#fanfiction betas

[lunarriviera]

on the importance of beta screaming

i would like to say a little bit here in this chili’s tonight about the vital, indispensible role of beta enthusiasm.

because yeah we all know we get tied in knots in our prose, write sex scenes with impossible numbers of hands, dangle modifiers, repeat words, commit horrifying typos like “he licks with his tounge.” i have several useless graduate degrees so yes i can fix all those things for you or offer revision suggestions. as well, i am a north american who lived in the uk and divorced a londoner, so i can also britpick or yankpick your fic. then, it’s important to have at least one beta who can check you if you’re writing about a culture other than your own. finally, i usually will only beta for fic with whose canon i am intimately familiar.

those things are helpful, even essential. but there is something else a beta reader not only can do, but has to do, and that is scream.

look it’s hard out here for a pimp okay. we are in our little offices or bedrooms or hunched on the bathroom floor with the phone just trying to write our little stories. we made a tiny gay man and we gave him problems, and now we are going to make it YOUR problem. and then we will all thrash around and yell happily together, for we love this tiny gay man.

but until someone picks that fic out of the tag and clicks on it and reads it and starts keysmashing in the comment box, you’re all alone. just you, in your head, in your room, while you’re walking around the park, while you’re shampooing your hair, while you’re cleaning the cat’s litter pan—it’s just you. (and, sure, also the imaginary friends who spout riveting or hilarious dialogue in your head. them too.)

and when you’re all alone with just your words and your little people, a terrible and completely unique kind of loneliness can sink in. were they the right words? were they funny, pretty, tragic, joyful, smart? do they truly convey the depth of your feeling? and above all else: can they compel someone else to feel what you felt? because you’ve read that fic that made you scream into a pillow at 2 am. and you wonder: can i do that for someone else? can i feel my feelings so strongly and so well that they reach out of the screen and haul someone else in along with them?

and in the hours, days, weeks of waiting for someone to reach back through the pixels for you, a beta steps in to fill that space. this, she will let you know, is good. this is REALLY good. this is so good she’s gonna dword. she has no chill. she is about to mclose it. how dare you. she thought you were friends. now you’re in a fight. elmo in flames dot gif., screaming girl dot png., spongebob burying himself dot webp.

this is not an OPTIONAL feature of a beta reader. this is not just a nice thing that it’s nice to have. this might be the ESSENTIAL function of a beta. her hand is over your head and it’s briefly sheltering you from the pouring rain. hey listen! she says, and she cups your face in her hands: SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP. and you, wherever you are in the world, even if you’re 24 hours away from her on the globe, you put your palms to your cheeks to feel the warm blush of happiness and relief. someone else is out there, picking up what you’re throwing down. and you did not fuck it up. it’s actually entirely possible that you nailed it.

without her, you wouldn’t know. and in fact in a small fandom, without her, there wouldn’t BE that much of a fandom. so you and your beta get to be a part of that little group of people who keep a set of stories, a family of characters, alive. that’s fun too. (plus you get to backchannel about all the horribly Wrong Opinions everyone else has. this both saves you from making an ass of yourself on social media, and will make you guffaw during a zoom meeting if you’re not careful.)

so get you a beta reader who’s a screamer. i said what i said. don’t settle for someone who can be nitpicky about the past perfect but who never says anything positive; people will remember and come to read the fic that’s stunning and strange and new even if you forget to use “had.”

i aim for about 50/50 between praise and suggestions (the same proportions i use as a professor), but if i’m honest it winds up being more like 80/20 for fanfic. that’s okay. if i’m gonna err, i’d rather err on the side of encouragement.

we get so little of that, either as writers or just in the world. we get so little hand-holding and shoulder rubs and affectionate hollering. so when you beta, think about letting loose a little. think about, sure, exaggerating for effect. you know how sweet it feels when someone gets all exuberant all over your drafts—so maybe allcaps a little bit, as a treat. it feels pretty great. you’ll see.

(oh and ps: save a life. leave an ao3 comment.)

[rheas-chaos-motivation]

Questions to ask beta readers

General:

Were you confused at any point of the story?

What genre would you say this book is?

When did you put the story down?

Is the ending satisfying?

If you had to cut 3 scenes what would they be?

When did you feel like the story really began?

What was the last book you read before this story?

Characters:

Do you get any of the characters names confused?

Which character is your favorite?

If you had to remove a character who would you and why? (you don't have to remove the character, just make sure their role is meaningful)

Which character do you relate to the most?

Which character do you relate to the least?

Do the characters feel real?

Are character relationships believable?

Are the goals clear and influence the plot?

Are the characters distinct (voice, motivations, etc)

Setting:

Which setting was clearest to you?

Which setting was the most memorable?

Am including enough/too much detail?

Plot and conflict:

Are the internal and external conflicts well defined for the main characters?

Are the internal conflicts and the external conflicts organic and believable?

Are there enough stakes?

Are the plot twists believable but still unexpected?

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[villainbait]

Exclusive Favors

Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: PG-13 Tags: who did this to you, hurt, comfort, hurt/comfort, injury, implied violence, brief violence mentions, angst, canon sylus behavior, blood mentions, kissing if you squint Summary: You barely survived a night on your own in the N109 Zone without the watchful gaze of certain Onychinus leader, but at what cost? Word Count: 1.5k

The dull sound of your door closing was like the snap of a final curtain call falling into place and you slumped against it, relieved to be safely in your own apartment. You had survived a night in the N109 Zone on your own, but it had been a near miss. One you wouldn’t be repeating, especially since the intel you wanted had been a bust, anyway. 

You touched your side, your breathing uneven, and you wince. You definitely have a cracked rib. You try to take a deep breath and pain radiates from your chest into your stomach, making you a little nauseous. Okay, maybe two.

You were trying to psych yourself up to move and trudge into your apartment to give yourself much needed medical attention when the reverberating shock of someone's forceful knock bounced you against your door-frame. You consider not answering the insistent caller on the other side, but a muffled, familiar baritone floats through the door.

"Open the door, sweetie."

A sigh left your lips at the demand and you tried to stifle the pathetic, painful whimper that your exasperation cost you. Of all the people on the other side of that door, Sylus was the most unexpected. Or maybe not, considering he boasted that he knew everything that went on in his territory. Maybe that’s why he was here and if it was, he wouldn’t leave until his curiosity was satisfied.

The door cracks open and you stare up at him through the hole you made, reluctant to allow him entrance and to partially block his view of the damage those thugs had caused when they mugged you in the alleyway earlier tonight. However, Sylus’s easy smile is nowhere to be found and the frown lines on his forehead are the deepest you've ever seen them. His large hand wraps around the door-frame so you can’t close it again and he pushes gently against it, but you don’t budge. 

