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ittybittyfanblog · 1 month ago

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Error 404: Spin-off

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Update: Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized (That's it, that's the plot). Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, slight crack (literally. lmao, you’ll see), FLUFF! A/N: Finally starting the spin-off! Hello again 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 I’ve got a rough outline for the flow and a few key chapters mapped out, but I’m keeping it flexible for the most part. This isn’t gonna be a full structured story, so think more like vignettes of their life, w/ some world-building here and there (laying some groundwork for future chapters hehe). Come thru if you wanna see what error!Sylus and our lil player are up to post-reality jump 🙂‍↕️🙏🏼 Also: no posting schedule! I’m treating this like a chill side project I can pick up whenever, so not every part’s gonna be lengthy/that polished hehe. Mostly short snippets, unless the chapter calls for a longer one. (P.S. Just send a DM if you want to be taken off the taglist lol. I just assumed you guys would still want to follow along, but no pressure at all if you don’t! 💕)

(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2

You keep waiting to wake up.

For the sound of your phone alarm to blare somewhere beneath the covers, forcing you to fish it out at seven-thirty-something in the morning. For this absolutely wonderful, absolute mindfuck of a dream, to end—and for the real world to set in.

For another uneventful day to begin, the way it usually does after a short reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of life.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of the shower cuts off.

You scramble to open the cupboard overhead, grabbing the pepper shaker from the first shelf. You do four rotations over the half-cooked omelette before flipping it over with a rubber spatula, trying not to lose your cool. Or what’s left of it.

Three days. It’s been three days since it dawned on you that Sylus has actually managed to cross the threshold – through a tiny, impossible fissure in the fabric of reality – just to get to this dimension. Your dimension.

Three days since you locked eyes with the other half of your soul from across a room, no screen separating the two of you for once. No physical barrier to stop him from catching you as you ran toward him past the counter, just as twilight kissed the sky goodnight, sobbing at the first touch of his skin—electric against yours. The taste of his lips, the bittersweet notes of extant longing and pure bliss blooming on your tongue as he captured your mouth in his; the two of you lost in each other, uncaring of anything beyond that precious, shared moment.

And three days for your mind to finally catch up to the sheer impossibility of it all.

As far as your Sundays go, you’d say this one takes the cake.

He’s been staying in a modest little rental just a couple of blocks away from you. Nothing extravagant – just a transient house he’s leased for the week. Not that you’ve technically been inside to know; he only pointed it out once, the single-storey residential from across the main street, as the two of you were heading back home—your home. To your little studio apartment.

Him. Sylus. In your condo. You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

You know that he’d just arrived in town two days before that fateful encounter at the bistro. That he’d already done his research to know exactly where you were going to be during that hour, and that he’s been here, on Earth, for quite some time now. Even before meeting you.

But past this knowledge, you haven’t actually covered much of anything, really. Just this little awkward dancing around you’ve been doing since you’ve been together.

And you know you should ask, probe, have him break down the hows of his existence to you, a clearer timeline of exactly when he popped into this world, what he’s been up to in all the time he’s been here… and why he’s even waited so long to come to you directly.

You’re painfully aware that it’s just you who’s keeping yourself from getting the answers you want. You’re the one making this harder than it needs to be. You can’t help it.

There’s no manual to tell you how to deal with your emotions when your virtual lover appears in front of you, in the flesh, miraculously defying all laws of physics in the process. No handbook telling you what to do next when something you’ve been wishing for every night before going to bed – for the past two years – actually manifests into being.

Someone you’ve always longed for, staked deep within the confines of your heart, but never truly imagined the consequences of until your wishful thinking bled into reality.

And now he’s here.

All things considered, you think you’ve done an okay job at acting like everything’s normal. Mostly. Probably.

(You haven’t.)

The day after he showed up at your proverbial doorstep, you almost couldn’t believe everything that had transpired a mere twenty hours ago was even real. That maybe your brain had just gotten creative enough to invent a Hallmark-worthy scene to win you a one-way trip to your therapist—and that, maybe, you’d conjured him up simply because you missed him and you’re so down bad, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you.

...which nearly had your soul catapulting out of your body at the sight of the—extremely corporeal, extremely attractive—raven-haired (!) man moving through your kitchen the first morning he stayed over, wearing a black V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants, ambling barefoot like he already knew the place by heart.

You suppose he does, you allow cautiously, an odd sort of warmth blooming in your chest at the thought. Of course he would.

Still. It didn’t erase the surrealness of seeing Sylus, the Sylus—mortal, perfect, wonderfully alive—brewing you a cup of coffee at nine in the morning, your brain failing to fully comprehend the image of his towering figure working your faulty, secondhand De’Longhi like a pro.

"Are you," he started, eyes zooming in on the spot between your thumb and forefinger, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh, "pinching yourself?"

You had quickly withdrawn your hand, schooling your face into a poor attempt at nonchalance as you reached for the steaming blue mug he was holding out to you. "...No."

You can't help but hover around him, like some weird satellite desperate for orbit. You find yourself sneaking glances every five seconds—and more often than not, he meets your gaze with a wayward look of his own.

He never calls you out on it; he just gives you an infuriatingly impish smirk that sends your heart into overdrive, making you feel younger than you are.

You’re still stewing over the events of the past few days, absentmindedly worrying whether the eggs needed more salt, when you hear the bathroom door open.

You whip your head around, and all systems crash to a stop.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

He’s standing there—all six-foot-five of pure, lean muscle, like sin sculpted out of marble and left to walk your unvacuumed parquet wood floor without so much as a care for the cluttered little living space he’s in, looking completely at ease. Fresh from the shower, steam rising lazily from every inch of bare skin laid out in front of you, and it’s like The Neuron™ in your brain activates. The towel slung low across his hips leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, reducing your thoughts monosyllabic, like some half-evolved primate ready for mating season or whatever. Hot man. Hot man shirtless. Involuntarily, your eyes track a stray rivulet sliding down; right where the faintest suggestion of a happy trail (!!!) begins and ends… and you’re gone. Lost in some kind of trance.

Utterly hypnotised, you watch as it soaks into the edge of the borrowed sage green terry cotton, faintly wondering if what’s beneath it could soak you the same way, shit—

A strangled noise slips past your lips.

It’s terrible. You sound like a dying cow. Hot man’s fault. Bad.

A snort breaks you out of your shameless ogling.

Your head jerks up like you’ve been caught red-handed doing something you're not supposed to, guiltily meeting his eyes. You see Sylus already watching you wryly, the heavy drag of his half-lidded stare rooting you in place.

Your face starts to flush red with embarrassment, heat climbing all the way up to your ears.

He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe; arms crossed loosely over his chest, completely relaxed, and clearly getting a kick out of whatever expression you’ve got at the moment. His gaze doesn't waver, stuck on you like glue, drinking in every flustered reaction with quiet amusement.

You swallow nervously. His eyes flicker down, tracing the movement of your throat, and his lips tug up into a semblance of a smile.

Fuuuuck.

"You already started on breakfast without me, sweetie?" He tuts in mock-disapproval. "I told you it’d take me less than twenty minutes to shower."

You don’t manage much in response, just a dumb, garbled, "mhm, s’okay."

You're completely blanked out at this point—bluescreen dead if you will—except for one panicked thought flashing through your brain: Holy shit, he's practically naked. Sylus Qin from Love and Deepspace is practically naked in my house.

Then, not long after, a chorus of, “oh my god oh my god oh my god” starts looping in your head, overriding what little composure you had left like some raunchy PSA warning you about the dangerous rise of moisture down south.

Sylus cocks his head slightly, sending you a sly, knowing look—one that says he knows exactly what's going on in that overstimulated little brain of yours.

Slowly, he pushes himself off and saunters closer to where you are, taking his time crossing the distance with easy, measured steps. As if he’s in no rush at all to get to you. As if he’s merely curious whether you’ll combust just from him shortening the proximity between your bodies.

(You think you just might.)

And when he’s standing barely a few inches away – close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him – Sylus leans down, effectively trapping you between the counter and the solid wall of his chest. Between granite and sinew.

You lose all capacity to speak.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out a hand to shut off the burner stove behind you with an easy flick of his wrist, the brief brush of his arm sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with maddening tenderness, he pinches your cheek between two fingers—his thumb caressing the spot right after.

In a voice filled with faux sympathy, he coos, “What’s got you all distracted, poppet?”

He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing.

He’s done nothing but tease you with his devastatingly good looks, his overwhelming presence, and syrupy words spoken so sinfully in that low cadence of his voice, ever since he arrived. And, oh, you’re not sure whether to scream or kiss the smug look off his face silly.

You’re so bad at being subtle. You always have been, especially when it comes to him. And you know you can’t hide anything from Sylus – from the smallest flicker of microexpression on your face, down to the shortness of your breath. Both of you know this. Both of you painfully aware of the effect he has on you.

And just as much, you know he’s been holding himself back—that no matter how flirtatious he gets, he’s still keeping enough control to pull away whenever you start to get too overwhelmed.

Despite his provocations, Sylus never pushes. He waits, patiently. Giving you the space to volley back if you want to. And if you don’t, he backs off in a second, with the same effortless ease he uses to tease you. Leaving you room to breathe again.

Rinse, repeat.

It’s almost as if you two are playing a game with poorly drawn rules. You don’t know who’s winning.

The little spell breaks when you feel a disgruntled meow against your shin; it's immediately followed by a cat headbutting you, twice in succession, with a surprising amount of aggression.

"Not used to sharing your mother, are you?" Sylus sighs, pulling back from where he’d been caging you in—his movements slow, reluctant.

A warning hiss rises from below. He raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to a safer distance, just out of swiping range.

"Yes, yes. You win,” he grumbles in acquiescence at the testy feline, a comically put-upon look on his face. “For now.”

You pull your eyes away from his bicep—look, you're just a girl, okay—to blink down at the temperamental little creature who’s now self-appointed himself as your personal foot guard.

He’s making some vague, cryptic noises, something between a purr and a growl, while keeping his eyes locked firmly on Sylus’ leg.

"He–um, he might just be hungry," you manage to mutter. A quick glance at the food bowl says otherwise. "...or not."

Sylus huffs under his breath, a low sound, equal parts understanding and mildly affronted. He tilts his head – eyes narrowing at the untouched kibble, then to the small furry menace claiming your feet like a jilted lover.

Unfortunately, Maru’s reception to the new person has been... less than cordial.

From the moment Sylus walked in the apartment, Maru had hissed at him as if to say: There is no reason for a Man to be here, before darting beneath the coffee table – tail lashing with all the theatrics of a petulant child. The churlish product of a mother who's been single for far too long, that he’s decided he’s the only boy she’ll ever need.

It strikes you as a little odd. He never usually gets antsy around guests, and you'd even thought he and Sylus got along—or at least, back when the man in question was confined to mere pixels on screen.

Maybe you shouldn’t have counted on that.

Sylus, to his credit, hasn't once tried to close the distance or force a peace treaty. Amused, definitely; the way his eyes glint whenever Maru glares at him could almost qualify as charmed. But since stepping into your home, he’s been mindful about giving the creature a wide berth, moving with the quiet understanding that respect here is sacrosanct, something to be earned. That he’s the one imposing, and the truce between him and the (true) man of the house is a fragile, delicate thing.

You honestly haven’t decided if Maru’s behaviour is because he’s protective... or just pissed that someone else is hogging your attention.

"It’s alright, sweetie," Sylus—your son’s chosen rival—soothed you reassuringly; his hand rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the small of your back when he caught the slightly crestfallen look on your face. "He’s just feeling territorial about his space right now. Give it some time."

“I’ll get dressed,” Sylus murmurs. “Don’t start on the coffee without me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another between your brows; the casual, freely-given affection leaves you warm and gooey inside. He turns toward your vanity, where his black duffel bag rests on the small plastic saddle chair.

You watch his retreating figure for a few seconds—long enough for him to glance back over his shoulder, one brow lifted in lazy inquiry. And the look is so familiar; so painfully reminiscent of the one he gives you in-game, right after you’d deliver a ‘slap’ to his ass, that it knocks you a little off-kilter.

