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spacedace · 2 years ago

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Had a dc x dp brain worm, feel free to use as a prompt <3

Sidenote, I decided to get fancy with the Ancients titles because of course I did lol

Shifting Where = Space (Danny)

Eternal When = Time (Clockwork)

Ever Onward = Speedforce (Ellie)

---

Bruce watched the footage again.

And again.

Again.

It didn’t make sense.

A week ago every television, radio, computer, phone - even the LED billboards - had been taken over to deliver a message. Across the United States. In every territory it held. Every military base. Down in the depths of the oceans where American submarines tried to creep past Atlantian patrols. In the endless cold white of Antarctica. Even far above in the International Space Station. Any place the United States Government had control over, any place one of its citizens found themselves. There was the message.

The face of an entity, human in shape but not in form. Hair as gleaming white as starlight, eyes bright as the twisting dance of the Aurora Borealis, skin as cold and blue as the tail of a comet. The entity wore armor as black as the depths of space with a crown to match, the later glinting and shifting with the twisting birth and death of galaxies. A cloak of nebulae danced down his shoulders, eclipsing the world beyond the entity entirely.

He named himself, jaw tight, expression serious.

High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms.

The Shifting Where. Son of the Eternal When. Father of the Ever Onward. His Epitaphs many and ever growing. The True Balance. The Bridge Between. The Devourer of Dark. The Last Child of Between. The Great One.

King of the Dead. King of the Infinite Worlds. King of so much more than Bruce had ever even known was possible.

King who had declared war. Who marshaled his endless armies. Who spoke of warnings, of efforts to reach a peace, of trying again and again and again to find a way to not plunge into violence and bloodshed. All things living come to call him King in time, he had no want or need to go out and hurry that along. But there were no options left to him now. He had tried for peace. He had been denied.

He would not see his people suffer any longer. Would not see those he’d sworn to lead and protect imprisoned by fools who had sworn themselves enemies to all the afterlives. Would no longer permit the vicious cruelty to continue.

The message was a final warning.

A final offer.

Three days, Phantom said. The United States government would have three days to release their prisoners, to begin the process of dismantling the laws that made death itself an illegal act.

If they refused, he would lead his endless armies personally in the war to come.

It had not been an idle threat.

Three days after the message, after Bruce and the rest of the Justice League scrambled to try and figure out just what it was it was all about, after Justice League Dark’s members shakily took turns explaining just how powerful the being that had gave that message was and how much danger the world was in should he and his armies march upon their world, war came.

Of all places, it began in a town in Illinois.

The sky shattered like broken glass above, Lazarus Green beyond, and the Dead poured out.

It started in Illinois.

It did not end there.

Bruce watched the footage of it all, eyes burning as he watched every second of CCTV footage, every shaky phone camera video, every news broadcast.

Most of them looked human enough. Changed in death, but recognizably human once. A pair of glowing teenagers on a motorcycle, a writhing shadow twisting about at their command sweeping chaos upon the battlefield. A young woman dressed to perform with hair a literal flame, burning bright blue and snapping furiously as she played devastation upon her enemies with her guitar. A child with corpse gray skin and luminescent green hair, flickering in and out of Bruce’s ability to see as if fighting against a law of existence to be visible, screaming orders to a skeleton crew from his place on deck of a 1700s ship that sailed through the sky, disappearing into clouds before raining down attacks from above.

There was more. Glowing skeletons dressed in the fashions of war spanning every culture going back millennia. Robots with weapons far beyond the technology they had even in the League. Creatures of myth and legend. Things of nightmares.

Leading them all, as he had promised, was Phantom.

He looked younger, smaller. Just a boy, really, a gangly teenager that hadn’t quite finished growing into himself. One holding power beyond anything Bruce could ever imagine, but still just a child as far as he could see, no older than Tim who’d just graduated high school. Frantic research found Phantom appearing as far back as human history, but those sightings had to have been after his death. Bruce can’t help but wonder how young the boy had been when he died, how much of that youth still clung to him through all these eons.

It wasn’t something he’d let him self consider normally, not with something like this.

A dangerous unknown appearing without warning and attacking with unimaginable power and seemingly endless forces. It was something that would normally eclipse everything else. Something that would make Bruce put aside the ache at seeing a face so young twisted in rage.

But.

He watched all the footage.

Civilians were put in the crossfire. Were shot at and endangered. Were left terrified and scrambling for safety in buildings that were rapidly being torn away by stray artillery.

But never by Phantom or his armies.