"Who did this to you?" His tone is dangerously low.

You ignore his question, instead poking your head out to look down the deserted hallway of your apartment building. "Why are you here? It's dangerous." It was risky for Sylus to wander around Linkon City normally, even if he claimed many people didn't know what he actually looked like. However, the Hunter’s Association did and your building was crawling with employees at all hours of the day and night.

"You didn't answer your phone, so I got worried."

Oh right, you had forgotten they had taken that too. You sighed again, the pain of having to replace everything beginning to give you a headache. That key charm Zayne had given you for your birthday was perhaps the worst thing to have lost, maybe more than the phone itself.

"Let me in, kitten." Sylus’s voice is gently cajoling and you concede because you're too tired to argue with him tonight. So you open the door and  try to act normal, but your voice is far too lighthearted for how heavy your legs feel as you trudge into the apartment. 

“You know, if you keep frowning like that you’ll get wrinkles and people really will think you’re an old man.” 

He follows you in with a small chuckle, his eyes bouncing around the room as if the perpetrators could be hiding in the shadows. When you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down to tend to your injuries, Sylus was suddenly there, kneeling in front of you. His hands push yours out of the way and he silently takes over the job of nurse, and you think about fighting him as you watch him roll up his shirtsleeves but realize you were just too exhausted to care. 

“What happened?” He asks eventually and you realize you will have to tell him something. Lying won’t work, he’ll find out if he didn’t already know. 

“What often happens when you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time in the N109 Zone, Sylus.” You offer with a single shrug, doing your best to sit still while he cleans the wound on your arm. “You know that better than me.” 

“Were you wearing–” he was referring to the brooch that signified your status as protected. 

“They took that too.” His hands stilled on the bandage he was applying on your forearm. “Did they, now?” he murmured silkily and you saw a muscle in his jaw tick, though his expression was partially obscured by his unruly hair. “After all that trouble I went through, too.” You tried to make a joke to ease the tension which earned you a soft amused twitch of Sylus’s lips. He was too angry to truly smile and you could feel it radiating off of him in waves. Despite that, his hands were painstakingly gentle as he touched what was clearly a blossoming bruise around your wrist. Sylus’s tender touch lingers on your injuries and he checks each one with a thoroughness that feels as if he’s memorizing exactly where you were hurt. 

He orders some of your favorite food, helps you get cleaned up, and tucks you into your bed. He points to the notepad you kept by your bedside table that you sometimes scribble notes on when you took calls. “Make me a list of what they looked like, and then go to bed. I’ll take care of the rest.” Before you could protest, he left the room abruptly. You picked up the notepad and stared at the print of the cute little animals dancing around the top. You’d bought it on a whim after seeing how cute it looked in a stationary shop window near one of your mission sites. It seemed too obscene to write what would virtually be a hit list on such charming paper. 

Instead, you scribble all of the reasons you’re grateful for today. Right at the top was that you had survived all on your own in the N109 Zone and you were able to see the infamous Onychinus leader kneeling at your feet. The list grew as you included the tasty food you ate earlier, and the glimpse of a suspiciously familiar crow you saw on your way into work this morning. The page was halfway filled when the pain medication Sylus had convinced you to take started to kick in and you felt your eyelids drooping. 

Drowsily, you snuggle down underneath your covers and clutch the plushie Sylus and you had won at the arcade last weekend. When you hear the distant muffled click of your door opening, you try to rouse yourself but you felt so warm and your body felt so heavy that you couldn’t manage it. That doesn’t stop you from trying until a large hand gently smoothed back your mussed hair, and the sensation of soft knuckles trace the curve of your cheek. “It’s just me,” the familiar voice murmured and you tried to speak but he shushed you. “Sleep, kitten.” 

You swear you felt the ghost of his lips on yours before he was gone, but maybe it was just part of the hazy dream you had of crows, violence, and enchanting sanguine eyes. 

Sylus returns to the N109 Zone and finds himself staring at the “list,” a bemused smile on his face. He shakes his head and tucks the cutesy page into his pocket. You were far too adorable and it made what he was about to do that much more satisfying, sauntering into the abandoned warehouse where your phone had last pinged; deceptively calm. The screams and stench of death shuddered throughout the N109 Zone tonight, serving as a violent and bloody reminder to all that no one should dare to touch what was his lest they face the consequences. 

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, your fingers fumble for your buzzing phone and land on the familiar outline of the brooch, both in their normal places as if yesterday was just a bad dream. Through your sleepy daze, you realize your other hand is occupied–as is your bed. Turning, you’re surprised to find Sylus is fast asleep next to you, his hand intertwined tightly with yours. There’s deep circles under his eyes, but his normally furrowed brow is smoothed out in sleep. With a sleepy smile, you curl back up to let him rest a little while longer, tucking your joined hands against your chest, cuddling his arm.

You both doze off together, and you’ve never felt so safe.

[suzieloveships]

Words can't express my love for the ao3 writers

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[thesolarangel]

Source of pleasure

1.094 words · Rating: Explicit +18 · Halsin x Astarion x reader · AO3

Tags: threesome, unprotected P in V! (remember: wrap it before you tap it!), coming inside, creampie, dirty talk, chubby reader, they/them pronouns for gnc-reader, laughing while fucking, polyamory

(Oh noo, the filthy smut I imagined in my head turned into ✨love making✨as soon as I was writing it down… Whoopsie)

________

“You’re doing amazing, darling.”

Astarion purred, grazing his lips down your neck and sucking into the soft flesh. He was seated behind you on the bed, his chest against your back, whispering sultry things into your ear. His hands were now on your plump tits, kneading them, teasing your nipples mercilessly, making you moan unrestrained. 

Halsin was kneeling in front of you, two fingers working you open, his thumb pressing lightly on your sensitive clit. The druid presented such a gorgeous sight before you, all big and broad and a beautiful hairy chest to die for. His hard cock stood proudly between his legs. The bulbous pink head and thick shaft making your mouth water, you wanted him inside so badly.

“Look how big he is, how he's throbbing for you.” Astarion’s low voice was sending shivers down your spine. 

Halsin watched your face closely for any sign of discomfort, he wanted to make absolutely sure that you were ready for him. You moaned, encouraged by Astarion’s words and eager for Halsin to finally give you what you wanted most…  

Astarion wasn’t unaffected by all of this. You felt his hardness against your lower back. He was straining against his pants. You tried to turn around to get your hands on him, you didn’t want him to be left out, but he stopped you mid way.