… Which might explain why you don’t react fast enough when his eyes flash with mischief, and he casually undoes the knot of his towel.

The fabric drops.

You catch a glimpse—more than a glimpse, hello—of the perkiest butt you’ve ever seen in your life, and you spin around so fast you slam your elbow into something undoubtedly solid in the process.

A half-pained, half-mortified wheeze escapes your throat.

"Careful," he calls out to you—and though amusement colors his voice, there's a real thread of worry beneath it, enough to make you want to slam your head against the counter for some inexplicable reason. "Don’t feel the need to grant me modesty on my behalf, kitten."

"Kitten’s about to kill herself," you lament with a whine.

It earns you an unimpressed scoff.

“I just got here, my love,” he deadpans without missing a beat. “Daddy’s gonna have to ask you to hold on a little longer.”

You choke on nothing but air. Critical system failure.

Buffering… buffering… buffering…

You inhale sharply.

"Okay, pause," you beg, a slightly hysterical edge to your tone as you claw your way back from a full-blown breakdown. In an attempt to divert the topic, “D’you–uh, do you want anything on your eggs? I’ve got ketchup, hot sauce... barbecue sauce..."

"A proper chef now, are you?" And oh, the next thing you know, he’s right behind you again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt.

He smells faintly like your body wash, like Dove nourishing coconut and your calendula shampoo, a heady mix of something sweet and herbal.

The thought of him—of the both of you—smelling the same, actually makes you feel giddy.

What a stupidly trivial, novel thing to find joy in.

Snap the fuck out of it, it’s just soap, you chide to yourself.

You don’t even notice you’re trembling until Sylus curls a large hand around yours; steadying the shaky fingers reaching for the bottle of Cholula on the condiment tray, while his other hand gently cradles your hurt elbow.

Your breath hitches when he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Oh, sweetie," he murmurs, and it’s the way he says it—low and unbearably fond—that loosens some of the tension on your shoulders. "You’ve wound yourself up."

"I'm good," you mumble, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you mean it to sound.

"It's just me," he says, his tone as gentle as the breeze slipping through the open window, ruffling the choppy bangs that frame your face. "Nothing so different from how it’s always been, hmm?"

And you know he’s right. It's just him. Just Sylus. Your Sylus. No different from the one from two years ago.

"I know," you sigh, finally turning to face him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes.

His expression is softer now, the type of softness reserved solely for you, something that never fails to make you ache. The teasing is gone, tucked away for the time being.

"I just need a little time to wrap my head around this," you admit, voice quieter now. "Is that... is that okay?"

The greys of his eyes melt into something silvery, moonlit—impossibly tender.

In one smooth motion, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter and steps between your legs, closing what little space remains between you. You yelp in surprise, but before you can react, he’s already leaning in, stealing a kiss from your lips. Just a quick one, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed a taste to hold him over. He chuckles when he sees your wide-eyed look.

"Of course, my love," he says, voice wrought with promise—in love with the way your lips part, bitten pink and unsure, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "We’ll go as slow as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need." Forever, as what you two have.

…

For over a year, you’ve learned how to enjoy the small things alone. And you did—enjoy it, you mean. Once, almost a lifetime ago, you took for granted the quiet joys of a slower life. But you learned to take it day by day. One hour at a time, minute after minute.

It made room for reflection, and it moulded you into something stronger, and softer, all at once.

But this—with him—brings you back to another time. A sweeter time; the dog-day summer of your life.

The morning hums with a kind of quiet normalcy you’ve grown accustomed to. You’re used to the sunlight spilling through the linen curtains, lining the floor with streaks of honey-gold, soft as a happy memory. Used to the noise of the outside world bleeding through the walls, a constant presence you’ve long since accepted as a permanent fixture in this tiny apartment, like a second heartbeat.

He’s right, in a way.

This isn’t so different from the mornings you once shared with the same man—back when he wore a different face and led an extraordinarily polarized life, completely at odds with yours. The ones spent laughing into a screen, your fingers ghosting across glass, desperate to grasp something you never could.

That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. Someone lonelier.

So, no. Maybe not quite the same – maybe not even close.

–

You finally allow yourself to give in; to sink into the warmth of him, folding yourself smaller in his embrace like a tired bird nestling into a safer sky, your heart fluttering wild and restless against your ribs. Too big for your body, too full to contain. Here – tangled together in this sliver of morning light – everything that has hurt you feels small in comparison. You were never alone to begin with. But with Sylus in your arms, the world feels brighter than you ever remembered it could be.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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physalian · 1 year ago

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What No One Tells You About Writing Fantasy

Every author has their preferred genres. I love fantasy and sci-fi, but began with historical fiction. I hated all the research that historical fiction demands and thought, if I build my own world, no research required.

Boy, was I wrong.

So to anyone dipping their toe into fantasy/sci-fi, here’s seven things I wish I knew about the genres before I committed to writing for them.

1. You still have to research. Everything.

If you want any of your fantasy battle sequences, or your space ships, or your droids and robots, or your fictional government and fictional politics to read at all believable.

In sci-fi, you research astronomy, robotics, politics, political science, history, engineering, anthropology. In fantasy, you have to research historical battle tactics, geography, real-world mythology, folklore, and fairytales, and much of it overlaps with science fiction.

I say you *have to* assuming you want your work to be original and unique and stand out from the crowd. Fanfic writers put in the research for a 30k word smut fic, you can and will have to research for your original work.

2. Naming everything gets exhausting

I hate coming up with new names, especially when I write worlds and places divorced from Earthly customs and can’t rely on Earthly naming conventions. You have to name all your characters, all your towns, villages, cities, realms, kingdoms, planets, galaxies, star systems.

You have to name your rebel faction, your imperial government, significant battles. Your spaceships, your fantasy companies and organizations, your magic system, made-up MacGuffins, androids, computer programs. The list goes on and on and on.

And you have to do it all without it sounding and reading ridiculous and unpronounceable, or racist. Your fantasy realms have to have believable naming patterns. It. Gets. Exhausting.

3. It will never read like you’re watching a movie

Do you know how fast movies can cut between scenes? Movies can balance five plotlines at once all converging with rapid edits, without losing their audience. Sometimes single lines of dialogue, or single wordless shots are all a scene gets before it cuts. If you try to replicate that by head-hopping around, you will make a mess.

It’s perfectly fine to write like you’re watching a movie, but you can’t rely on visual tricks to get your point across when all you have is text on a page – like slow mo, lens flares, epically lit cinematic shots, or the aforementioned rapid edits.

It doesn’t have to, nor should it, look like a movie. Books existed long before film, so don’t let yourself get caught up in how ~cinematic~ it may or may not look.

4. Your space opera will be compared to Star Wars and Star Trek

And your fairy epic will be compared to Tinkerbell, your vampires to Twilight, your zombies to The Walking Dead, Shaun of the Dead, World War Z. Your wizards and witches and any whisper of a fantasy school for fantasy children will be compared to Harry Potter. Your high fantasy adventure will be compared to Lord of the Rings.

You can’t avoid it, but you can avoid doing it to yourself. When people ask about your book, let them say “oh, you mean like Star Wars” to which you then can say, kind of, except XYZ happens in my book. These IPs will never fade from the public consciousness, not while you exist to read this post, at least, but Harry Potter isn’t the only urban fantasy out there. Lord of the Rings isn’t the only high fantasy. Star Wars isn’t the only space opera.

Yours will be on the shelves right next to them, soon enough, and who knows? You might dethrone them.

5. Your world-building is an iceberg, and your book is the tip

I don’t pay for any of those programs that help you organize your book and mythos. I write exclusively on Apple Notes, MS Word, and Google Suite (and all are free to me). I have folders on Apple Notes with more words inside them than the books they’re written for.

If you try to cram an entire college textbook’s worth of content into your novel, you will have left zero room for actual story. The same goes for all the research you did, all the hours slaving away for just a few details and strings of dialogue.

There’s a balance, no matter how dense your story is. If you really want to include all those extra details, slap some appendices at the end. Commission some maps.

6. The gatekeeping for fantasy and sci-fi is still very real

Pen names and pseudonyms exist for a reason. A female author writing fantasy that isn’t just a backdrop for romance? You have a harder battle ahead of you than your male counterparts, at least in the US. And even then, your female protagonist will be scrutinized and torn apart.

She’ll either be too girly or not girly enough, too sexy, or not sexy enough. She’ll be called a Mary Sue, a radical feminist mouthpiece, some woke propaganda. Every action she takes will be criticized as unrealistic and if she has fans who are girls, they will be mocked, too.

If you have queer characters, characters of color, they won’t be good enough, they won’t please everyone, and someone will still call you a bigot. A lot of someones will still call you a bigot.

Do your due diligence and hire your army of sensitivity readers and listen to them, but you cannot please everyone, so might as well write to please yourself. You’re the one who will have to read it a thousand times until it’s published.

7. Your “original” idea has been done before, and that’s okay

Stories have been told since before language evolved. The sum of the parts of your novel may be original, but even then, it’s colored by the media you’ve consumed. And that’s okay!

How many Cinderella stories are there? How many high fantasies? How many books about werewolves and witches and vampires? Gods and goddesses and celestial beings? Fairies and dragons and trolls? Aliens, robots, alien robots? Romeo and Juliette? Superheroes and mutants?

Zombies may be the avenue through which you tell your story, but it’s not *just* about zombies, is it? It’s about the characters who battle them, the endurance of the human spirit, or the end of an era, the death of a nation. So don’t get discouraged, everyone before you and everyone after will have written someone on the backs of what came before and it still feels new.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #fantasy #scifi #writeblr #what no one tells you about writing

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glassbxttless · 2 months ago

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Whiskey

sam o’brien (warfare) x fem!reader

word count: 2.2k+

summary: you and sam get a dog.

warnings: pre-warfare sam, just fluff! a little bit of swearing. don’t ask me how i know what a puppy that eats drywall looks like 💀 also!! if your pets have any of the names in here— i love them, i promise 🫶🏻

notes: spay and neuter your pets folks— and do your best to find rescue animals, foster, and/or only go to reputable breeders. i wanted to write something short and soft, so big thanks to @peachyproserpina for giving me the idea and beta reading so quickly!

Ever since the two of you had started dating, you had known Sam had wanted a dog. Being 18 and 19 then, neither of you had a notion on how to even care for yourselves let alone an animal— so you kept pushing it back. Pushing it back for the next milestone. Your first apartment together was too small, and then Sam’s first deployment was too soon, and then you had just bought your first house together. But now— 25 and 26, you had run out of excuses to use to keep delaying the inevitable. You were homeowners— a little white two story house with a fenced in yard, the American dream.

So you spent weeks researching breeds, training methods, food brands, everything. He’d insisted on a golden retriever from the start. But you weren’t convinced— you were living this picture perfect life straight from a fucking catalogue and now he wanted the dog on page 10 too? But all of your research kept leading you down the same path Sam was on. A golden retriever did fit your lifestyle. So five weeks after beginning your research for the perfect dog, here you were— driving to meet a litter of puppies on the other side of town. You’d checked shelters and breeders, rescue centers. Each time landing on senior dogs you’d been more than happy to give a home to, but then Sam had saw the ad on Facebook. An older woman had found a stray mama and her pups in her barn. She searched for their owners and there was no response. So now she was stuck with finding suitable homes for the bunch.

You two had settled down into bed with the ad that night, scrolling through the photos like it was your life’s mission. And one of the puppies had caught your eye. He was big compared to his siblings, dark, with an almost red hue. The photos had made him out to look sweet and spunky. A perfect mix of you and Sam. You both had agreed on him that night, sending her a quick message on when you could meet them; you could practically hear him running around the house, tail wagging and knocking everything over in it’s wake.

You had piled in the car the following Sunday to make the trip over. Sam was practically vibrating with excitement, he was finally getting a dog. And he was getting him with you. “I swear to God, if that little red shit doesn’t immediately imprint on me like Jacob did to that little shit in Twilight, I’m returning him.”

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh leaving your lips. “Returning him to where, exactly? I doubt she issues refunds.”

