. “Yes, Mon Cher?” He asked, making you smile at the usage of the nickname he would call you back when you were alive. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? That the one I’d been searching for all this time had been in front of me?” You asked, and truth be told, it was because he was scared you wouldn’t want to be with him anymore upon seeing what he had turned into, that perhaps you had no longer been in love with him, but he wouldn’t admit to that. “Because darling, I knew one day we’d meet again, and that one day it would all return to you in time” he said confidently, covering up the real answer as his arm came to circle around your waist and pull you to him. “Oh Alastor…how greatly I have missed you” you said, your hand coming up to cup his cheek tenderly, something that had it been anyone else, he would be disgusted. But this was you who was caressing his cheek with care, you who had been looking upon him so lovingly. For a moment he felt as if he had been alive again, back at his home in New Orleans with you by his side, singing with him as he played the piano. For a moment, it felt as if he had been granted a slice of heaven despite being in hell. You leaned forward to press your forehead against his, careful not to tangle your hair within his horns as he shut his eyes, a small tear lingering within his waterline.

For the first time in far too long, he finally felt at peace. At home.

[aha-chuu]

Let's talk about the Xianzhou

Okay so obviously 2.4 we're returning to the xianzhou based on this image teased at the end of the 2.3 livestream:

We have also had drip marketing for three of these silhouettes:

Based on this it's pretty likely that all those silhouettes will be playable (eventually,,,, sorry Sunday </3). However, multiple of those characters are not listed as Luofu citizens - they are from other ships across the Xianzhou. In fact, all of the drip marketed characters are from different ships: Yunli from the Zhuming, Jiaoqiu from the Yaoqing, and March (apparently) designated to the Luofu. Presumably she's listed like this here because she will be competing in the "Luminary Combat Arts Ceremony" under the Luofu delegation.

The event as a whole is the Wardance - which I believe to be different from the "Stellar Martial Competition". That is the event which decides each ship's "Sword Champion" (Jingliu's former position). Honestly this is a bit confusing.

Not every new character will be participating in the Wardance in a combative way, I imagine. Jiaoqiu, for example, is a chef/doctor(?) so I find it unlikely that he's fighting anyone.

(As a note: I think March's new title being "Legendary New Swordmaster" is just a joke and she hasn't unlocked supreme, Jingliu rivalling sword abilities.

Though, March does show off the same sword style that Blade uses in her teaser clip. Less notably, one of the movements she performs is also similar to Yanqing's style. Blade was taught directly by Jingliu (in between bouts of torture) and Yanqing was taught swordsmanship by Jing Yuan who was taught by Jingliu. I imagine March's style is similar to theirs either because Jing Yuan or Yanqing directly gave her tips, or because most of the swordspeople she's seen have used this style.)

Anyway. This Wardance is being hosted on the Luofu so I don't necessarily expect any new areas immediately post Penacony, but I do expect we'll be getting multiple Xianzhou updates as the game continues. There are five more ships after all, with playable characters confirmed from two of those.

I don't know why we aren't getting participants in the Wardance from all the ships? And like. Is it a fight or a performance or...? It's "war" and "dance" so who knows.

Anyway let's look at some specific characters!

So Huaiyan is the master of the Xianzhou Zhuming, one of the seven Arbiter Generals (the same rank as Jing Yuan and - fellow teased character - Feixiao). These generals are comparable to Emanators and have been blessed by Lan. However, they are not necessarily emanators themselves: for example, Jing Yuan's Lightning Lord spirit is the thing actually gifted by Lan.

Huaiyan specifically intrigues me because he is apparently the oldest individual on the Xianzhou at this point. He might be our first playable gilf since Yunli is his granddaughter. Though, that fact alone makes me worry he might not be playable :((

In addition, the Zhuming is the primary home for the Xianzhou's artisans and craftsmen. Fittingly, then, Huaiyan's former disciple was Yingxing (Blade's previous identity as the master craftsman of the High Cloud Quintet). This connection is a bit suspicious to me, and does make me wonder if there will be a Blade reappearance as we return to the Xianzhou since he is associated with it.

(Do remember though, Blade is not from the Xianzhou - he was an outworlder. This makes Huaiyan personally taking him in even more interesting and indicative of his talent).

Anyway, Huaiyan almost definitely won't be competing with anyone since he should have a huge advantage over like. Poor March.