“Ah-ah-ah, this is just for you, darling”, he pulled you snug against his chest and continued kissing your neck. “Let us take care of you, hmm?”

Halsin bent down to cup your cheek with his other hand. He captured your mouth in a gentle kiss, grazing over your lips in languid motions. He was always so careful with you as if you’d break under his big hands. You felt so small with him hovering over you.

You loved the way he made love to you. You always felt so secure and protected with him. But right now with Astarion teasing you, finding your sensitive spots and Halsin’s big fingers exploring the depths of your warm, wet cunt, you were close to your limit.

“Please, Halsin…” you whined impatiently. 

“Don’t make them wait any longer”, Astarion chimed in while roaming his hands over your round belly and your alluring tits. 

Halsin smiled, “I hear you.” He stole another heated kiss and then he positioned the head of his cock at your entrance, making you gasp. “Don’t worry, you’ll get what you desire, sweetheart.”

Fetching and opening the small vial of lubricant, he let a few drops dribble onto your vulva, smearing it into your cunt with the head of his cock. 

You and Astarion both made a lewd noise in unison while watching. Astarion’s hands wandered downwards and spread your labia open to watch Halsin nudge his cock inside. Cautiously, he fed you inch for inch of his hard length, making you gasp at the stretch.

Once Halsin was seated inside you, Astarion spoke up once again, voice heavy with lust. “You take him so well, every inch of him…”

”By the oak father, you feel incredible", Halsin agreed with a low grunt that went straight to your swelling cunt. He caressed your thighs and the soft flesh at your waist as he waited for you to get accustomed to his thick shaft.

“Do you feel generously stuffed, darling? Does he fill you up nicely?” Astarion purred close to your ear while he watched.

“Yes… “ You moaned in response. You closed your eyes and threw your head back onto Astarion’s shoulder.

Halsin bent down to pull Astarion into a filthy kiss. Astarion made a surprised yelp that turned into a needy whimper as Halsin devoured his lips hungrily.

He smirked when he broke the kiss, gazing deeply into Astarion’s eyes. “Let’s make sure they’ll never forget this.”

Astarion stared at him and you could feel his erection growing harder against your back. He adored the druid as much as you did and you felt it. “Sounds like a plan”, he whispered seductively.

Halsin grabbed your waist and started fucking you with slow, languid thrusts while Astarion had one hand on your breast and one on your clit, massaging it just the way you liked it.

Halsin looked gorgeous above you. His tanned skin was glistening with sweat, his stomach flexed as he plowed into you, making your tummy and your tits jiggle with every thrust. 

Being loved by these two beautiful creatures was like something out of a wonderful dream. Watching Halsin’s adoring expression while he was fucking you, feeling Astarion’s gentle, experienced touch on your hot skin, all of it made your heart race and you couldn’t get enough. You whined desperately as Halsin picked up the pace.

“Fuuuuck…” Halsin grunted.

“Listen, darling, you reduced our handsome druid to profanities, well done!” Astarion chuckled.

You let out a hoarse laugh, but Halsin’s hard thrusts stifled your laughter. You watched his length disappear inside you over and over again, while listening to the lewd sounds and moans that filled the room. 

Halsin pounded into you mercilessly, Astarion rubbed your clit harder and suddenly your orgasm hit you with such brutal force and you cried out when deep hot pleasure washed over you and through your body for several seconds. 

“Sweetheart, I’m close, where–” Halsin began, unable to finish his sentence, trying so hard to hold it in.

Astarion noticed you were distracted from your orgasm. “Do you want him to come inside you, baby, hmm?” He asked while he was fondling your tits and grinding against your back, chasing his own release. 

“Yes, please…” You whimpered. 

Halsin was panting above you and with a few more erratic thrusts, he spilled his big load inside you. At the same time, you felt Astarion’s trembling motions coming to a halt as he burst in his pants with a rough grunt.

You made a pleased hum when Halsin pulled out carefully and you watched his cum leaking out of you and onto the sheets.

After all three of you had cleaned up, you got back into bed, with you in the middle, Halsin spooning you from behind and Astarion on the other side, facing you. He gave you a quick kiss on the forehead and whispered sweetly: “Hmm, thank you, darling, that was wonderful.”

“My heart, you are so loved…” Halsin peppered your cheeks and your neck with little kisses while he snuggled his big body against yours.

“You make me so happy, both of you.” you murmured as you slowly drifted off to sleep, safe and warm between your two lovers.

______

MDNI divider by @cafekitsune here

tag list: not sure who to tag here, since it's my first fanfic for this fandom, so I'm just gonna tag the ones that agreed to be tagged in everything and some others who are in the fandom and read smut...

@starlady66 @fenharel-enaste @queenmeriadoc @elronds-pointy-ears @corrodedbisexual @lady-of-imladris @aiwe-the-little-bird

[satanisaware]

BETA WALLY!

It has been a while since I drew something creepy about this boy, so here I am.

Also here is the original Wally too, I originally drew these based on my fanfiction, but it's okay, I'll put them anyway, it's about him.

Another sketch of Beta Wally!

[multific]

Scent

Alpha!Simon Riley x Omega!Reader

Warning: non-explicit smut. 

Summary: Building nests was part of the process of an Omega going into heat. However you never actually thought you would find yourself locked away in a house with your Lieutenant.

To say that the mission has gone to shit would be an understatement.

They were hunting you down and if it wasn't for Ghost, you would be dead by now.

If it wasn't for him and his sharp reflexes you would be lying with a bullet in your skull.

But you weren't.

Instead, you were in a much worse situation.

At the start of your mission, you took your suppressants, figuring you would be back the next day, you didn't even pack any, so now, you were here, on an uncomfortable mattress, trying to make it homey for your heat.

You never actually minded going into heat. You could just lock your door, fill your room with food and be good for a couple of days.

But this was a very different situation.

You were in a bunker-like building, hiding for survival with an Alpha who was also your Lieutenant. 

Not a situation you wanted to be in.

"You need to rest, I will keep watch." he avoided you, and didn't even come close to you, he just stopped at the door, never entering the room. He did put food down for you on the floor every day, commenting when you didn't eat something.

He was kind.

You knew he could smell your heat coming up, Alphas always did.

You know the upcoming days will be as much of a torture for him, as it will be for you.

You were glad it was Ghost with you, at least he had control over his alpha.

Before you could reply, he already left. Going as far away from you as possible. Yet, your smell still lingered. 

Sure, Simon had control over his alpha, but the temptation was too great. You were perfect. In every aspect of the word. The perfect woman, partner, and omega.

At first, Simon thought you had no place in the army, he thought Price had gone insane but you proved him wrong.