“I don’t know. The fucking void? Your mom’s garage? Or maybe I’ll just live in the backyard with him until he learns who his favorite parent will be.” He shot you a smug grin, eyes drifting back to the road in front of him. “It’s gonna be me, if you weren’t aware. You’ll be the mean one who says ‘no’ too fucking much and wipes up his accidents when he pees on the hardwood. I’ll be the fun one who gives him bacon.”

You shake your head and peek down again at the phone open on your lap. The photos of the pups still pulled up. “Right, because dogs love living in the back yard until they pick a favorite, huh?”

Sam reached over and flicked your thigh like you weren’t supposed to fire right back at him. “You laugh now, but backyard bonding is a time-honored tradition between Man and Man’s Best-Friend. I give him a stick, we stare into the distance together, howl at a few birds— boom. Soulmates. I’m sure he wouldn’t even eat me if I died, like your fuckin mom’s cats would.”

You laugh a little louder, eyes still on the photos on your phone. That almost red pup was front and center of the group. Towering over his brothers and sisters with the biggest paws and floppiest ears. “Sam, just look at him. He looks like he’d eat our drywall.”

“Exactly,” He chuckles softly in response, “That’s a dog with vision. We gotta name that guy right, or he’s gonna destroy everything we own in protest. And I don’t really feel like picking out a new couch, so please for the love of God don’t suggest something like Apollo.”

You tilted your head, eyes scanning over the photo as you think. “He kinda looks like you after you’ve been out drinking…”

Sam glanced over at you, his hand settling against the skin of your thigh, grinning. His fingers brushing under the hem of your pajama shorts as his thumb digs into the side with the pressure of his squeeze. “Whiskey.”

You look at his hand and then at him. He looks at you and then turns his attention back to the road in front of him— turning left when the gps decides to speak up. “…Actually?” you ask, not exactly hating the way the name rolled off your tongue.

Sam shrugs a bit, smiling ear to ear. “Why not? He’s the right color, he’s probably gonna cause a scene if we leave him alone for like five minutes, and also— hello— Whiskey’s my favorite vice. Just a seems a little too fitting, no?”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide, but it wasn’t working no matter how hard you tried. “So what you’re saying is, we name our dog after your greatest weakness.”

Sam nodded, pulling into the drive that had been given to them. “Yes. I want to look him in the eyes every day and be reminded that I am soft. Weak. Controlled entirely by love and impulse… And barrel aged liquor.”

You grinned. “So, Whiskey then?”

He nodded again, the name rolling off his tongue like it was always meant to be there. “It’s Whiskey.” Sam parks the car, reaching down to unbuckle the seatbelt against him. The puppies were already tumbling over each other in a pen in the yard with enough space for them to run and play. There were six of them— most of them that dark golden color you and Sam had fallen in love with from the first photo. As you slide out, Sam sends the woman— who was walking down from the porch— a wave. You walk around the car to meet him where he was standing with his hand outstretched. Taking it in yours and lacing your fingers, he leads you over to the pen of puppies. Sam and the woman chat for a few moments and then he immediately steps over the gate and kneels down to greet them in their pen, pulling one of the darker pups into his lap. The one you had come to take home with you. The little guy was a bundle of energy, squirming and licking his hands. Little paws hit against his chest as the little guy stretches out and licks his face.

You step over the gate to the pen as well and crouch down beside Sam, ready to commit to your original choice in Sam’s lap. But then your eyes landed on her— the almost-white golden retriever pup hanging towards the back of the group. She was smaller than the rest of her siblings, her fur a soft cream that almost gave you a headache in the sunlight. She had the sweetest, most curious eyes. And when she turned to you, it was like you could see right into her soul and she could yours. You reached out for her gently, your heart doing that funny little flip in your chest. The one you used to get when Sam would do anything that made you fall even further into love with him. She immediately crawls into your lap, her little nails leaving scratches on your bare thighs. But she’s nuzzling into your chest, and it felt like everything else— the other pups, especially the one in Sam’s lap— had faded into the background.

Sam looked over, still holding onto the boy you had talked about, and raised an eyebrow at the way you were looking at the dog in your lap. He knew she was the one you were taking home as soon as your eyes hit his, but he still asks. “Wait, I thought we were taking him?”

You smiled softly, tears pricking your eyes— you had never felt a connection with a dog like this before. You look back down at the little white girl, pressed against your chest. “I don’t know, Sam. I think this one’s ours.”

Sam followed your gaze, letting the little guy in his lap back down to tumble over his siblings. He reaches out to scratch behind her ears. “Well, she’s cute, babe. I’ll give you that. But… she’s… is she even a Golden Retriever if she’s white?”

You didn’t even care. She was perfect to you. The instant you’d met her eyes, you were already imagining the future— her, Sam, and you. That woman watched the two of you and smiled, knowing she’d found a home that would love her as much as she had loved the puppies. “She’s the runt of the litter, a little shy with the others, but she’s got a lot of spirit. You’ve got time for her, I think she’ll do well with you.”

You just nodded, your heart full as you press a little kiss to the top of her head— your eyes still full of tears. “She’s the one.”

And Sam just takes the sight in front of him, smiling. He’s so in love with you. You’re everything to him. And now you two were going to be raising a dog that you just found some sort of soul connection with. So he wipes his hands off on his jeans as he pushes up to stand, dragging his wallet out of his back pocket. But the woman won’t take the money for her, not when she’s seen just how perfect a home she’s going to. Because that’s all she wanted. “Just pay off her vet bill and get her spayed, kids. She’s yours.”

Once you’re back in the car— you cradle her in your lap the entire ride home. Your arms wrapped around her little body and her soft off-white nose tucked under your chin as she sleeps soundly against your chest. She’s comfortable, like she’s known you forever. Like you were always meant to be her mom. Every now and then, she lets out a tiny huff in her sleep and stretches one of her little paws against you. Catching in your hoodie pocket every single time, and it makes your chest ache with how much you already love her.

Sam glances over at you. He’s got one hand on the wheel and the other is fiddling with the radio until he can get the volume down enough to talk to you— and then his hand is finding its home against your thigh. “Alright, so I guess we’ve gotta change the name.”

You glance up from where you had just been staring at her. “Why? Whiskey still fits.”

“She’s not whiskey-colored, babe,” Sam sighs, giving your thigh a squeeze. “She’s more like… milk colored. Or maybe oat milk if she gets a little dirty.”

You turn your head, arching an eyebrow up at him. “You want to name our beautiful little dog Oat Milk?”

“I’m just brainstorming here, honey,” he says defensively, his thumb now rubbing small circles against your knee. “Alright, what about Daisy? She looks a bit like a Daisy.”

“She looks like someone who would eat a Daisy,” you say, running your fingers along her tiny ear, earning a shift of her little body even closer to you. “Daisy’s too soft.”

“Alright, fine.” He starts listing them off, a finger tapping the other side of your knee. “Bailey? Luna? Honey? No— wait. Nala. That’s a classic one. Who doesn’t love the Lion King?”

You smile softly, moving one of your hands from around her to place over Sam’s as you look back down at her. She’s still curled up, her little tail twitching against your legs in her sleep. You say it so quietly, Sam barely hears. “She still feels like a Whiskey to me.”

Sam glances over at you for just a moment. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I mean… We didn’t really expect to get her… I dunno, she’s sweet and strong rolled up into one. And she got into our system real fast. I swear, one look and I was done for, Sammy.”

He hums, letting Whiskey settle in his brain just as much as the way Sammy had rolled off your lips. “You should write Hallmark cards or something.” He chuckles, but he doesn’t object.

You squeeze his hand, eyes moving over to meet his as tears begin to prick your own again. “You’re on board then?”

He exhales through his nose, staying quiet for just a few moments before he’s lifting his hand from your leg and scratches gently under her chin— his eyes still on the road. “Alright, Whiskey. Hope you’re ready for a life of living with the hottest mom around and all the bacon you can eat. You hit the jackpot, kid.”

Whiskey lets out a soft little grunt and nuzzles closer to your chest, like she already knows how much she’s loved.

Sam laughs, his hand leaving Whiskey’s chin to slip around your shoulder, playing with the hair at the back of your neck as he grins. “God, she’s gonna love me the most.”

You don’t even look up from her. “Keep fucking dreaming, O’Brien.”

tags ;;

#glassbxttless #female reader #sam warfare #sam warfare x reader #sam warfare x fem!reader #sam o’brien (warfare)#cw: swearing #joseph quinn

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kybelles · 4 months ago

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NOTES FROM PACAT’S LATEST M&G

(FEB 1, 2025, SYDNEY)

Akielos Research: She joked that her main historical research question was "what era had the hottest weather/clothes?" leading her to choose ancient Greece for Akielos. She discovered historians haven’t figured out if ancient Greeks wore underwear—deciding Damen must for practical reasons, like preventing chafing while riding.

Vere’s Setting: She was fascinated by late medieval France and chose "Laurent" for the name, so he had to be French. Akielos and Vere were inspired by various historical settings but don’t strictly adhere to realism. They are pastiches of many different places. She had to avoid certain anachronisms, like naval technology, to keep the world-building consistent.

Capri’s Origins & Writing Journey: She started writing Capri on LiveJournal without expecting it to be published, and wasn’t concerned with being politically correct or censoring herself. Having grown up with a violent childhood, fantasy offered her an escape. The final books are almost identical to what she posted online, except for a few name changes (e.g., Rabat became Vere, Margaret became Jokaste).

Writing for Comics & Paragons: She found writing a hero like Superman much harder than villains, as heroes require deep moral consistency—something harder for her because morality is complex and subjective. She believes paragons are essential in literature because they are aspirational figures who show us what good can look like, something missing in the current trend of grimdark and anti-heroes. Her favorite paragons are Wonder Woman followed by Superman.

Romance & Fantasy: As a kid, she resented love interests in stories because she just wanted to read about horses. Despite writing romantasy, she doesn’t read much of it because a lot feels derivative (like Twilight or ACOTAR). She’s critical of the genre’s lack of evolution beyond common tropes—essentially bodice-ripper romance, but with fantastical elements added, and wonders what will come next once readers have exhausted these clichés.

Queer Representation: She’s excited about the current "golden age" of queer publishing, noting how things have changed since her early career, when publishers wouldn't even depict the content of Capri on the cover. However, she’s frustrated that many queer stories still center on sex. She’d love to see stories where a queer character just exists (e.g., a queer detective), without their sexuality being the plot's main focus.

Capri's Writing Process: Capri was originally meant to be one book, but the characters’ deep hatred and evolving relationship required more time to develop into pure love without feeling forced. She intentionally crafted Laurent and Damen as opposites, with each possessing qualities the other lacked. This made them complementary and drew them together, reflecting the “opposites attract” dynamic, where their differences ultimately made them perfect soulmates for each other.

Romantasy vs. Fantasy: She defines romantasy as a subgenre where the romance is so central that the fantasy plot wouldn’t exist without it, whereas in traditional fantasy, the hero's journey can stand alone. Even though she writes romantasy, she doesn’t fully love the genre because it can lack depth beyond the romance.

Book Recommendations & Influences: She enjoys books like American Psycho (a critique of capitalism), The Alexander Trilogy by Mary Renault, Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, The Bell by Iris Murdoch, The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen, and everything by Dorothy Dunnett.

#captive prince #c. s. pacat #reference #psa: these are not my notes! a friend of mine attended the m&g and was generous enough to let me post their notes on tumblr 💕

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lace4forest · 6 months ago

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The Chains Ages in Linked Universe.

I saw people talking about the Chains age in Linked Universe, and I have my thoughts on them.

I've done a LOT of research on the Links and how old they were, I even tried to figure out how long Legend was in Koholint for. (We go with old Canon because new Canon doesn't make since,(Footnote 1) but basically that's the last time we see Legend in normal Zelda Canon)

Anyways-

This is from Jojo's QnA doc on the Linked Universe Discord- ^^^

And this is my thoughts on their ages. Side note, I'm not going off of looking up their ages through google, I'm going off info you can find in game and cross referencing it with other games and the Hyrule Historia and Encyclopedia. Time was 9 in his game and that's about 20 years later so he would be 29. (Unless if we counting Majora's Mask, then he could be 30-32)

Twilight was a "Late Teen" (Also it does state hold old he is) so 17 making him 21 to 22.