The dead, in fact, went very far out of their way to ensure civilians weren’t harmed. Sweeping people up out of the way of falling debris. Shielding them from attacks that would have most certainly killed a normal human. Some dead even helped evacuate, ushering a frightened and panicked populous to safety as gently as they were capable of. Some of the less human creatures - giant bear-like beings with horns and fangs and ice edging their burly frames - even rushed forward to offer medical aid.

When the sky shattered open and the armies of the dead swept in, they ignored the town below. They focused instead on what was discovered later to be the base of a secretive government agency. The dead’s fight focused on those individuals in sharp white suits, bearing weapons capable of actually injuring King Phantom’s people.

It was these agents that brought the fight to the streets to Amity Park. That fired recklessly and without thought or care to the casualties they could inflict. That didn’t seem to care if they killed a hundred civilians if it meant hurting just one of Phantom’s soldiers.

Bruce watched all the footage.

And again.

Again.

Phantom had declared war.

Phantom spoke in his message of being out of options, of attempting peace. Phantom gave three days time for the release of captives. Phantom lead armies who fought viciously but never once willingly harmed civilians.

Phantom declared war, but he didn’t want it.

“Amanda Waller has reached out.”

Bruce didn’t turn his attention from the screens before him, eyes burning as he followed Phantom as the King dove away from the middle of locked combat to shield a child from a pulse of green energy from something like a grenade another agent in white had carelessly thrown. The child was crying but unharmed. The left pauldron of Phantom’s armor cracked and shattered from a direct shot from the enemy he’d just been fighting that he’d turned his back on, a glowing green liquid uncomfortably like Lazarus Water dripped down from a smoldering wound.

Clark stepped up to stand beside him as he watched, face worn and tired. The League had missed the first battle, but they’d been quick to appear at the rest. Phantom and his army ignored them unless they put themselves purposefully in the way of the fight. They were, as Justice League Dark had warned, vastly out powered by the entities fighting. A hulking giant knight made of shadow riding a nightmarish steed had driven Clark six feet down into the dirt when he’d attempted to make his way to Phantom directly to try and talk to the king.

The depth Clark had ended up felt like a warning of what would happen if he tried to get close to the king again.

It probably was.

“She said they have intel for us.” A faint twitch of fingers, jaw clenching, voice flat in that way that told Bruce his old friend was fighting back anger with everything he had. “That she has options for how to deal with the insurgence.”

Bruce shut off the monitors.

He’d seen enough.

Now was time to get answers to just what, exactly, Amanda Waller and the US government had done to cause the Dead to rise and rage.

---

Part Two Part Three Part Four

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #bruce wayne #clark kent #danny fenton #amanda waller #ghost king danny #ghost zone goes to war #space core danny #ancient of space danny #i'm gonna make ancient of the speedforce Elle a thing if it kills me lol #it just fits so well #Bruce's dad senses are tingling #Fright Knight might have been able to bat Clark away but if Bruce gets within a 100ft of Danny it's game over #Bat-Adoption Papers deployed #BatFam up a new member (or three or six)#Amanda Waller is not going to be as persuasive as she thinks she's going to be when it comes to getting the JL onboard with her plans

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lupinescribbler · 29 days ago

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Tips to Writing Emotional Dialogue!

No hard and fast rules here, just some things I've seen in media and incorporate into my writing that I think can help emotional dialogue hit the mark. Use or discard as suits your writing/story!

Build up!

Emotional dialogue will hit harder when the groundwork has already been set. There's lots of ways to do that. One is what I call the "naming", let something exist in the story without being properly addressed or labeled, until it finally is. A character bitterly saying "I never was (a child)" (hello Dean Winchester) is going to hit a thousand times harder if you've already seen that. If you've seen glimpses of their childhood, or how their childhood has affected their adulthood, if there's been jokes or throw away lines, or stories/storylines that surround that idea without naming it, if you've watched the character come to terms with it, or treat it blithely, or hide it. You need to build something up in order to pay it off.

2. Action!

Dialogue in general, especially long stretches of dialogue, can end up feeling stale when nothing is happening during it. I tend to like to use action to reflect and support the dialogue. I don't mean action as in a fight scene (imo, drawn out conversations in the middle of a fight scene can end up feeling too unrealistic). I try to focus on how an action can serve as a backdrop to reflect the emotion of the conversation of the scene. If a character has been avoiding the issue they could avoid it both verbally and physically by performing a distracting task (taking the groceries in, sharpening their sword, fixing their car, etc). Or it could reflect something about the lifestyle of the characters or their current headspace. I also like using action to reflect the emotions entering into and progressing through the dialogue. Is the task frustrating them? Do they abandon the task when the dialogue starts intensifying, or redouble their efforts? What can happen in the action to progress it alongside the conversation? Do they slam the fridge door? Do they ask the other person to pass them a wrench? Do they give up?