Your kindness wasn't your weakness, instead your strength. 

Simon took a deep breath, his mind and body immediately filled up with your scent, and how sweet you smelled. Simon, out of frustration, hit the wall, making the brick crumble.

He knew he should be there with you, help you, and yet, he was forcing himself away from you. 

Even if everything inside him was screaming for him to go to you, help you, feed you, and keep you safe and comfortable.

He knew he can't.

The next day he brought you another plate of food. 

"Ghost..." your voice came out way too desperate. "Can I have your shirt, please? The smell of the... pillows are..." Simon didn't need to be asked twice. He handed you his sweatshirt in a swift movement. "Thank you." he watched as you cuddled up with his clothes and he couldn't help but wish it was him. He forced himself to stand up and leave.

His scent really did help ease your pain as your heat reached its high. 

Your mind is filled with all the different lewd things. 

And yet, somehow, even with a hazy mind, even with a fog before your eyes, deep down, you knew better than to act upon those images filling your mind.

But you didn't know how to keep your scent at bay, not like there was a method or something. 

And it caused quite an interesting reaction with Simon.

While you were locked in a room, touching yourself to the thought of an Alpha, he kept stroking his cock to the scent and thought of you. 

You both knew it was forbidden, but no one was around, no one could hear your thoughts and your moans.

And for now, it was enough.

---

Thankfully, your heat soon ended, Simon got used to your smell as it slowly weakened. 

You started to grow stronger, and back to normal, but it will take you a couple of days to be fully back in action.

Simon knew this.

"How are you feeling?" he asked from the doorway, while you lay on the mattress on the floor.

"Your smell disappeared," you said with a pout as you looked at him.

"I will give you my shirt then, let's exchange." he said as he held out his shirt for you to take, you gave him the sweatshirt back.

His shirt smelled like you now. 

"We will have to leave in a few days, we have been here for almost a week now. We cannot stay, they will find us."

"I will be good to go tomorrow. I'm still a bit hazy though," you said and Simon nodded.

"How can I help more?"

"You have done plenty, Simon." use never used his name before, it was always Lieutenant or Ghost, nothing more, nothing less. 

You kept it professional. Until now.

"I will bring you more food for dinner, so you can have your strength back."

"Thank you, Alpha." you whispered the last part, but he heard you.

God, he heard you very well. As the door closed behind him, he just stood there, too stunned to move. Everything in him screamed to go inside and to claim you.

But he couldn't. He shouldn't.

And yet, he did.

He turned right back, opened the door and for the first time in four days, he stepped inside, closing the door behind himself.

He looked at you as you lay with his shirt pressed into your face, smelling it.

He knelt down beside you, taking deep breaths to remember your scent.

You opened your eyes and smiled at him.

"Took you long enough." you said as you moved to turn around and leave some space behind yourself.

"Shut it." he whispered before he moved to lay down with you in your nest, holding you close with his nose in your hair. "Omega." he said and it made you humm. "You smell so good." he took a deep breath and you smiled to yourself, not opening your eyes.

You put your hand on his which held you close by your stomach.

"You could have been here for my heat."

"I wouldn't have been able to control myself."

"Of course, you would have. You are Simon Riley... What made you realize that I wanted you here all along?"

"Your smell had a hint of sadness every day. But when I came into the room... you smelled like hope and..."

"Love." you finished for him. "Am I truly that obvious?"

"The smell of an Omega never lies to an Alpha."

"You are right, I'm a lot happier as well."

"Same."

"I wish we didn't have to leave."

"Same." he breathed out one last time before you fell asleep in his arms.

Building nests was part of the process of an Omega going into heat.

And Simon never failed to notice that you made yours bigger, to give room to him.

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @brascaris @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad @groovyqueer @lilliumrorum

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[targaryenheretic]

᯾ WINTERS COME AND GO, BUT YOU’LL ALWAYS END UP IN EACHOTHERS ARMS. ᯾

Jealous!cregan x fem!reader

Warnings: mostly smut and no plot!! But a build up fight to it 😼. Slight breeding kink (can’t help it ALL stark men have it). Jealous Cregan, mean Cregan if you squint (really squint). Oral f!reciving, loving Cregan. Big cregan (yes that’s a warning).

Word count: 1.3k

“Your hand traces shapes into his chest. “I love you.” He says. “You know that?” You nod. “I love you too, Cregan.” And you always would. Because every night, you both only felt each other, and that was forever enough. “

𐦐

A/n: first (mini)fic out!! I’m working on a much longer one but I wanted to give you guys a taste of my writing before posting a big one!! Enjoy <3

You're not sure what had gotten into your husband. He's never acted this way. “Gods, Cregan! Are you hearing yourself right now?” you scoff, running a hand through your hair as you try and calm yourself down, turning to face away from Cregan who was sitting at his desk, he didn’t even look at you, his eyes skimming over a scroll.

You loved Cregan, you really did. He was sweet, caring, and he loved you with all his heart. Yet, he never usually acted like this. Never acted jealous. He was always secure in your relationship with him.

“Yes! I am listening to myself!” Cregan snaps at you, his hands dropping the scroll, the parchment noise against the wood was loud with the silence after his last words. “you've got to see how that man was looking at you! Like a piece of meat.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was being nice! Not everyone wants to fuck me like you so much like to think.”

He looks at you incredulously, before practically leaping from his mahogany desk towards you. his hands go roughly to your cheeks, certainly not enough to hurt you. He would never, but enough that you could feel the rough calluses on his palms and fingers rubbing against your skin.

“Believe me, when I say this, sweet girl, everyone wants to fuck you.”

Your breath involuntarily hitched. A heat pooling in your stomach, for a second, the anger faded, and all you could feel was Cregan, your only thoughts were Cregan. Heat rises to your cheeks; as you try and continue the argument. He still wasn’t right.

“Cregan, I—“ you try to start, but he obviously doesn’t wish to argue, his lips cut you off with a searing kiss, his hands still roughly rubbing your cheeks, as you try to navigate out of your anger.

But this was your husband. Who you loved very much, it’s not like you didn’t want this, so, Your hands tangled into his chestnut hair, begging him closer even though he wasn’t physically able too.

His tongue invades your mouth, soft, muffled mewls and gasps leaving your mouth as he walks you back towards his bed, gently pushing you on top of it, without breaking the kiss. His hand starts to go up your dress, his fingertips leave a fiery feeling wherever he touches, and you feel your arousal get thicker.

His hands remove his tunic, throwing it somewhere in the room, your hands trace down his muscles and abs, but he gets distracted taking off his clothes looking at you,

“Cregan.” You pant out, as his lips split from yours and start moving down your neck, sucking and biting, claiming you as his.