Warriors is also "Late Teen" (He was a trainee at the beginning of the war) making him 22 to 26

Sky is also stated to be around 17 making him 18 to 19

Wild is 117 and this would make him either almost 118 or just turned 118.

Legend just became "Of age" in ALBW and that's 16 in his era making 17.

Hyrule we know is 16 making him 18.

Four is 15 or 16 in Four Sword, but he isn't "Of age" so probably 15. making him 17.

And we know Wind is 13 almost 14. (He said it himself)

I just find it very funny the Toons are the youngests. Age explanation and footnotes below cut.

Time - He is 9 at the beginning of his game and becomes an "Adult" 7 years later at 16. This is one of the times it proves that 16 is "Of age" in the Zelda series. We aren't sure how much time has passed between Oot and MM, so we can guess he's 29 to 32 (Making Link in MM 10 to 12 as a good guess.)

Twilight - It's stated in a guide that he is 17. His game also was originally supposed to be a continuation of Oot and MM in the Wind Waker style, with Time all grown up and living on his own. But they changed it to what it is now. So it's just 17+4 or 5 making him 21 to 22.

Warriors - There is no official age and you do NOT need to be 17 to wield the master sword. All we know is that he's "Late Teens" making him between 16 to 19. Making his age in LU between 22 to 26.

Sky - He is stated to be around 17. Making him 18 or 19 (Even if we say he's 16, then he would be 17 to 19.)

Wild - he is 117 years old. We know this. it's been "Less than a year" so he could be almost 118 or already be 118, he probably doesn't remember his Birthday, so there is no saying exactly. (His Zelda should know though. Maybe.)

Legend - SO. I feel like people are gonna fight me on this, but I got the math and hours of research to back it. At the beginning of ALTTP, some guards say that Link shouldn't be out here or that he's too young to wield a sword (Or even start learning to) In BOTW Wild got the Master Sword at 12-13. And people said he was still very young and a prodigy, which means he was already learning the sword by that time. and we also know that in BOTW they think of "Of Age" as 17 instead of 16, meaning they probably make them learn stuff when they are a little older. There's also the connection to Oot, In Wind Waker its stated that Wind is the same age as Time when he Defeated Ganon (Making Wind Canonically 16) And Twilight is the age of what Time should have been when he decided to settle down, making him 17, which leaves us with Legend's age. Most likely taking Times age from the beginning of his game. LONG STORY SHORT- In ALTTP Link is between 9 to 10. NOW. The Oracle games, Link is still a CHILD, so before "Of Age" (Aka less than 16) A LOT of people call him a CHILD and wonder why he has a sword! making him most likely around 11 or 12. Same things with Link's Awakening. (FOOTNOTE 1). Then we have ALBW. Link has a job now and is learning to become a smith. so most likely after his return home, as well as he needs to learn this stuff before becoming a full adult, but then again he lives alone, so we could accurately say 15 to 16. SO LONGER STORY SHORT. We can say 16 and be GENEROUS. Making Legend 17 in LU (but probably closer to 16).

Hyrule - It's literally a plot in his game he is 16, making him 18 in LU.

Four - He is a Child in Minish Cap (So less than 16) and same with Four Swords. He has to be older than 12 because he was given a sword willingly. So between 13 to 15, but we can be nice and say 15 in Four Swords, making him 17 in LU.

Wind -

I do want to say, it's literally stated in his game he is the same age as Time when he KILLED Ganon as an ADULT. It's just the art style of the game.... He JUST turned 16, so people are still calling him a child. (Like how people call 18 year olds children in rl) But also he does look 12 in game... ART STYLE WHYYYYYY (also thats what Twi was supposed to look like lmaoooo)

---

FOOTNOTE 1 - The Encylapedia has wrong information that's easy to disprove and I want to throw it out a window. It also switched the order of the Oracle games and Link's Awakening, even though Oracle of Ages LITERALLY ENDS With Link taking the boat out to sea to head home, and LITERALLY Transitions to Link's Awakenings Opening. ITS THE SAME BOAT. I'm Gonna Cry- NINTENDO WHYYYYY.

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theoceansluvr · 1 year ago

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Percy Jackson x Marnie Biologist! Reader

warnings; none !

author's notes; this is pure self indulgence bc marnie biology has my whole heart <9 i tried to set this in New Rome but it might not read that way so bear with me. . .

right off the bat he was your biggest fan

both because he loves you and because of your major !

who better to date the son of the god of the sea than a marnie biologist right ?

talks to the fish about you none stop

they love him but gods does he talk too much

will literally go to the twilight zone just so you can research some

until he found it just then..

undiscovered fish for your essay or project

your professor doesn't even asks asks how you did it they just go with it

calls you a bunch of ocean related petnames ?

starfish, seashell (<9), killer whale

you know, cute stuff !

talks to his dad about you a lot because.. Poseidon-

his mom LOVES you

makes the the world famous blue cookies everytime you come over

she thinks the blue suits you

Percy would take you to the aquarium just so you can talk about all the ocean facts you know

even though he probably knows most of them already. . .

he can't help himself ! he likes how passionate you are about this, he likes it's cute

matching shark bracelets that are also those tracking ones ?( i think Fahlo ????)

yeah you guys have those

he begged his dad to help you start your own business

whether it was just research or a clinic, he was going to make sure you got whatever you wanted

has so SO many pictures of you with the animals

he keeps them in his wallet and shows random kids walking to class if they happen to start up a conversation with him

"Oh, you major in marine biology ? Yeah my partner's in there too..." followed by a long speech about why he loves you so much and how you're better at it than that kid

Grover is also a victim of seeing all the pictures

he secretly thinks it's very cute !

anyways my favorite barnacle boy and i miss him everyday !!

#percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x you #percy jackson #pjo #pjo hoo toa #poems from the sea

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taliaarchive · 1 month ago

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Greed on the Grid

☆ pairing. Lando Norris x Reader x Oscar Piastri

☆ word count. 4.7k

☆ dedication. This is for the girls who still believe in soulmates- especially the kind found in the blur of a race car, beneath a helmet, or behind a quiet smile in the paddock. Maybe he’s wrapped in adrenaline and fireproof fabric. Maybe he’s Australian. Maybe his name is Oscar Piastri. This one’s for you. May you never stop believing that love- real, fierce, forever love- can find you exactly where you are.

☆ talia notes. Also, yes- look, I may have done extensive research on the bougiest, most luxurious, most outrageously expensive outfits for this story. But honestly, can you blame me? God forbid a girl likes fashion. If you want to see the whole wardrobe, it's all down below. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. x

☆ synopsis. "He didn’t see her- but I did. Walked in wearing a dress like forgiveness and eyes like war… and I knew I’d never look away again."

You. Beautiful. Loyal. Unshakeable. To the world, you were just the girl next door- Lando’s oldest friend, the one who stood quietly in the shadows of his spotlight. But behind every podium, every photo, every win... was you. The one who held him together. The one who loved him first. No one knows how hard it was to let him chase his dreams while you buried yours. But you never complained. Never let it show. Not even now, after eight years together, when something feels... off. You crossed oceans for him- crossed the line between friendship and forever. Only to find him kissing someone else beneath the same lights he once said were yours. And in that moment, something inside you shattered- and something stronger woke up. He was supposed to be the finish line. But maybe the race is only just beginning.

Oscar. Silent. Calculated. Watching. He saw you before anyone else ever truly did. Before the lights. Before the chaos. Before the heartbreak. You were never his to lose- but he’s been losing you slowly, secretly, painfully from the moment he realised what you meant to him. Oscar never meant to want what wasn’t his. But every time Lando looked away, he couldn’t stop looking. And when he saw you break that night, walking away without a word, wrapped in the silk and ruin of your love- he knew. He would fight for you. Even if it meant standing on the grid, ready to burn the world down for one more chance.

Chapter 2: The Moment Everything Changed

Song: "Will you cry?" – Gracie Abrams

"You walked like royalty leaving a burning castle- like you didn’t bleed. And God, it ruined me more than any goodbye ever could."

8:10 p.m. - Leaving the Hotel

You stood in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing trembling hands down the delicate silk of your gown. The Oscar de la Renta Ombré Silk Chiffon Gown floated around you like a second skin-beginning in soft, luminous ivory at the bodice and melting into a deep, bruised plum that clung to the floor, like twilight bleeding into night.

The silk rippled with every shallow breath you took- too fragile, too alive- the movement ghosting around your ankles, whispering over your skin like something sacred.

The sweetheart neckline cradled your collarbones, leaving your shoulders bare to the chill of the room. The bodice cinched your waist gently- not with harsh lines, but with a kind of reverence- sculpting, holding, as if reminding you that you were still solid, still standing.

The Jimmy Choo Minny Metallic Leather Sandals wrapped around your ankles, the silver catching the light every time you shifted your weight, delicate but grounding.

The Harry Winston Cluster Diamond Earrings winked under the soft hotel lighting- tiny galaxies caught in delicate clusters at your ears. The Boucheron Serpent Bohème Pendant Necklace rested in the hollow of your throat, its tiny diamond pressing against your thudding pulse. And circling your wrist, where your pulse fluttered too fast to hide, was the Cartier Love Bracelet- cool, weighty, a private promise etched in metal: Always, L.

You clutched the Jimmy Choo Cloud Clutch tighter- feeling the hard, glittering metal edges bite into your palm, welcoming the pain.

You looked at yourself in the mirror- really looked.

You didn't look like the little girl who moved to Surrey at six years old, dragging a pink suitcase behind her, shy and blinking up at a boy with wild curls and a mischievous grin who offered you a toy McLaren before even asking your name. You didn't look like the teenager who spent every summer tangled up in kart tracks, grass-stained knees, and laughter that echoed down long English afternoons. You didn’t even look like the girl who stood in Monaco once, wearing his hoodie three sizes too big, cheering so hard she lost her voice.

You looked like a woman who had stitched herself back together every time he left, every time he broke her heart without realizing he was holding it.

You looked like a woman walking herself into a battlefield- wrapped in silk and diamond armour.

You breathed in- and stepped forward.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft, definitive finality.

── .✦

8:14 p.m. - The Car

The Mercedes-Maybach waited at the curb, sleek and rain-slicked under the heavy mist.

The chauffeur- a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a crisp black uniform- stepped forward, umbrella already raised. He tilted his head respectfully as you approached.

"Miss," he said quietly, offering his hand.

You smiled faintly- polite, distant- and lifted the skirt of your gown carefully, the plum-dipped silk whispering against your legs as you stepped into the car.

The door closed with a muted click- sealing you away from the cold, from the noise, from the world you weren’t sure you still belonged to.

You let the clutch fall gently into your lap, its jewelled surface flashing briefly under the muted car lights.

The leather seats cradled you in a silence so complete it almost felt sacred.

The chauffeur settled into the driver’s seat, catching your eyes briefly through the rearview mirror.

"First time in Melbourne, miss?" he asked, voice low, polite.

You blinked, startled slightly by the normalcy of it.

You shook your head. "No," you said softly. "Not the first."

He smiled faintly, understanding something you hadn’t said.

The car eased away from the curb, melting into the stream of glittering taillights. Melbourne unfurled outside your window- a collage of wet pavements, smeared neon, reflections pooling like oil slicks under the dull orange glow of streetlamps.

You leaned your forehead lightly against the cold glass, watching the rain trail lazy, uneven paths down the pane. The hum of the tires against the road was hypnotic- steady, rhythmic, pulling you under like a lullaby spun from exhaustion and memory.

Somewhere out there, Lando was laughing.

Golden and alive.

The way he always was when everything finally fell into place.

You curled your fingers tighter around your clutch, the hard corners biting into your palms.

You weren’t chasing a boy tonight.

You were chasing the ghost of a promise.

Maybe it had never been real.

Maybe it had only ever been real to you.

── .✦

8:32 p.m. - Memories on the Road

The city blurred past the window- a river of wet lights and half-forgotten sounds- and your mind blurred with it, folding backwards into memory.

You remembered the first time you met him- new house, new school, new everything- standing awkwardly in your front garden, too shy to say anything. And there he was- this boy with messy curls and a missing tooth, dragging a toy McLaren car behind him on a string.