Next up:

So. Moze?

The first thing I want to immediately address is the theory that this is Sampo in disguise.

Like. I guess? He does wield knives and you can kind of make out a mask over his face, however his build doesn't like right for sampo imo and I can't really think of why Sampo would be showing up here. Obviously the Masked Fools are just a bit random so I don't think it's impossible, but I would be very surprised.

According to Owlbert, Moze is a "crow-feathered weirdo" and "cold and distant". So there is a bit of mystery here, whereas all the other teased characters have some pre existing lore pick at.

The mask is suspicious...

Final thing!

March's new form (new path and new element included) makes me very interested in possible other alternate character versions.

Like, we had Dan Heng IL before, but I think a lot of us assumed we'd just get him and then March's past version as five star upgrades and nothing else. Back then, those two did seem to be the fellow main characters after the trailblazer, but I think now that Dan Heng has been absent so long that Welt and Himeko share that protagonist spot.

I think this promises some other four star (or five star!) alternate versions, like a Sampo or Tingyun or Herta. I doubt they would "downgrade" any limited five stars but I could see a world where standard banner five stars get limited five star versions.

Also, the lore of HSR paths and elements already barely made sense before March swapped both on a whim. Like, Dan Heng I'm on board with because there was a lot of justification. But March appears to have grabbed a new outfit and picked up Imaginary along the way??.

What is imaginary? Quantum? All the other elements I can believe are more dependent on the character's chosen weapon than anything intrinsic. Like Asta uses a laser and she's fire, that make sense. Then I thought she was Harmony because she was choosing to follow that path (but pathstrider seems like something different? God).

Well, whatever! Those are my thoughts - I'm really looking forward to a return to the Xianzhou. I hope they can redeem themselves a bit from the main quest there, which I didn't really like. But I am a big fan of the characters so I'm hoping for good things!!

[haystarlight]

Once did a prodigy who shone like the sun

look out at his future and sigh.

He smiled and said "surely there is nobody as witty and as talented as I".

So great was his brain, so brilliant his glory that long was the shadow he cast

which fell dark upon the younger twin he loved and grew only darker as days and nights passed.

Soon did that young boy take notice that others did not give his brother his due

and neither had he loved him as he deserved, he watched as his brother's unhappiness grew.

But such is the way of the limelight, it sweetly takes over the mind of its host

and that foolish young boy did nothing to stop the destruction of one who had needed him most.

(...)

Bear up my lullaby, winds of the Earth, through cloud and through sky and through space.

Carry the peace and the coolness of night and carry my sorrow in kind.

Stanley, you're loved so much more than you know, may troubles be far from your mind

and forgive me for being so blind.

[itmeansiris]

The Solar System Legacy Challenge: Friends to Enemies Gen 1 pt.71

After Kason left Madison made the short walk back to her house. The clouds made good on their threat. A light rain started as she approached her front porch. She stood in the rain holding out her hand, allowing the water to build and pool threw her fingers.

When she was uncomfortably soaked she made her way to the door where she finally noticed Paris's black truck parked outside. She stormed inside to find Paris lazing around on her sofa.

Madison: How could you?!

Paris: Whatever it is, I'm sure a drink would help. I'm having some of that spooky day wine you had in the fridge.

Madison: You took pictures of me and Kason at the clinic and at my meeting and posted them online!

It wasn't a question it was a blatant accusation.

Paris: Oh, that. Yeah so?

She shrugged nonchalantly never once looking up from her phone.

Madison: Paris do you have any idea what you've done?

Paris: I'm sorry did I do something wrong?

Her tone didn't imply she thought she'd done anything wrong and it pushed Madison over the edge. They had been friends for years and Paris had constantly roped Madison into her little stunt’s, but Madison had always been in the background. She had grown used to being one of Paris's pawns, she never agreed to be made a public display. Her life turned into some trashy rumor. Her reputation would be ruined rendering her talents as an artist useless considering no relevant artist would ever work with her after this.

Madison: Yes! I just met with Kason at the dog park. He's pissed! He thinks I set him up! He was going to help the book club host an event in Mercury's honor and now he's going to cancel the whole thing. All the clubs work down the drain! This was important to me. Important to the club. I asked you to leave them alone. I told you I was done being a part of your stupid chase.

Paris rose from her seat on the couch and came around the table to stand before Madison. Her expression showed no signs of regret.