“you married me.” He mumbles though the biting and sucking of your neck, and you let him. Your body was now his. His hands in your dress, pull your undergarments down, his finger teasing the slit of your heat. A soft mewl leaves your mouth. “Not them.”

“Yes—fuck, Cregan—married you.” his hands rip your underwear, you went to scold him, but he’d get you more, but your complaints died out as his thumb rubs small circles against your clit eliciting soft whimpers to involuntarily leave your mouth. “Seven gods—“

You heard him chuckle, so deep and hearty, that it makes you feel like you're floating on a cloud.

He manhandled you to where now you were sitting up for a second so he can quickly undo the strings and pull the dress off, his fingers rake through the bodice strings, shivers running up your spine as his fingers touch your bare skin to gently push it off

“Gorgeous, all mine.” You hear him murmuring under his breath, you were about to reply, a blush on your cheeks from his compliment, when his head dives between your thighs. A teasing stripe licked up your slit.

“What are you—oh!” A soft moan leaves your mouth. This feels heavenly. Your eyes flutter shut, living in the feeling, in the moment. Your hands thread though his chestnut locks, curling and pulling when he sucks on your clit especially well.

“Cregan.” You moan loudly, hips bucking into his face, lewd slurps filling the room. He sticks two digits in, curling in sync with his sucks on your clit. You tasted heavenly to him. He’d never want to part from your sweet cunt. “I know, I know, sweet girl. I got you.” The mumbled words, the vibrations, against your clit cause the knot in your stomach to snap.

“Oh shit—I’m—“ your voice turns into a low sob as you felt like you were exploding, clenching around the two fingers like you needed it to live. Your body works on a different scale than your brain, loud profanities mixed with cregan's name spill out of your mouth like a prayer.

He helps you ride out your orgasm, mumbling sweet nothings into your skin, kissing gently, as he moves up, his face covered in your slick, a lock of his hair fell into his face. “Made for me.” He mumbled into your lips.

You taste yourself on him. You let out a soft breath, still coming down from your high. He splits apart to quickly remove his dark breeches, undoing the thread. His cock springs out against his stomach, the trail of coarse hair, was down right murderous.

“Cregan.” You pant, he strokes his cock a few times, rubbing it against your clit, and a soft grunt came out of him, his arousal clearly taking over him. He pushes himself in.

You took his girth like you were fucking made for it. squeezing around him with every inch you took. your hands clasps around his neck, a gasp leaving your mouth as you feel the initial stretch. his eyes pear into your soul.

He gives you a bit of time to adjust, before you squirm a bit, practically begging him to move. “Please.” Your voice is hoarse from moaning.

“Always. My love. Always.” He gasps out as he does a particular deep thrust in you. His eyes trained on yours.

He continued these intense thrusts, but started to get a bit more jagged as his orgasm built, the sounds of the skin slapping was louder than thunder at this point. He wouldn’t let you look away, his eyes on you. “Can’t look away, eyes on me.” His hand grabs your face, making sure you look at him as you start to go over the edge,

“Cregan—fuck.” You can barely get out; practically crying. eyes half lidded with heavy lust and overstimulation. Cregan wipes the forming tear. “Let go, sweet girl.” He murmured as his head went into your neck, gently nipping.

Again, the high washes over you like a train crash. Like waves over rocks, glass shattering from a rock. it was so much but so little at once. You could feel yourself being undone and remade again,

Cregan follows you into his high quickly, groans leaving his mouth and he stuffs his cum into you. He can’t wait to see you swollen with his babe. Perhaps two if he’s lucky. It would get all of those men who love to stare know you were his. All his.

You both came out of the throes of pleasure relatively at the same time. Panting heavily, he gently pulls out, watching your juices mix together, he gently pushes it back in with a finger. “Shhh, sweet girl. Gotta make sure it takes.” He murmured, kissing your ankle before gently letting you fall into your natural spot on his chest.

Your hand traces shapes into his chest.. “I love you.” He says. “You know that?” You nod. “I love you too, Cregan.” And you always would. Because every night, you both only felt each other, and that was forever enough.

[typing-catastrophe]

Charles Xavier - only one bed (headcanons)

request: "gmorning! with deadpool 3 bringing around the xmen renaissance ive found myself once again totally obsessed w james mcavoy and was wondering if i could req an only one bed charles xavier x reader piece please ! i feel like theres just so much to be done w that trope, the mutual pining, the fluster, the rushed confessions, and ive somehow never seen anymore pair it w charles yet ?? i trust your vision completely, thank you so much and have a lovely day!"

a/n: thank you so much for your request anon ^^ I am also working on a longer piece (actual oneshot, no bulletpoints), so stay tuned for that and in the mean time have this :P hope you like it

💕 fluff

oohhh the temptation

charles trying so hard not to give in and read your mind

he is just so goddamn curious as to know what you're thinking about your current situation

because he can feel you laying next to him all tensed up and it makes him nervous

you're both idiots in love with the other, have been for a while, and both to scared to make the first move

you're convinced he isn't interested in you at all, and are too scared to ruin the friendship to say anything

and he is convinced he would drive away the only friend he made asides from raven and would end up feeling much lonelier than before

he technically is confident enough but at the same time doesn't want to risk anything going wrong or making it awkward between the two of you

when it gets too much for him, he strikes up a conversation which would end up in you two laughing and finally being comfortable in each others space again

when you tell him that you're having a hard time falling asleep at new places, he would offer to tell you about his research, because it helps raven fall asleep

when you both eventually fall asleep, he unconsciously shifts over and holds you close

you stir awake from the movement next to you, already dozing off again when you feel an arm sneak over your stomach and an explosion of butterflies when charles pulls you close

(that man needs someone to cuddle at night and you can't convince me otherwise. he's a cuddler.)

now wide awake and heartbeat going faster by the second, you franticly try to think of what to do next

when you try to scoot away, you're not only met with resistance but with him pulling you back and nuzzling his nose into your neck and hair

you lay there in defeat for a few minutes, enough time for your heartbeat to settle again. then you decide to turn around in his arms

you use the opportunity to look at him his beautiful facial features, all relaxed and peaceful. you'd never allow yourself to stare at him like this, in fear of getting caught

when he started to wake up and blinking a few times, you know you should look away, but you're so captured by him that you can't bring yourself to do so

so you're laying face to face with him, only inches apart, holding your breath

"hey... can't sleep?" he asks with a soft tone and smile

you shake your head the tiniest bit and a stray lock of hair falls into your face

he reaches out to tuck it behind your ear and lets his hand linger

even without using his powers he is almost sure to know what you think in that moment

so he leans in closer and asks "may I?"