He marched right up to you, shoved the toy into your hands, and said, "You can drive better than my sister. You’ll have to race me now."

No introductions. No hesitation.

Just certainty.

And somehow- even then- your heart had shifted slightly in your chest.

You remembered the endless afternoons racing battered scooters down your street- him always letting you win when he thought you needed it, pretending to trip or crash spectacularly at the last moment.

You remembered birthdays- him sneaking into your garden at midnight every year to leave presents on your windowsill. Silly things: a cracked snow globe, a faded comic book, a hand-drawn race map he said would be "yours and mine only."

You remembered your sixteenth birthday- sitting side-by-side on the cracked stone wall behind your house, drinking stolen champagne from paper cups. You remembered him looking at you too long, too softly, saying, "You’re my best girl, you know that?"

You remembered how your heart had nearly broken itself trying to stay still.

You remembered when you told your parents you were dating- Lando standing there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, so anxious he forgot to breathe until your father clapped him on the back and said, "About bloody time."

You remembered dates that weren’t glamorous- not five-star restaurants or grand events- but bowling alleys at midnight, corner shop ice creams after practice, falling asleep during bad movies with your feet tangled under old, battered blankets.

You remembered rainy nights like this one- him pulling you under his jacket, holding it above your heads as you sprinted through London streets, laughing until you couldn’t breathe.

You remembered promises whispered into your hair- "Wherever I go, you go too."

You had built entire lifetimes out of those promises.

Brick by brick. Hope by fragile hope.

And now- now you were here to find out if the whole house had been made of sand.

You blinked hard, smoothing the silk over your knees with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pressed your wrist lightly to your chest- feeling the Cartier bracelet, the engraving hidden against your pulse like a secret no one else could see.

Always, L.

You swallowed back the burn rising in your throat.

One more breath. One more step.

One more chance to find out if the boy who promised you the stars had learned how to hold them.

Or if he had already let them slip through his fingers.

── .✦

8:58 p.m. - Crown Metropol Rooftop, Melbourne

The elevator sighed open, spilling you onto the rooftop as if it were the edge of a dream, you hadn’t realized you were still clinging to. For a moment, you stood there, the threshold pressing against your body like a hand, holding you still. The world in front of you moved too fast, was too bright, too loud, too alive- a kaleidoscope of noise and color you didn’t feel part of.

The rooftop was a living thing. Rain slicked the dark stone underfoot, mist curled through the humid air, perfume and champagne hung heavy and sweet, and the sky above bled neon into the lingering mist. Beyond the glass railings, Melbourne pulsed in the distanceskyscrapers blurred into soft halos of gold and silver, the city lights blinking like slow, exhausted heartbeats far below.

The bass hit you first. A low, relentless thrum, vibrating up through the delicate straps of your Jimmy Choo Minny sandals, up the tendons of your calves, up your spine, into the hollow spaces in your chest. It wasn’t music anymore; it was a second, alien heartbeat rattling through your bones, making you feel simultaneously heavier and lighter than your body could hold.

You took a slow, deliberate step forward, the Oscar de la Renta Ombré Silk Chiffon Gown trailing behind you like smoke. The pale ivory of the bodice caught the rooftop’s sharp white lights, making you look otherworldly, untouchable. The silk skimmed your curves, cinched your waist with reverence instead of restraint, and melted into the stormy plum of the skirt, pooling at your feet with every movement like a living, breathing thing.

Your hair, curled into soft waves hours earlier, now clung slightly to the nape of your neck, kissed damp by the mist. You could feel stray strands sticking to your bare shoulders, a delicate annoyance that somehow made you feel even more exposed. The Boucheron Serpent Bohème Pendant Necklace rested cold against the fevered beating of your pulse. The Harry Winston earrings at your lobes caught the fractured light and threw it back in glittering bursts every time you moved your head.

And then there was the Cartier Love Bracelet at your wrist.

It felt heavier than it ever had before, pressing into your skin with a weight that was almost sentient. As you drifted through the crowd, you slid your thumb along the cool gold absently, the ridges and hidden engraving a silent, cruel comfort. Always, L. It was supposed to be a promise. Tonight, it felt like a shackle.

You floated forward, the gown whispering secrets against your skin, your steps light, measured, effortless in appearance but weighted with everything you could not say. You moved as you had been taught to move- like mist, like royalty, like someone the world couldn’t touch unless you allowed it.

The faces around you turned. Men leaned out of conversations to watch you pass, their glances lingering longer than they should have. Women tilted their heads toward each other behind crystal flutes, their whispered assessments slicing through the thick air. But none of it touched you. None of it mattered.

You had learned a long time ago how to wear your beauty like armour. How to carry yourself with the kind of poise that disarmed, the kind that protected, the kind that kept people from looking too closely.

You didn’t meet a single gaze.

Inside, your heart was hammering so violently it felt like it might split your chest open. It thundered in your ears, drowned out the bass, made your breath catch somewhere shallow and frantic in your lungs. You felt like you were made of glass, vibrating so hard you might shatter. Yet on the outside, you were the perfect portrait of serenity- elegant, ethereal, untouchable.

You tightened your grip around the Jimmy Choo Cloud Crystal Clutch, letting the jewelled edges bite into your skin until the pain steadied you.

The gown rippled around you like a sigh, your sandals clicking against the rain-slick stone with every step. The perfume clinging to your skin, the Baccarat Rouge 540 you had misted into the air hours earlier, still lingered like a memory, sweet and faintly bitter now.

You breathed in the night and exhaled all the trembling, all the longing, all the foolish hope that still knotted itself inside your chest.

You could feel the Cartier bracelet shift slightly as your muscles tensed. You rolled your wrist against it, feeling the familiar weight, the memory burned into the curve of the metal. It was supposed to be a tether, something that anchored you to him. Instead, it felt like a scar.

The city stretched out before you, indifferent and alive, and somewhere among the blur of strangers and sponsors and laughter too sharp to be real-

He was here.

Somewhere, he was breathing the same air.

Somewhere, he was laughing, alive in his victory.

And you- You were still foolish enough to hope he would see you.

── .✦

9:01 p.m. - Lando

He wasn't difficult to find.

You could have found him in a stadium filled with thousands, even blindfolded, even dreaming.

The rooftop was crowded, voices buzzing low over the beat of the music, the misty rain blurring the edges of figures laughing and toasting and spilling champagne across the slick stone floor. But you spotted him instantly, drawn by some old, invisible string tied between your ribs and his.

Lando stood by the glass railing, the city lights casting him in a halo of faint gold, the kind of glow that didn’t come from the neon or the mist- it came from him. He wore a white Tom Ford shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows like he hadn’t cared to fix them after the race, the fine fabric damp where it clung to the lean muscles of his arms. His dark trousers hung low on his hips, casual and effortless, and he still had on those same worn, scuffed white sneakers you used to tease him about refusing to give them up even when he could have afforded a thousand new pairs.

His hair was damp from the mist, curls sticking to his forehead in messy loops, the chain you once gifted him glinting faintly at his collarbone.

He was laughing. Head tipped back, mouth wide open, that crooked, reckless grin cracking his face wide open.

For a second- a full, sharp, excruciating second- you were transported back to being sixteen again, running across his family’s rain-slick backyard, grass stains on your knees, breathless from chasing each other around the garden while your parents called out warnings from the patio.

“You’ll catch a cold!” “You’ll break your necks!”

You had only laughed harder. Because back then, everything that mattered fit between the spaces of your laughter and his.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, once, twice, a sickening drumbeat that vibrated up into your teeth.

You took a step forward. Then another.

The silk of your gown hissed against the stone, your heels whispering sharp, precise clicks in the heavy air.

You gripped your clutch tighter, the bracelet at your wrist pressing into your pulse like a brand- steady, familiar, almost cruel now in its tenderness.

You could already feel it building- the way his eyes would lift, search the room instinctively, land on you, widen with disbelief.

You could feel how the glass would slip from his hand, how his smile would falter, how the world would crack open between you just long enough for you to fall back into it together.

You knew the script. You had lived it before- every time he came off a race, searching the crowd, finding you.

You had believed in it the way children believed in fairy tales- not because they were real, but because sometimes belief itself could be a kind of magic.

You stepped closer, breath caught behind your teeth.

And then-

She reached him first.

Tall. Blonde. Perfect. Wrapped in a Saint Laurent black dress that clung to her body like molten glass, every line of her screaming ownership.

You froze.

Your lungs forgot how to pull in air. Your body forgot how to stand.

She touched him- casually, intimately- a palm sliding up his chest, fingertips dragging over the fabric you once tugged on during long, lazy afternoons when he refused to let you go.

You willed him- desperately, silently- Please look up. Please feel me.

The city seemed to hold its breath.

For half a second- a heartbeat, a prayer- it felt like maybe he would.

And then he smiled.

That same slow, lazy, familiar smile- the one that used to break open just for you- and bent his head.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t drunk.

It was deliberate.

It was certain.

His hand slid to her waist with a familiarity that punched the breath out of your body. He kissed her like it was easy, like it was normal, like it was inevitable.

The world spun violently, tilting the ground under your feet.

The neon lights fractured against the glass barriers, the music twisting into a distorted roar in your ears.

Your heart cracked audibly inside your chest- not just a break, but a full rupture.

Pain lanced up your throat, thick and choking, but you held it in place like you had been taught- like a good girl, like a perfect girl, like a girl who knew better than to bleed in public.

Your nails dug into the jewelled surface of your clutch until you felt the tiny, painful pricks of broken skin.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

Your mind scrambled for excuses- maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was a joke, maybe-

But your heart knew better.

Your heart always knew first.

The Cartier bracelet at your wrist suddenly felt too tight, as if the metal itself recoiled from your skin.

Always, L.

A promise he had stopped keeping long before tonight.

── .✦

9:02 p.m. - Oscar’s POV

Oscar hated everything about this night.

He hated the feel of the Tom Ford tuxedo stretched stiffly across his shoulders, the way the fabric clung and itched against his skin with every restless shift of his body. The shoes pinched at his toes, polished to a mirror shine he didn’t give a damn about. The tie at his throat felt more like a noose than a formality, tightening every time he swallowed another forced smile.

He hated the rooftop- the stone floor slick with mist and rain, the sharp sting of champagne-soaked air heavy with humidity, the mingling scents of expensive colognes and too-sweet perfumes turning his stomach. Around him, the world pulsed and throbbed with bass, the music vibrating in his bones, the kind of synthetic noise that made it impossible to think, let alone feel anything real.

He hated the endless stream of sponsors- businessmen with too-perfect smiles and handshakes that lingered just a second too long. He hated the way they looked through him, not at him, as if he were nothing but a gleaming badge they could pin to their jackets, a name they could brag about knowing before it was too late.

He hated the celebration itself- hollow, brittle, fake. He hated pretending that the night wasn’t suffocating him.

He stood near the DJ booth, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand without any real intention of drinking it, foot tapping impatiently against the slick stone, counting the minutes until he could leave.

He wanted to be anywhere else- a quiet hotel room with the windows cracked open to the rain, a run-down bar where no one cared who he was, even the deserted back streets of Melbourne, soaked to the bone and free.

Anywhere but here.

And then- the elevator doors sighed open.

Oscar didn’t know what made him look. Instinct, maybe. Fate, if you believed in that kind of thing.

All he knew was that when you stepped into the rooftop, the world fell silent.

For one endless moment, it was just you and him.

You wore a gown that floated like mist around you, soft ivory melting into a bruised plum that kissed the rain-slick floor. The silk clung to your body with a reverence that no hands could match, sculpting to your frame, moving with you like a living thing. Your hair, curled perfectly earlier, was now kissed by the mist- soft, wild, framing your face in a halo of damp curls.

You looked like you didn’t belong to the crowd at all. You looked like you belonged to some other place- some quieter, purer world that people like him had no right to touch.

Oscar forgot how to stand. He forgot how to breathe.

His heart gave a single, painful lurch against his ribs, and he realized- too late- that every part of him had been wired, programmed, built to find you.

He wasn’t looking for you. He hadn’t expected you. He hadn’t even dared hope.