Paris: Tsk, Tsk. Mercury won't like that. This was never about making friends. If you're not with me on this then you're against me.

Madison threw her hands up in frustration.

Madison: Here we go. Classic Paris. We've been best friends our whole lives and you would throw it all away just because I don't want to be a part of your shenanigans. I've been here for every cat-and-mouse game you've played. Even when you ended up in trouble with that married guy in high school. For once, I got something out of it and I asked you to respect that and you couldn't. And no, Paris, I'm not on your side. Please Spare me the dramatics.

Paris: How about you get your head out of your ass and stop being selfish. You only met Kason because I let you. You told me to leave him alone, yet you're the one messaging and meeting with him behind his wife's back. You're rambling about friendship and respect but what about you huh? You claim to be all wrapped up in Mercury, but all I've seen is you getting friendly with her husband. Is that it Maddy, you want Kay all to yourself?

Paris took the seat across from Madison the smirk on her face proof she thought she had won. Like Madison was some helpless animal ensnared in her carefully laid trap.

Madison couldn't believe her ears. Paris had tried to turn the whole thing around on her. Paris was accusing her of being a bad friend, of using her to get close to Kason. After all the years of putting up with Paris's shit Madison felt she had finally crossed a line. She seethed with anger. She got up from her chair. Paris followed assuming the conversation was over when Madison picked up the cup on the table and before she could stop herself threw the contents in Paris's face.

Paris: You Bitch!

Though petty, Madison couldn't deny how good it had felt to do that. She didn't feel a shred of remorse. She was tired of bending over backward for someone who didn't give a damn about her. Paris didn’t deserve a friend like her and she’d finally realized it.

Madison: I can't believe you would say that to me. Kason is a nice guy who doesn't deserve to have to deal with your crazy stalker bullshit. A nice guy who happened to be married to Mercury. Who, I know you can't stand, but watcher forbid you should ever put your feelings or childish demands aside for anyone else. I've been her fan since we were in high school when she was writing short stories out of her studio apartment while finishing college. I own all of her books. I got her autograph at the book signing in San Myshuno the year we graduated high school. You would know these things if you paid attention to your friends. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me and you couldn't put your obsessive woohoo needs to rest. He doesn't want you and you will never be Mercury.

Paris: Fuck you Madison!

She shrieked.

Madison: You already have. Over and over. I'm done. Get out. You can leave the key on the table.

Paris let out a scream that could only be described as animalistic. Madison heard her slam something down on the table before she stalked off towards the door, closing it with enough force to stutter the frame. Madison stayed cemented to her spot listening to the sound of Paris's driver-side door crashing against the body of the car. The engine roared to life and the tires screeched as she peeled out of the driveway.

Madison exhaled loudly. Releasing all the built-up tension from the confrontation. She peeled off her wet jacket, curled up on the couch, and cried herself to sleep.

[tixdixl]

"Whatever you do, don't let go of your string!"

Groovy: [LOCKED]

Set Home: I'm heard there's magic on the breeze.

Home Transition 1: This wind is really strong! It could blow me away!

Home Transition 2: I wish Riv could have been able to join us. They would have had a blast.

Home Transition 3: So many people came out to play and fly kites! The hillside is jam packed!

Home, after Login: I see some clouds off on the horizon. It would be a real bummer if we got hit with a storm.

Home Transition, Groovification: [LOCKED]

Tap Home 1: It was incredibly kind of Al to invite us here. I hope he's having as much fun as I am.

Tap Home 2: Those two gals with the parasols have the right idea. The sun is almost glaring down on us today.

Tap Home 3: AH! That canon startled me!! What are they doing blasting actual canons in the middle of a city!?

Tap Home 4: Hopefully, I'll have time to go check out the other side of the island. I heard that there's a great diversity of merfolk hunkered down there, and I'd love to check out their ways of life - without being disruptive or weird, of course! Maybe they even speak a similar language to the ones near the shore at home.

Tap Home 5: That spade student nearly lost his kite. It'd be a shame if he did. I hope he can keep a firm grip on the string.

Tap Home, Groovification: [LOCKED]

---

I tried to challenge myself with this card. I wanted to go for an action shot that created some really dynamic lighting, and I think I actually pulled it off pretty well!