you whisper a breathless "please" and before you know it, he presses the softest kiss to your lips

you almost whine when he leans back again

"you look so beautiful, darling" and "forgive me, we should've done this a lot sooner"

you couldn't agree more

sleepy, soft kisses turn into more intense ones turn into makeout session

so much suppressed feelings resurfacing, you can't get enough of each other

when your shirt hitches up and his hand grazes your bare skin, you let out a small noise of surprise and jump a little at the sudden contact

charles moves his hand away, not wanting to make you uncomfortable or do something you're not ready for, when you reach down and put his hand back, reassuring that it is okay for you

he doesn't mind at all if you don't want to go any further, he can't believe his luck of you reciprocating his feelings at all in the first place

if you do want to go further, that man will give you the best and softest, most loving time of your life

given that that would be your first time together, you would keep it simple and stick to getting to know each other and each others likes

first and foremost he would concentrate on making you feel good

[rheas-chaos-motivation]

Create your characters voice

Write one to ten pages (I usually do 5 for major character, 1 or 2 for side characters) as your character. Anything they would say, opinions, diary entries, complaining, etc.

Ooooh I have collected some helpful things to maybe include:

adopting slang from people they are close too/love interest

do they have a raspy voice? High pitched? Overly sweet? Commanding? Figure that out.

to make characters have their own voice vary rhythm, word choice, use of profanity, how much they talk about themselves or others, their politics.

Take some dialogue and ask if readers would be able to tell who is speaking with no context.

Write an AITA post from their point of view.

Identify what role your character has, a leader? a follower? a disrupter? a rebel? an antagonist? a peacemaker? How does that change the way they speak?

The character traits will tell you what your characters will say or how they will say it.

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[villainbait]

Breaking Point

Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: Explicit | 18+ Tags: angry sylus, playful struggling, teasing, dirty talk, smut, fingering, mc/reader is a brat, punishment, overstimulation if you squint Summary: You had almost cost Sylus something important tonight and for once, he's pissed. Word Count: 1.3k

The door to Onychinus’s base had barely clicked shut behind you before Sylus has you hoisted over his shoulder, his long strides taking you swiftly down the hallway towards his bedroom. Your heart flip flops uneasily in your stomach when you realize where he’s headed, and you start to struggle in earnest. His demeanor had completely changed the moment you arrived home, though the walk there had been more tense than usual.

“Wha- hey! Sylus, put me down!” You’re suddenly squirming in his grip, your fists drumming uselessly against his back and you lose a heel in the process; the forgotten ornament left behind on the floor. You only stop fighting when his hand slides under the slit in your dress to keep you from falling, and you forget how to breathe as you feel the heat of it between your thighs. Infuriatingly, Sylus hasn’t said a single word and it starts to sink in that you might have gone too far earlier tonight. 

It had started out as a simple game under the table at some business dinner he had made you go to. You were bored and he looked so good sitting across from you, but he wasn’t giving you any attention at all. Instead, he was talking to some other woman who kept touching him with increasingly lingering touches that made you reconsider what the definition of assault was. Worse, Sylus seemed to preen under her attention, his honeyed smile blinding in the soft ambience of the room. Jealousy had begun to eat at you and you were half-convinced he was doing it on purpose, but then you had the perfect idea of how to get back at him. 

It was time for you to play a little game of your own, kicking off your heel discreetly under the table and running your stocking covered foot underneath the tailored leg of his pants. He managed to keep his composure, his slight flinch of surprise only noticeable to you. When he turned to look at you you were already engaged in conversation with one of your own dinner mates, pretending to be oblivious. His eyes narrowed as your foot slid higher with every pass, coming dangerously close to a part of him that was quickly becoming uncooperative despite the ugly hag he was attempting to extract intel from. 

You had almost ruined it all and for once, Sylus was angry. 

He dumps you unceremoniously onto the bed and you try to scramble away but he’s on you faster than you can move. He captures and stretches your wrists over your head easily with one hand, his knee sliding between your thighs as he pushes you into the soft mattress. He slides between your thighs and his hips press against yours, trapping you. The warmth of his anger is radiating off him and you can feel how hot and hard he is despite how angry he looks. Had your antics earlier really affected him that much? 

You whine and futilely struggle against him until he looms over you and quells your struggles with a piercing gaze.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” His voice was low and dangerous, making you tense with anticipated dread. Oh, Sylus was furious. Still, you’d gone this far, you weren’t going to back down now. 

“Only that I didn’t finish the job.” You jut your lower lip out petulantly and his scoff is pure exasperation.

“Fiesty, kitten.” He almost smiles, but then he’s serious again.

“Did you really think I would enjoy the attention of that woman with you sitting across from me?” You refused to look at him and stared at the canopy above his bed, but nodded. “Really?” He murmured, a soft hint of incredulity creeping into his voice. The movement of him sliding against your core left you both gasping as the friction made you dizzy with need. 

“You’re the only one who does this to me.” He leans closer and draws your gaze to his, his lips inches from yours. “Only you.” 

He doesn’t kiss you. You haven’t earned that and Sylus won’t reward you for your bad behavior, so his lips skate along your jaw and down your throat, sending a shiver down your spine. Sylus will have you a begging, needy mess by the end of the night and you know it, suddenly a little nervous. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out quietly, but his derisive chuckle against your pulse told you it was too late for an apology–or too soon. His words confirmed it, his hot breath fanning across your skin. 

“Try being more sincere, and I might consider forgiving you sweetie.” The pet name drips condescension and you want to smack him, instantly regretting your words. You feel the punishing set of teeth against your throat with a sharp suddenness that leaves you gasping. Your back arches into him as your hands curl around the one that has you pinned, your nails digging into his skin. His mouth felt so good against your frantic pulse and you felt a little dizzy as he soothes the fresh imprint of his teeth with his lips. He peppers your throat in kisses and deliciously teasing love bites, taking his time until you’re writhing underneath him and softly pleading for him to touch you more.

He loves seeing you like this, flushed and wanting, eager for him to do whatever he wants to you. He’s ready to explode from all of the teasing from earlier and he grinds his hips roughly against yours, chuckling softly against your collarbone when you curse him between your gasps of pleasure. It’s been a long time since he's had you underneath him like this and Sylus isn’t known for being patient. But for you? He’d wait for a lifetime. In some lifetimes, he had.

However, tonight you need to be taught a lesson about what happens when you tease him too much and jeopardize his meeting. He almost lost valuable intel tonight, something important enough that if he had fumbled in obtaining it, a lot of people could’ve died; including you.  