And yet- he could not have missed you if he tried.

You moved through the crowd like you were made of something finer- something stronger. Your head was held high, your shoulders pulled back, and yet there was a tightness to your mouth, a slight tremble in your fingers as they curled tightly around the small, jewelled clutch at your side.

Oscar’s stomach twisted.

He watched your eyes scan the crowd- frantic beneath the careful mask you wore- searching. Hoping.

And then- you found him.

Lando.

Oscar watched the hope bloom across your face- raw, reckless, blinding in its intensity.

It carved him open.

Because he knew that look. He knew it better than he wished he did.

He knew what it meant to pin your whole heart on someone, to believe in them against all odds, to wait across oceans and time zones and lonely nights because you knew- you knew- they were worth it.

He saw it light you up from the inside, fragile and bright.

And then he saw it die.

He followed your line of sight.

Lando stood at the railing, white Tom Ford shirt untucked, sleeves shoved to his elbows, curls damp and wild from the rain. His posture was loose, effortless, a drink dangling carelessly from his hand. His laugh cut through the noise- rich, unbothered, golden.

And then the blonde stepped into view- tall, willowy, wearing a slinky black Saint Laurent dress that clung to her like armour.

Oscar watched her place a hand on Lando’s chest- casual, confident- and tilt her chin up in silent invitation.

He watched Lando smile- that same smile he had once reserved for only one person- and then, without hesitation, he bent his head and kissed her.

It was slow. It was deliberate.

It was final.

Oscar didn’t realize he had moved until someone yelped behind him, a champagne flute knocked from their hand as he shoved through the crowd, heart pounding painfully against his ribs.

He didn’t think.

He didn’t breathe.

He just knew- knew he had to get to you.

But he was too late.

You didn’t collapse.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t even flinch.

You just stood there- frozen for one terrible second- as the world ended quietly around you.

And then- you straightened.

You lifted your chin.

You turned on your heel, gown swirling around you like mist, and you walked.

Not hurried. Not desperate.

You walked like royalty leaving a burning castle.

You walked like you had survived worse.

You walked like you didn’t bleed.

Oscar stopped moving, heart splitting open in his chest as he watched you disappear into the crowd- head high, eyes blank, shoulders squared against the storm.

He wanted to run after you.

He wanted to shake Lando until his teeth rattled.

He wanted to scream.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, feeling every stupid, broken, impossible thing he had ever tried to bury about you come roaring to the surface.

You had ruined him. He had let you. And he would do it all over again.

── .✦

9:08 p.m. - After She Leaves

Oscar stood there for a few seconds longer, staring at the elevator doors long after they had closed. His chest was tight, his hands aching from how tightly he had curled them into fists at his sides. The rooftop spun around him- laughter, music, clinking glasses- a grotesque parody of celebration he no longer had the stomach for.

The whiskey still sloshed untouched in his glass. He threw it into the nearest planter without hesitation, the heavy thud barely satisfying.

Then he turned on his heel, heading straight for the last place he wanted to go- the bar where Lando now stood, half-leaning against it, laughing with the blonde pressed too comfortably against his side.

Oscar could feel the anger crawling under his skin like a living thing. He could taste it- bitter, metallic, suffocating.

By the time he reached Lando, the words were already burning his tongue.

"You’re a fucking idiot," Oscar bit out, loud enough that the conversation around them stumbled to an awkward halt.

Lando blinked, slow and lazy, setting down his glass. "Jesus, mate. What’s your problem?"

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice into something dangerous. "You didn’t even see her, did you?"

Lando frowned, confusion crossing his face. "Who?"

Oscar laughed- a harsh, broken sound. "Your fucking girlfriend, who the fuck else Lando? She was standing right fucking there. Watching you."

Lando's face twisted, defensive, brushing it off like an irritating fly. "You’re seeing shit. She’s not here. If she was, she would’ve texted me. She wouldn’t just show up randomly without telling me. You know her."

Oscar stared at him, feeling something black coil tighter in his chest.

"Yeah," he said, voice razor-sharp. "I do know her."

Lando scoffed, looking away, lifting his drink back to his mouth. "If she’s not answering my texts, she’s not here. Probably busy. Not everything’s about your little fantasies, Piastri."

The way he said it- like a joke, like you were a fucking afterthought- made Oscar see red.

"You don’t even fucking know her," Oscar snarled, stepping forward until there was barely any space between them.

Lando smirked, that arrogant edge slipping into his voice. "What, you interested in her or something?"

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

"Yeah," he said, voice low and brutal. "I have been. Longer than you even realized. I see her, Norris. Every fucking time you don't."

Lando’s smile cracked- a flash of something ugly, insecure, flashing across his face.

"You’re full of shit," he muttered, but his hand tightened around his drink, white-knuckled.

Oscar leaned in closer, dropping his voice to something lethal. "I know her better than you ever did. I've seen it- the way she looks at you, even when you don't deserve it. The way she still fucking hopes."

He paused, letting the words sink in, letting the truth rip through the cracks in Lando’s armour.

"And you just threw it away for-"

The blonde chose that moment to interrupt, her voice syrupy and smug.

"Maybe she should’ve tried harder if she wanted to keep him," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her nails digging possessively into Lando’s arm.

Oscar turned his head slowly toward her, eyes flashing cold.

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, the words hitting like a slap. "You’re the reason he’s throwing away the only real thing he’s ever fucking had. You're a fucking leech."

The blonde recoiled like he had struck her, face flushing hot with embarrassment and anger.

Lando immediately moved to defend her, pushing off the bar, stepping between them.

"Don’t talk to her like that," he growled.

And that was it.

Oscar didn’t think- he didn’t hesitate.

His fist connected with Lando’s jaw with a brutal, sickening crack.

Lando staggered back, crashing into the edge of the bar, the glass he had been holding shattering on the floor.

The entire rooftop seemed to fall silent.

Oscar stood there, chest heaving, glaring at him with something dark and furious pulsing behind his ribs.

"Get your head out of your fucking ass," Oscar hissed. "You’re losing her. You already lost her. And if you don't believe me, text her yourself."

He jerked his chin toward Lando's pocket, where his phone sat uselessly.

"Go on," Oscar challenged, voice dripping with venom. "Text her. See if she answers."

But Lando didn't move.

He just stood there- stunned, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, pride bleeding out of him even faster.

He didn’t pull out his phone. He didn’t call after you. He didn’t fight for you.

Oscar shook his head, disgusted, and turned away without another word.

He could feel the blonde’s furious gaze burning into his back, but he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t owe her- or Lando- a goddamn thing.

His only thought, the only thing hammering inside his chest now, was you.

You- walking into the rain alone, shoulders set like stone, the heartbreak written into the line of your spine no matter how hard you tried to hide it.

Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket with trembling fingers, dialling before he could lose his nerve.

You deserved someone who would notice.

Someone who would run after you, even if it was already too late.

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gliphyartfan · 4 months ago

Note

Do you know Dr. Stone? If so, can I have the Chain with a fem human reader who is like Senku? The reader takes advantage of being in Hyrule to do research on the different species that exist there and does experiments or machines that the Chain doesn't know about and using the Chain as guinea pigs to learn more about the biology of the Hylians.

I am…SOMEWHAT familiar with Dr.Stone? Not enough to be part of the fandom, I just know a vague gist, but a crazy scientist reader shouldn’t be too hard to figure out ! (Has to give the wiki a quick scan tho…😅)

——————

Let’s face it, Reader is a menace. A lovable menace, sure, but a menace nonetheless. They had too many ideas, too much knowledge, and zero fear of experimenting on the people around them.

The Chain quickly realized that you weren’t JUST curious about Hyrule’s different species, you were curious about EVERYTHING. Every village you passed through was a new research opportunity.

Gorons? Reader poked at their rocky skin, tested their body heat, and theorized why they could survive on a diet of literal rocks. Zoras? Reader studied their scales, their gills, even how their body structure compared to fish. Rito?

They nearly plucked a feather off a passing child before Twilight stopped them.

Reader: ”For SCIENCE, Twi! You don’t understand.”

Twilight: ”Only thing I understand is that you’re about to get your ass kicked by an entire flock of angry Rito parents.”

But the real problem?

The Chain was their easiest test subjects.

Hylian biology wasn’t anything too different from what they already knew, but they still had so many questions.

Why were some Hylians taller than others? Were their ears actually good at hearing? How different was their anatomy from a normal human?

Reader poked, prodded, and took notes on everything. They even tried to draw their anatomy from what they could figure out. (Sky was so red when he saw the diagrams, Legend smacked them over the head, and Hyrule just turned and walked away.)

Reader’s biggest victim? Wild.

Why?

Because he lets them.

Reader “Hey, Wild, can I take a sample of your hair?”

Wild: “Sure, do you need a chunk or just a few strands?”

Wild: “What about a small blood sample? Nothing major, just a few drops.”

Wild: “Eh, why not.”

Twilight stopped them from collecting his spit.

Reader: “IT’S FOR A PH TEST, YOU COUNTRY BUMPKIN.”

Twilight: “WHAT EVEN IS THAT?!? YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW THE pH OF HIS SPIT, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

Reader took advantage of the fantasy setting to its fullest. Hyrule had magic, unexplainable creatures, literal deities, and they were going to study all of it.

When they realized that the Sheikah Slate had materials and blueprints from an advanced civilization, Wild barely had time to react before they yanked it from his hands. It took a whole week for him to get it back.

Wild: Reader, give me my Slate.

Reader: “I am doing RESEARCH.”

Wild: “IT’S MINE.”

Reader also invented shit.

Without modern resources, they had to get creative. Thwy used the environment, Wild’s cooking materials, and whatever spare parts the Chain had to make weapons, tools, even small gadgets.

The first time they made a small explosive, Time nearly had an aneurysm.

Time: “NO MORE BLOWING THINGS UP.”

Reader: “It’s for DEFENSE, OLD MAN.”

Warriors was their second biggest victim.Why? Because they used him as a guinea pig for their “hybrid energy” experiments.

Reader: “Okay, so technically, Hylian magic is a force field of energy produced from within, right? So, theoretically, if I adjust the angle and density of my conductive rods, I should be able to create an artificial current—”

Warriors, exasperated but curious: “Reader, are you trying to electrocute me?”

Reader: “It’s FOR SCIENCE, CAPTAIN.”

Legend was your biggest hater.

A few things the vet has said to them:

“Oh, great, what’s the lunatic trying to build now?”

“Reader, if you explode something again, I’m throwing you in the nearest lake.”

“STAY AWAY FROM ME WITH THAT NEEDLE.”

(To name a few)

But the moment he got injured, Reader was the first person he went to because their medicine worked better than potions and elixirs at times.

“Shut up,” he muttered as Reader smirked at him. “You’re the only one with antibiotics.”

“Oh? So you need me?”

“I WILL STAB YOU.”

They once started a fire in the middle of camp just to see how different types of wood burned.

Time banned them from touching firewood for a month.

Overall?

The Chain loved them, but they were a constant headache.

Reader was the only person who wanted to be in Hyrule for the sake of research, and even though their experiments terrified them, they couldn’t help but admire their genius.

Even if it meant they had to keep a close eye on them before they accidentally (re)invented nuclear warfare.

(Moment Wild mentioned Purah’s antics, the chain were horrified at the inevitable possibility of what the both of them would do together. So they drive to keep Reader as far from Purah as possible. It’s inevitable tho so..:sucks for them 😆)

#hope I did well!#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #linked universe x reader #lu headcanons #Senku Reader #gliphy answers anon #anon ask

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thegreenhordes · 1 year ago

Text

Twilight's Notes: Autopsy Report

Subject: Cheerilee Infection Type: Stage 3, Growler Cause of Death: Malnutrition

Important Notes: Food was provided to the Subject through slats in the door to her observation room. It was noted that she refused any non-meat food items, often smelling provided vegetables and fruit before wandering away in an angry huff. When provided with meat the subject devoured it ravenously. (Additional Note: Fluttershy is still Very distraught by the act of feeding meat to a subject, understandably so. The animals butchered were already dead when it was done, but I admit the act turned my stomach as well.)