I don't have any design rough drafts to share this time around. Admittedly I actually designed this card on the spot as I was sketching, which isn't what I normally do. But it felt most appropriate to follow the lines of movement rather than create a pose based around a fit this time around.

This event is owned and hosted by the ever talented @the-trinket-witch and you can find a the event page here.

Thank you so so much for hosting, Trinket! I had a lot of fun coming up with an idea for this card, and if I have time, I'm hoping to submit a second one! I'm really excited to see what you have in store for Al's birthday, and I hope you've been having a lot of fun with this!

Tag list: @ramshacklerumble @elenauaurs @rainesol @inmateofthemind @thehollowwriter

@cyanide-latte @blithesharem @theleechyskrunkly @boopshoops @starry-night-rose

Lmk if you want added/removed!

[justabigoldnerd]

Thank you so much @pippinoftheshire and @prettyboynapoleonsolo for the tags!!! 💕💕💕💕

I'll combine both your lists because I know I don't have a few from either lmao and also if I have a word in a finished work I'll use that too!!

My Words: molasses, anticipation, survivor, grace, sunlight, vitriol, gleam, sharp

Your Words: grass, veil, background, training

Molasses - "A Thousand Teeth (And Yours Among Them)"

The saloon is old. Some say it's the oldest building in town. That some lonesome cattle-driver erected a bar and four walls and the rest of the city oozed out from the bottles like fermented molasses. The railroad even carves a dark river past the bar and deep into the heart of the city. It's been a long time since anyone remembers the train stopping here, but every now and then an old steamer will rattle the dry-rotting walls and knock a poor drunk's glass onto the floor. Dust rains down around them as the midnight train roars past, coating every surface and leaving granules in Illya's drink. He scowls into the clouded amber liquid and makes a disapproving sound. Swipes his tongue over his teeth like he can taste the grit.

Anticipation - "Blood In Your Teeth And Mud On Your Hands"

“Point taken, Gaby,” Solo laughs breathlessly as she drags him by the hand through the crowd again. He finds himself scanning the gathered racers for a slavic giant in crimson and gold, but the throng is too thick. His heart flutters in anticipation of meeting Illya after things die down. “Point taken.”

Survivor - Nada

Grace - "Single Dad Solo / Ballet Instructor Illya"

None of that matters. The center of his universe blots out the rest of the people in the room, and he exhales softly as he watches her focus on perfecting her balance. Claire has the grace of a petal on a spring breeze, and her natural talent paired with her fierce determination makes Solo certain that she could become a principal dancer some day. In fact, he is certain that she will find endless success in any path she chooses to follow. Solo is so wrapped up in the warm glow of pride that he doesn't see the glowering Slavic instructor until he pauses near Claire.

Sunlight - "Domovoy"

At the end of an isolated, gravelly road, an old-wood cottage with intricate trimmings stands proudly. Sunlight filters through the trees that dot the property, spilling dappled light onto the beautiful latticework and shutters, painted white in contrast to the dark stained oak. It is cozy and not too big, with enough bedrooms to host his friends after dinner and too much alcohol. Solo sighs with enough content to fill the large box in his arms and shoulders through the front door. He finds it rather funny, actually. His whole life, he dreamed of owning a nice house, complete with a white picket fence and a family– the typical American Dream. And yet, where he found his home, his people, was an entire ocean away in the sprawling hills of England.

Vitriol - Nothin'

Gleam - "Which Side of The Wall Really Suffers That Cost?"

"I want to hear it from you. I'd like to know what's got you on edge this morning.”

Authenticity was not an accessory Solo often wore. Today, it sat gleaming in his eyes so brightly that Illya almost told him. Guilt gnawed at his insides as he stood up straight again and denied, “It is not your business.”

Sharp - "How To Cook A Wolf"

He scrawls his name in jittery letters, right on the line, then lets the pen clatter to the desk. He looks up at the man he once respected, even admired, with enough venom to kill him in half a second if Solo had fangs. Sanders only smiles wider in return, sharp like the straight razor that had knicked his carotid. A foreboding sense of dread settles deep in his stomach. “We done here?”

No pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @bighandsforabigheart

@kcscribbler @mybelovedillya @cha-melodius @the-golden-comet @thattripleabattery

@too-young-to-fall-in-love @times-up-alone-tonight @vnyu73 @nicijones @fandom-meet-fanthem

And an Open Tag for anyone else who wants to join!!!