His free hand slides between your bodies and he’s satisfied to find the front of your panties soaked. His fingers toy with the lacy edge and he has a thoughtful look on his face.

“Sylus, please.” You whine, brushing yourself against his knuckles shamelessly. It makes Sylus chuckle and he pushes them aside, his fingers gliding over your slick folds. One digit dips between them to glide over your clit and it’s agony. Before you can beg, Sylus slides two fingers deep inside of you and curls them over that sensitive spot he knows so well. He brings you to orgasm with a quickness that has your back bowed off the bed, his skillful fingers wringing the pleasure from your body. He does it again without letting you recover and you weakly ask him to wait, pushing against his hand that trapped your own. 

“Wait, please–” 

He withdraws his fingers and they glisten with proof of how much Sylus affected you, strands of your arousal clinging obscenely to them. His eyes never leave yours as he slides them into his mouth to taste you, his gaze heavy lidded with desire. He pulls them past his lips with a wet pop and his lips brush your ear, his breath fanning against your heated skin.

“Why? They went in so easily, kitten.” He purred into your ear. “Did you want it that much? I would’ve given it to you, you know.” He pushes a few strands of hair out sticking to your face and strokes soft fingertips along your temple and jaw. “All you had to do was ask, but you continue to insist on being stubborn.” He leans back and his lips twist into a sour expression. You know you’re in trouble and you want to take it back, but you also know conceding now will make the consequences worse. Sylus would prey on any weakness you showed now, and you could see it in the way he stared down at you. His smirk was dangerous and you whimpered.

“We’ll see how long that lasts.” 

[unformula1]

Hii! Saw your request for requests. Can we have something with Reader meeting a driver unexpectedly while shopping it partying or working out, whatever and neither one realises the other is a celebrity until they mention it to their friends or coworkers

who…? (OP81 x gn!Reader)

you meet oscar while shopping for clothes, neither of you recognise each other, much to the dismay of your friends. w/c: 936 a/n: hi! if you want any other driver please dont be afraid to ask!!! (masterlist) TW: cluelessness, a few uses of y/n (and one use of y/n_l/n)

Your fingers glide through the row of neatly hung shirts. You stay focused on the shirts, not really caring about anyone else in your surroundings. 

As your sights land on a black graphic tee, you place one hand on the shirt and abruptly stop in your tracks. Before anything else can happen, someone walks directly into you, causing you to stumble back. 

You curse under your breath but look up and sheepishly apologise to the man.

“Sorry-” He says first, with a thick Australian accent no one could miss.

With one hand still on the graphic tee, you nod subtly and apologise.

The man’s eyes are glued on the shirt which you have your hands on. 

One of his hands slides up to the back of his neck as he rubs it, clearly thinking about something.

“Sorry, did you want this shirt?” You ask, to which the man nods.

“Yea- but I mean if you were planning on getting it…” His words slowly descend into just a mumble of sounds.

“It’s just that it has my name on it and I thought it was pretty cool.” The man points to the giant words on the shirt.

“Oscar?” You raise an eyebrow and the man nods rather violently.

“Yea, my name’s Oscar. Piastri. Oscar Piastri, so yea, pretty cool shirt.”

You shrug and hand him the shirt, “Well, you can take it, not like it says y/n or anything…”

“That’s my name.” You clarify and Oscar nods in response.

Oscar takes the shirt from you and smiles, “Thanks.” 

“No problem, have a good day.” You smile as he walks off.

The interaction is clearly not something you were expecting but you continue on your day, picking out another shirt before heading off.

—

“So… anything interesting happen?” Your friend says, leaning back on their chair.

“Yea, I had a weird thing happen at the thrift store.” You say.

“Spill.”

“I was looking at this shirt and then this guy bumped into me and asked me if he could have the shirt since it had his name on it.” You recount.

“What was his name?”

“Oscar. Piastri, or something like that.” You draw random shapes in the air as you speak.

Your friend chokes on her water, almost spitting it onto you.

“Oscar Piastri?”

“Yea, I didn’t know-”

“You met Oscar Piastri?”

“Yes… am I supposed to know him?”

Your friend is exasperated, “And you didn’t like… take a photo or anything?”

“I mean, he didn’t really ask for it, would’ve been pretty weird…”

“THE OSCAR PIASTRI!?”

—

“THE Y/N!” Lando’s jaw is almost on the floor.

“I mean… yes?” Oscar’s shoulders slowly shrug up.

“AND YOU DIDN’T TAKE A PHOTO OR ANYTHING?” Lando screeches with the decibel levels capable of deafening someone.

“Well- it would’ve been weird to just… say that.” Oscar tries to justify.

“THE Y/N? FOURTEEN TIME GRAMMY WINNER?” Lando violently shakes Oscar, “AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN LIKE-”

Lando sighs loudly, clearly unable to form any more coherent sentences.

—

“OSCAR PIASTRI? F1 ROOKIE OF THE YEAR? THE GUY WHO WON THE QATAR SPRINT LAST YEAR? PROBABLY THE BEST F1 ROOKIE?”

Your friend is almost shouting in incoherent sentences.

You cover your ears, “Okay! Chill- I’ll google him or something…”

You take out your phone and google the name ‘Oscar Piastri’. The search results tell you all you need to know about Oscar Piastri. 

“Okay… wow, so my bad on that-” You chuckle awkwardly, “I mean, he was pretty nice.”

“You BETTER somehow, someway get a photo with him!” Your friend grabs your shoulders and shakes you.

“Okay, okay!” You raise your hands in surrender.

Your friend goes to refill her cup of water which leaves you alone, pondering.

Oscar Piastri. He seemed pretty tame, and pretty sweet. Your interaction with him made you feel… an odd sense of comfort, not being begged for photos when all you wanted was to buy clothes.

It was the first time in a while and you kinda liked it.

You take a selfie, and post it to your story.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

When you meet THE Oscar Piastri and don’t realise until an hour later.

You chuckle at your own joke. 

ps. nice shirt.

You smile, content with yourself as you post the story, turning off your phone and putting it on the table.

—

Lando shoves the phone in Oscar’s face.

“LOOK!” Lando shrieks.

“The y/n knows you exist!” Lando cheers.

“You better fix this, or maybe I’ll NEVER get a photo with ‘em EVER!” Lando shouts into Oscar’s ear.

Oscar rubs his temples and sighs, “Alright, alright Lando.”

He searches your name on instagram, following you before opening your story and liking it.

He sends a message your way by replying to the story.

oscarpiastri: Hi :) 

He doesn’t really know what else to say.