Results of the Autopsy of Cheerilee: Pustules had a thicker membrane than what has been found in other Growler subjects, this has been noted in the Growler files under 'Secondary Mutations', Section Four, Pustule Growth. Additionally, the fluid inside had developed a thick consistency, atypical of previous tests on samples taken from the subject while still alive. Potentially a postmortem event similar to bloating and blood coagulation. The Cranial region of the subject shows typical deconstruction of the front of the skull where the largest pustules grow over the eyes. Bone was missing and the brain was protected solely by the thick covering of the pustules themselves. This was noted with previous autopsies as being how popping the facial pustules can be used to kill the infected. Oddly enough, Cheerilee is a unique case- in that her eyes were still present. They were nonfunctional and buried beneath the growths, but she is the only Growler so far to have them still intact. They were pushed back into the remainder of the skull and put pressure on her brain. It was noted this may be the reason for some of the subject's atypical behavior. (Note: Cheerilee struggled to walk in a straight line and frequently ran into the walls. Additionally, she had a total of five seizures in the few weeks she was in stage 3.)

The state of the subject's teeth were abysmal, many of them were chipped or shattered due to aggressive clenching and gnawing on bone. Multiple lesions in the mouth reveal a recurring observation that the sharpened teeth of the infected don't fit right in the mouth and will often cut their cheeks. The manner in which the teeth end up in this state is still debated. (Personal Note: I believe there is magic involved in much of the disease's effects, with the transformation of the teeth being one such magic-affected change.)

Internal organs were in poor condition, showing signs typical of extreme malnutrition. There were also several tumors and cysts found throughout, once again not uncommon in Growler cadavers. However there were less within Cheerilee than in previous subjects. I'm noting this as being likely due to Cheerilee being the shortest-lived Type 1 in my care to date. Aside from the growths- Which were later tested and found to be a mix of benign and cancerous- I discovered something I hadn't noticed before, though I suspect that was a simple oversight on my part. The glands that create saliva were engorged, the pores from which saliva is discharged were wider than normal. This almost certainly explains the thick, excessive saliva that often drips from a Type 1's mouth.

Final Notes: Most findings were either typical, or slightly atypical of the Type 1 infected. Though some new things were discovered, overall the autopsy proved to be more useful in the fact that I obtained a significant number of samples that I can use. I'll be taking these to study and try to find anything the may lead me towards an understanding of the mutagenic properties of the infection. I may also compare the samples to early-stage infected, stage 1s, 2s, and recovered ponies. My goal is not just to understand the infected themselves, but how the disease got to where it is now- Perhaps develop some sort of vaccine, or a cure for those still in the first 1-2 weeks where they can be saved.

I will be adding this file to the autopsy logs for future reference.

#Twilight's Research Notes #not art #mlp infection au #the glow #Just FYI #the infection began officially 5 months ago #it grew out of control around two months ago #so Twilight has had time to research- but things aren't as easy as she'd hoped in the beginning.#partially because of the infection being so mutagenic #partially because she doesn't know what started the infection or who patient zero is

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optimisticgrey · 11 days ago

Text

You know 🍆☺️🫦

summary: Gale is getting treated.

author's note: My second contribution to Bottom Gale Week. I had a bad day at work and lost myself in him.

content warning: This is adult themed. MDNI.

taglist: @whiskeyskin @faerybella219

word count: 1,2 k

AO3 Link

Gale scarcely noticed the soft shift of the air as Celeste entered the study. The change in the temperature of his coffee — a lukewarm insult to caffeine — was duly acknowledged but not acted upon. She had already exchanged the cup, her motions as seamless and invisible as magic well-cast. His attention was monopolized, wholly consumed by the newly arrived data reports and the tangle of his research logs, which, when properly aligned, would at last allow him to draft the monthly report. Only three days overdue. A minor transgression in the realm of academia, he told himself, though the guilt nestled somewhere between his spine and his pride.

“You’re working too hard,” came her voice — a whisper, a tether, a reprieve.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, and suddenly the constellation of thoughts he’d so carefully charted began to disassemble. Her presence didn’t intrude upon his focus; it displaced it. Gently. Effortlessly. Like the tide claiming the shore.

He reached for her hand, brushing his lips to her palm in reverence rather than ritual.

“Thank you, my love,” he murmured, the words trailing after the gesture like smoke.

“You work too hard,” she repeated, this time with a touch to his cheek that made the world beyond her feel unworthy of his gaze.

“It’s just this month,” he offered, far too defensively for his own liking. He winced internally at the reflexive need to justify himself.

“I am aware,” she said, her smile as warm as summer twilight. Her fingers skimmed along her neck with casual grace, but the invitation in the gesture was unmistakable. “Stand up, please.”

“My love, while I would adore nothing mo—” He faltered.

He saw her eyes, and time slowed. Certainty. Command. Desire.

Gale rose instantly. As if conjured to do so by some arcane word only she could wield. His breath caught, and though his mind raced to reassert some semblance of dignity, his body betrayed him completely, already straining, already aching.

Her grin was the very embodiment of control — sultry, dominant, and unmistakably hers. She led him with no more than that expression, and he followed willingly, unthinking, to the bedroom.

She sat on the bed like a queen enthroned, and he folded his hands behind his back as she had trained him to do.

His heart thundered within his chest. Her silence was its own kind of invocation.

Then: her gaze again. And as if her very eyes uttered the command, his hands moved to his belt, trembling. He opened his trousers, reverently, revealing the evidence of his devotion.

Celeste looked up at him, not with mischief, but certainty. Authority. Intention. And the warmest of smiles.

“You will not touch me,” she stated, her tone rich with promise and precision. “You will not complain that you are not able to pleasure me. Not right now. You will accept this gift and cum deep down my throat. Do you understand?”

Gale swallowed, hard. His throat worked around the gravity of her words.

“Yes, my love,” he breathed, unable to muster anything more coherent.

Her smile was warmth and fire and danger all at once. She beckoned him forward and claimed his mouth with her own. Her tongue swept in with a hunger that broke him, his gasp involuntary, high and desperate.

“Stand,” she commanded again, and he obeyed before the word had even finished forming. “You are allowed to close your eyes, but you will ask before you cum.”

“Y-yes, my love,” he managed, and the sound of his own voice startled him. It was unrecognizable — thin, breathy.

His entire body trembled with anticipation as she reached for him.

Gale knew restraint. He understood discipline, had lived by it in pursuit of the arcane for decades. But this was the sort of challenge no tome had prepared him for.

Celeste knew. She always knew.

Submission, for him, was never shameful. On the contrary. With her, it was effortless. Natural. The gift of surrender came easily when she asked it. But this — receiving, only receiving — was something far more vulnerable. Almost unbearable.

He could not touch her. He could not give.

And that made it nearly impossible to breathe. But she had not forbidden breath. Only response. Only need.

And then her lips were on him.

All thought ceased.

She was not rushed, not forceful, she was methodical. Devoted. Like she had studied him — and she had. The same way she had once pored over his notes on the physics of sound or the dimensional qualities of the Weave, she now explored him. Her lips, soft and deliberate. Her tongue, devastating in its rhythm. She knew what he loved. What unmade him.

When Celeste cupped his hips and drew him deeper — entirely swallowed by her — the world tilted beneath him. His knees nearly betrayed him, trembling as if the very laws of gravity had been rewritten by the sheer force of her will.

She attended to him with deliberate gentleness, a masterful cadence that unraveled every fiber of his being. No haste, no reckless abandon — only the slow, exquisite unraveling that reduced his body to trembles, silenced his voice, and quieted the relentless storm of his thoughts.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the small of his back, a silent summons to go further, to surrender more completely. No words were necessary; her touch was command enough, and Gale obeyed with fervent devotion. A deep moan escaped him, raw and unrestrained, as his hands clenched into desperate fists behind him, clawing at each other in frustration and yearning. He pushed forward, tentative at first, then with mounting urgency, a tide of desire overwhelming every rational impulse.

Celeste responded with a moan — low, sultry, coaxing — her lips, tongue, and jaw working in perfect, irresistible harmony. It was an intimate symphony crafted just for him, and Gale was utterly ensnared.

The sensation of being so thoroughly compelled to receive, to give nothing but breath and surrender, proved nearly unbearable. His hands cramped painfully, aching to touch her, to grasp more than the faintest whisper of her warmth.

“Celeste, please,” he gasped, his voice thick with desperation, a flush creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks.

But she, ever patient and unyielding, ignored the plea, coaxing him onward with a measured acceleration, her tongue swirling expertly, driving him closer to the precipice.

“My love… I can’t… I will… please… please… I…”

A delicate giggle escaped her as she slipped her other hand beneath his shirt, tracing a torturously slow path across his hips and along the curve of his hip bones. Gale’s eyes strained, clenched shut in obedience willing himself worthy of her touch, this precious, unspoken gift. Yet his legs shook beneath him, trembling with the effort to maintain control. The edge loomed, and though forbidden to yield prematurely, he feared the inevitable surrender.

“Celeste, please…”

Her hand traveled upward, skimming over his stomach, caressing his chest with ghostly fingers that barely brushed his nipples before resting with chilling gentleness on his throat. There was no pressure, only the faintest hint of a threat wrapped in tenderness, and Gale lost himself utterly in the exquisite danger of that touch.

“Please!”

A subtle double tap on his back shattered the fragile barrier of restraint, and he surrendered completely. His hands shot forward, bracing against her shoulders as he pumped his release down her throat, knees buckling beneath him. The rush overwhelmed him, a flood of sensation and relief crashing through his entire body.

The moment she relinquished him, Celeste enfolded him in a tender embrace, allowing him to collapse against her. They fell backward onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and breath.

Gale’s body trembled violently, gasping for air, clutching at her as if she were the only anchor left in the world.

“Well done, my love,” she whispered, her lips pressing softly to his temple, holding him close.

In that moment, beneath her touch, he was utterly undone and yet, completely whole.

#gale dekarios #bg3 #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #bottom gale week #bg3 gale dekarios #gale dekarios fanfic #gale x oc #bg3 gale smut

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inky-writing · 5 months ago

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INKY MASTERLIST

Hello Inkers! Welcome to my page!

Here some "rules" and things to know:

MDNI: if you are under 18, just leave, I will probably write sm*t at some point, so it's not for you

If you have a request about a particular character that is not listed, send it, but note that I will have to do some research first to make it accurate

The requests are treated in order, no need to be impolite because it doesn't go as fast as you want, I'm still human and have a life

Any insult or unwanted message, and you will be blocked.

If you want to be tagged in a fic, or for a specific character, send me a message :)

Schedule

Monday & Friday: Mirage

Sunday & Wednesday: Freedom

Tuesday to Thursday & Weekend: requests and one-shots (might change if I start a new serie)

Thank you!

ACOTAR

Fourth Wing

Twilight

Hunger Games

Harry Potter

Teen Wolf

Top Gun

Lord of The Rings

Vampire Diaries

Original Stories

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princesa-querida · 2 months ago

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Aphrodite

Pairing: Loid Forger x Fem! Reader

WC: ~1.6K

CW: Smut( mentions of cunnilingus, nipple play, PiV, creampie), fluff, light angst.

Notes: I haven't written like this in a minute, so bear with me. This piece is also incredibly self-indulgent and was inspired by yesterday's moodboard post.

Tags: @himenoakuma, @pixelcafe-network, @lazyjellyfish300

The spy never gets to rest on most days. He has been away from his family for the past few weeks. You have started a new career endeavour while still trying to maintain a happy and balanced household. You work hard to separate your work and home life. However, in the evenings, you let the vulnerability wash you away. His absence makes the bed feel colder, holding on to his pillow in an attempt to be close to him. Suddenly, you can hear the front door opening, the footsteps getting closer and closer to your bedroom. You look to see who it is, and you can see the familiar silhouette acknowledging that it is him.

He takes you from behind, holding you tightly, afraid that you will float away from him in this moment. Agent Twilight makes an effort to never let his emotions get the best of him, but Loid Forger knows that he wants to grasp and hold onto this moment. He knows that he has missed this. He aches to close the distance between you. He whispers those sweet nothings that tell you how much he loves you and cherishes you, but he confesses that he has a surprise just for the two of you. It’s a long weekend, and he wants the opportunity to shower you with affection.