You hesitate to respond, you think hard about what to say back. You don’t even know what you’re worried about.

y/n_l/n: hello mr oscar piastri.

—

A few months pass and you find yourself standing in a paddock belonging to McLaren.

“Hello 14-time Grammy Winner.” You hear a voice come from behind.

You have to admit, F1 wasn’t something you thought you’d be interested in, yet here you were, with the help of your friend.

“Hello Mr Piastri.” You say and smile when you see him wearing the shirt.

“Guess we should formally introduce ourselves?” He chuckles and you nod.

You clear your throat, “Can I get a photo, Mr Piastri, I’m a huge fan.”

Oscar laughs and pats your shoulder.

“May I get a photo with you?”

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What if instead of threatening to take Ford's eyes, Bill just took Fiddleford's?

Tate still remembered the night his father's sight was taken from him.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

He felt the storm coming even before the first lightning struck. From the very moment he opened his eyes that morning until the very moment he lay back down to bed, he could feel a vicious tension brewing in the otherwise serene household.

Storms were very uncommon at Tate's house, and on the rare occasions they did arrive, they never stayed for long.

Yet, after a quiet breakfast full of anxious, unmet glances and clattering cutlery that rang far too loudly in the silence of the table, he knew that this storm was going to be unlike any other storm he'd witnessed before.

A prickling, disquieting static seemed to have made itself at home underneath his skin, that day. It had made every hair on his body stand on end, and an odd stinging sensation to dance across his spine and tongue; an uncomfortable urge to duck and take cover low on the ground nearly overwhelming his every sense. It was like waiting for the shattering thunderclap to sound after the sky turned white with a blinding flash of light. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation was unbearable.

His mother and father had acted as though nothing was wrong; as though they didn't feel the looming presence of the darkening clouds growing like a murky gray forest on the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to fathom at the time how adults could seem so all-knowing, and yet simultaneously be so utterly clueless about the very obvious happenings that surrounded them. Now, though, he just found it strange how adults often tend to assume children don't feel the stifling weight that they hung around themselves; as if children didn't breathe the same bitter choked air as their parents did. It wasn't even as though they did a very good job at pretending; his parents always were terrible liars.

When the lightning finally struck, it set the house ablaze.

He heard the thunder from his room, and felt the crackling heat crawl up the stairs and seep through the gap beneath his door. He'd laid in his bed, hand clasped nervously across his chest and looking up at his room's cloudy, weeping ceiling as a cacophonic explosion of noises came bursting from the living room downstairs. The fight had erupted with such unprecedented force that in Tate's young mind, he'd felt genuine fear of the house collapsing atop them all from the sheer force of the yelling.

The smell of burnt tongues gently wafted through the air, and Tate briefly wondered if it hurt his parents when they scorched their mouths with such scalding words just as much as it hurt for him to hear it.

It was a big fight; a terrible, big fight; so loud, and so very angry, and helpless, and desperate, and betrayed, and sad.

The back and forth screeching seemed endless, and eventually the screaming words began to muddle and merge into one another until they hardly even sounded human anymore. Suddenly there were animals wailing in the living room downstairs, and Tate could do nothing but listen helplessly and grip his interlocked fingers tighter; hoping that if he stayed still enough, then the growling beasts that were shattering plates downstairs wouldn't come upstairs.

But then,

then,

something changed.

The shift was all too sudden; too abrupt; too quick even for the usually sharp witted child to catch on, and before he knew it, the screams of anger suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Fiddleford, your eyes- good lord, your eyes! Let me look at them!" "Don't touch me! I- I must call Stanford, he's done something to me. Him and that demon, they've cursed me." "For Heaven's sake! Please, forget about that damned Stanford of yours for one moment and listen to yourself! My husband's gone mad, mad!"

And suddenly his parents were human again.

Tate was restless in his bed as his heart seemed to beat bruises against his ribs, his sweaty fingers digging crescent shaped grooves into his skin as fear enclosed its frigid claws around his throat in a vice-like grip. He couldn't breathe.

The storm was over, and it should have reassured him, and yet he was anything but.

Curiosity and fear had been what forced him to kick the sheets off himself and creep his way down the rickety wooden steps. He had to know what happened, he had to know what damage the storm had caused, he had to know.

His steps were far from quiet, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet hardly did him any favors, but no one answered the calls of the squeaking wood. No one came peeking out from the living room to stop the obviously sneaking presence that was tip toeing through the halls; No one called out to check on their little child; all was silent, and calm, except for his mother's soft sobbing coming from the kitchen.

When Tate eventually found his father, he saw

devastation.

The storm had been merciless. It had left nothing behind but a shuddering husk of a man. His father was shaking like a leaf, shoulders tense and back hunched over as though bowed by an incredible burden. The telephone receiver was held in his hand like a lifeline; as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping him tethered to sanity, and somehow, Tate didn't doubt that it was.

Curled up on the floor in the dark, muttering and trembling, he dared say his father looked... small.

It almost felt surreal to see his father in such a state, like witnessing a God collapse, or a star's light dim to nothingness. His father had always been a solid, permanent pillar sho seemed able to hold up the whole world on his shoulders, and still stand tall and proud despite the weight.

And yet, the crumbling remains of a once impermeable monolith now lay scattered across the hallway floor and splattered across the walls.

The sight had scared him.

At the time, Tate hadn't known what had happened. Even to this day, he still wasn't too sure he understood what exactly had taken place in that living room for his father to have so sudddenly gone from seeing to blind in the matter of seconds.

His mother had tried, in vain, to explain it to him later, to try and make him understand when he was eventually old enough to hear the gruesome tale; but still, he struggled to fully wrap his head around it.

"It was as though his eyes just sunk into his skull," his mother had recounted to him with a haunted look in her eyes. "They suddenly just vanished into the empty sockets of his face, like someone pulled them out from inside his head. There was no blood, no resistance, no tearing. It was as if his eyes were simply plucked out of sight by some invisible hand."

There had been blood on the walls when he had found father back then, a long trail of gorey wet red smeared all across the lovely yellow wallpaper. He realized only now, recalling the memory, that the blood back then had not been from his father's eyes, but from the deep gouges he had dug into his face with his nails, his searching fingers desperately looking for eyes that weren't there beneath his empty eyelids.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

Tate had never heard his father's voice sound so raw, so afraid. It was so unlike the familiar comforting drawl he'd grown to love and recognize, it almost sounded alien, coming from his father.

"I can't see, Stanford, I can't- my eyes, they're gone. Why are they gone? What have you done?" "Answer me, damnit, what have you done?"

His father never got his answer, because whoever was on the other side of the line soon hung up, and his father was suddenly left blind and alone.