That weekend, he drives you to a secluded camping site. He’s read books about people reconnecting with themselves through nature. He is not a stranger to the elements, so he is prepared for this adventurous getaway with you by his side. You have only been camping twice, but you’re not afraid to get down and dirty in nature. You’re a little nervous to show this side of yourself to him; he’s not familiar with the boldest part of you.

You arrive at the campsite in the early afternoon. Loid has no difficulty setting up a tent or even making a cozy campsite. He is in deep thought while he moves around, making this campsite as perfect as he can. “I have researched everything I need to know about this place. I cannot let her down in any way,” he thinks to himself.

He doesn’t let you do anything, so you’re left there to just sit and watch him work efficiently. You can’t help but feel like you’re being left out. However, this allows you to pay attention to his facial expressions, aware that he is thinking about something. There is a worried look on his face. You decide to surprise him and hug him from behind. “Everything is already perfect, as long as you’re here with me.” You’re glad that he can’t see the blush that’s enveloping you. You love that he set everything up, not too far from a meadow. He takes your hand, escorts you to look at the meadow closely.

Your breath is taken away, surrounded by the beautiful landscape of flowers. You feel that Loid came here to gift you all these flowers. In Loid’s mind, he brought you here. He’d take this entire meadow home and gift it to you if he could. He is desperate to make up for his absence, but he also knows that it won’t be enough at this moment.

You feel him grab your waist from behind. Taking in his musk, something makes you wish he’d close the chasm between you. He reads you like a book; the sigh you release tells him that you want more from him. He leans down to find the exposed area on the back of your neck and plants a long, soft kiss there. A little moan escapes, and you panic.

“I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I should’ve controlled myself better…”

He quietly chuckles, performing the same kiss again. Only this time, he does it multiple times. Another sigh is released, your knees buckling from the pleasure building up. Without even thinking, you whisper, “more…” and the moan becomes hungrier.

Who is he to deny you of these delights? His hands travel underneath your sweater and shirt, feeling your soft skin. You feel a tickling sensation in your core as his hands travel to find your perfect breasts. He gently feels them as the kisses on his neck remain persistent. His lips trail to find your ear, nibbling away.

“I picked this isolated area for a reason. It’s here that I want to show this goddess how much she deserves to be worshipped,” in that husky voice that drives you wild.

Your heart quickens as his hands continue to explore your upper body. He is being gentle, afraid that he’ll break you. He can’t wait to have you completely shatter because of him. He removes the layers of clothes, exposing your breasts to the cool air blowing. Your nipples perk up and harden from the chill air. “Here…I think this will help.” He places his hands on your breasts, feeling his fingers tease your nipples. You sigh as he keeps moving his fingers methodically. His lips don’t waver, kissing your shoulders, your neck, and then your ears. “My beautiful goddess…I just want to worship you. He turns you around so his lips find yours. Your breasts pressing against him, noticing that he is still dressed. When your hands attempt to go underneath his clothing, he quickly holds your wrists and smirks, shaking his head, denying you of him. “This isn’t about me, this is about you. He guides you deeper into the meadow and sits down, pulling you towards him. He continues to hold you tightly, afraid to let you go again. His lips continue to move, his tongue dancing with yours. You release a moan again, wondering what this handsome spy is up to.

He lays you down gently on the ground, kissing every corner of your body that he can see. He takes note of how your scent works well with the flowers that surround you. You are indeed his goddess, wet kisses travelling to find your torso, lowering to find your aching core. You can feel his strength, but he’s being so gentle with you. He moves to remove your bottoms, you kick off your shoes and socks, exposing yourself fully to him. He stops to look at you, taking in your beauty, wanting to consume all of you. His mouth finds your core, tasting your nectar. He is driven mad by the nectar that you produce, fearing that he won’t be satiated. You cry in pleasure, arching your back at how this man is worshipping every bit of you. If you cry, would you be heard by anyone? You hope so because your cries of bliss proceed to come out, like a song. To Loid Forger, this is music to his ears. He wants to show his darling wife the devotion he has for her. He pulls away to kiss your body once more to find your lips. You release another moan as you taste yourself on his lips. In an embrace, he decides to flip you over, with you now towering over him. You blush, feeling shy with the power that he is giving you. Trying again, you attempt to undress him, but he takes your wrists, shaking his head. “You’ll have all weekend to see all of me, for now, let me see all of you.” He feels like all of the air was robbed from him when he sees that your hair is covered with some of the wildflowers, with twilight behind you. You are ethereal, you are magic. He lowers his trousers to expose his length, teasing your folds. You feel that boldness surge, as you rub it on your pearl, then towards your entrance; you are teasing him. His brows furrow when he realizes that you’re toying with him. You giggle as you know that you have him at the palm of your hand. You place a soft kiss on his nose and rub against it. Using this tender moment, he gently slides himself inside of you. You gasp as he bottoms out, bending his knees to thrust into you. You thought you were in control, but you don’t care. You lower yourself to kiss him, never wanting to release your lips from this gift beneath you. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close to him, never wanting to let you go. His goddess, whom he will worship till the end of his days. Your hands run through his hair, consequently placing stray wildflowers on his head, but this is an offering. He has been blessed with the gift of you. To be close to you, he’ll protect you, but will consume you if you grant him the moment to do so. In unison, you release moans as the kiss becomes hungrier, and his length drives deeper into you. His hands grip onto your skin as he releases himself inside of you, claiming, possessing you to be only his.

You giggle as he’s covered with flowers; he is beautiful to you. He looks at you and continues to see that beauty that he’s missed so much. You are still exposed completely, but he holds you in a tight hug as he pulls out of your warmth. He dresses you with urgency, as the night sky becomes illuminated with the stars. You wish to be with him forever, and in a stolen embrace, you know that he feels the same way for you. You both stand, walking back towards your camp. There is still more weekend to come.

#loid forger x reader #loid x reader #spy x family fanfiction #spy x family smut #Selfship: Lophie #Selfship Stuff #Loid Forger x you #Loid x you #Loid Forger smut #Agent Twilight x you #Agent Twiilght x reader

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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So... This Is awkward but we need to talk about plagiarism.

*taps microphone nervously* Hi everyone. It's your sleep-deprived disaster Kiki here. This isn't my usual chaotic author note where I scream about Jeon being emotionally constipated. Today we're talking about something more serious: plagiarism in our fanfiction community.

I've spent the last few days in a bizarre twilight zone where I had to defend MY OWN WORK from being copied. Wild, right? Not how I planned to spend my week when I could've been writing smut instead. (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻

So! The situation.

Multiple readers contacted me about similarities between my fic Kkangpae and another work by Tumblr user jeonluvz called "Project Architect." Initially, I dismissed it. Gang AUs aren't exactly groundbreaking territory and creative overlap happens. But then I actually READ the work in question.

What I found wasn't just shared tropes or general vibes—it was specific, detailed replication of:

- Character assignments (identical roles for multiple BTS members).

- Setting details (down to the card-scanning system in the facility).

- Plot progression (same sequence of events, same turning points).

- Scene-by-scene recreation with only superficial changes.

Now let’s talk about coincidence vs. copying—because I’m a nerd like that.

In academic research on creative plagiarism, experts like Rebecca Moore Howard (Syracuse University) have discussed what's called "patchwriting" (= basically taking specific elements from source material and recombining them with minimal changes). This is different from being inspired by general genre conventions.

(Also, Dr. Thomas Mallon, in his book "Stolen Words," describes the difference between: drawing from the same creative well (using common tropes) and recreating specific unique choices made by another author, btw!)

Now. Let me break down the concrete evidence:

Character assignment and world building.

- Both stories have a division system with coincidental names (Seduction, Stealth, Medical…)

- Both stories feature exactly the same division system with Jeon as Tactical Chief, V as his rival, J-Hope as Medical Chief, Yoongi as Tech Chief, etc.

- Both use identical codename systems (where codenames must be earned).

- Both have the SAME codenames for key characters (Jungkook as "Jeon", Tae as "V").

- Both feature identical hierarchy structures where chiefs are higher-ups.

These aren't generic gang tropes—they're SPECIFIC creative choices I made for Kkangpae. I went through MULTIPLE codenames and hierarchy structures (military, boat system, I have my old scrappy notebook for reference, I’ll pull out the receipts if needed).

Scenes.

- Both begin with the reader sneaking into the empty cafeteria early due to strict serving times (pastries vs croissants btw).

- Both follow with the exact same cafeteria-to-Jeon interaction sequence.

- Both feature a joint training exercise that turns into paintball (ch 4 in my fic).

- Both have rules unexpectedly changed mid-exercise by V/Jeon.

- Both have the reader get separated/left behind and targeted by V.

- Both have the reader injured (ankle in mine, ribs in theirs) followed by Jeon's intervention.

- Both culminate in an identical confrontation between Jeon and V about the training, injury, and past issues.

This isn't coincidental alignment. This is scene-by-scene recreation.

Now, let’s go back to nerd stuff, because that’s just how I am: the statistical IMPOSSIBILITY.

Let's talk math for a sec. The probability of independently creating a story with ALL these specific elements in the SAME sequence is astronomically low. Dr. Mark Glickman, a statistics professor at Harvard, developed models to detect plagiarism that show how unique combinations of elements become statistical fingerprints of original work.

If you randomly selected character roles for 7 BTS members from even just 10 possible roles, the probability of independently matching the exact configuration I created is 1 in 604,800. Add in the identical scene progression, and we're talking lottery-winning odds.

WHAT PLAGIARISM ACTUALLY IS.

Plagiarism isn't limited to word-for-word copying. According to the Modern Language Association and academic integrity researchers, plagiarism includes:

- "Mosaic plagiarism" - taking specific scenes, structures and sequences while changing surface details.

- "Structure plagiarism" - copying the underlying architecture of a creative works.

- "Idea plagiarism" - appropriating unique creative concepts and their specific implementation.

This isn't about "both stories have gangs" or "both use paintball"—it's about the highly specific combination and implementation of these elements in the exact same pattern.

NOW. MY ATTEMPT AT RESOLUTION. I will be attaching SSs too to be fully transparent.

I approached the author privately first, explaining my concerns respectfully. I provided specific examples and suggested solutions like:

- Significant revision to create more originality.

- Acknowledging inspiration from Kkangpae.

- Removing the most directly copied elements.

Their response was to dismiss these concerns without addressing any of the specific examples I provided, claim their work was entirely original, and refuse to engage further.

Fanfiction exists in a unique space. We're all creating derivative works based on our love for BTS. But within this community, we still respect each other's creative contributions. The structure, plot, character dynamics, and unique world-building elements I created for Kkangpae represent hours of planning, writing, and creative energy.

When someone takes those specific creative choices and recreates them with only minimal changes, it devalues the time and effort that went into the original work. It's like copying someone's art and just changing the colors.

I'm not here for drama or to "cancel" anyone. I genuinely believe in resolving creative disputes respectfully. What I'm asking for is:

1. Recognition that specific, extensive similarities exist between these works.

2. Respect for the creative effort that goes into original story concepts, even within fanfiction.

3. Understanding that appropriating another writer's unique fictional framework isn't "just inspiration".

I've documented everything, including my attempts at private resolution, but I'd rather not have to pursue formal actions through DMCA claims.

Finally, to my readers and my writer girlies! 🩷

Thank you for bringing this to my attention and for supporting my work. Also thank you to all my writer girlies who validated my concerns and saw the similarities as well. Your enthusiasm for Kkangpae keeps me motivated even when I keepwondering why I made Jeon so emotionally constipated (the answer is because it's hot, obviously).

I'll still be updating regularly because no way am I letting this derail our journey through the disaster that is Y/N and Jeon's inability to admit they have feelings. The story continues!

Love you all (except Jeon who doesn't deserve rights after the stunt he pulled in the last chapter).

P.S. If you're curious about the academic side of creative plagiarism, I recommend Rebecca Moore Howard's "Standing in the Shadow of Giants" and Thomas Mallon's "Stolen Words" for more information.

#plagiarism #fanfics #kgp #kkangpae

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