3. Setting + Context!

Similar to action, but often more passively, I like using the setting to influence or emotionally enhance the conversation. How does the environment shape how the characters are feeling or the conversation unfolds? Are two people having an argument in a public place, one embarrassed and trying to shut it down while the other escalates? Are they shoulder to shoulder in the cabin of a sinking ship, listening to water sloshing, thinking they're going to die and they better get this off their chest? I find describing some actions and environmental factors can help change the pacing of a conversation, generally by slowing it. If there's a pause in the dialogue, make the readers and not just the characters feel it.

4. Tone + Expression + Movements!

These can be delicate to balance. Personally, I tend to overemphasize the tone character's are speaking in, and am working on doing just what is necessary to establish the emotion instead of everything possible. Mostly I'd recommend 1) focusing on where a description of tone/expression/movement is most helpful/impactful. 2) varying how and what you're describing (don't have someone shrug a million times in a scene, or voice crack every sentence, etc. It will mean less every time it pops up). 3) Vary long/prosy stuff with stuff that's short and hard hitting. Be willing to cut out good lines to make better lines hit harder. If you tend towards either one of the other (long vs short) edit through to add more variation in the other direction. 4) Weigh exact word choice, especially if you're naturally more wordy (like me, lol) sometimes you have to sacrifice a little nuance for impact, and sometimes you can switch out two words to a third that encapsulates both, etc. Or if you tend to be short, you might figure out a place where an added description would add more clarity and nuance.

Final thoughts:

I hope this was readable and maybe helpful :) my best recommendation is always to reflect on what best suits your voice, and what you find most impactful in what you read/watch. So many different voices/styles of writing can crush an emotional scene in their own way. For example, I've been reading Jack Reacher recently, which has a way more blunt, taciturn, and factual approach to emotions/emotionally heavy scenes, and frequently knocks them out of the park in ways I never would have thought of.

#on writing #writing advice #writing tips #writing tips and tricks #fiction writing #writblr #writing dialogue #creative writing #writing #writers on tumblr

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lilislegacy · 4 months ago

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Lets spin the narrative. Which commonly talked about moments weren’t the ones when Percabeth first had sex

So, I could be wrong, but I THINK you guys wanna talk about this lol.

First, let me say this: when I talk about Percabeth being intimate, I am only referring to very fictional book Percabeth — and only when they’re 16 or older (AKA the age of consent), and in a fully committed, loving relationship. Also, if this turns into a big discussion, let’s keep it respectful and mature. Obviously, I’m totally good with having more adult conversations, but even though my blog is targeted toward older teens and adults, there are still some younger teens on this app, and we need to keep things responsible and safe for them. Okay, we good?

So let’s talk about it.

Warning: I’m about to talk a lot lol. (Surprised?) BUT I’ll put the major points in bold so you can skim if you’re not in the mood for all my rambling.

When I DON’T Think It Happened:

Before Heroes of Olympus: They’d only been dating for like four months before Percy got abducted. They were still barely 16 and figuring out how to shift from being best friends to romantic partners — and neither of them had ever even dated anyone before. I’m sure there was some heavy kissing, second base, maaaybe even a sprinkle of third base. But I don’t think it went further. I just think they weren’t ready, and they weren’t in a rush. They wouldn’t want to risk messing anything up by moving too fast, you know?

In the stables: As funny as that scene was because of all the embarrassment and suggestions of sex, Rick could not have made it more clear that nothing happened lol.

In HoO - On the Argo II / During the War/Quest: I just don’t think that was the time or the place. Even before Annabeth left for her mission, they were on a crowded ship, surrounded by people and under a ton of stress. And yeah, some people say, “Well, maybe they did it then because they thought they were gonna die,” but they were also pretty sure Percy was gonna die in the Battle of Manhattan — and they still waited to get together until after it was over. They don’t strike me as a “let’s do it just in case we die tomorrow” type of couple.

When I DO Think It Happened:

This might be an underwhelming answer for those of you who haven’t heard me say this before, but I strongly believe it happened sometime during the summer after the Gaea/Giant War was over — or possibly sometime during their senior year. But I really think it was that summer.

Because by this time, unlike before Percy’s kidnapping when they were still figuring things out, there's a new certainty and stability to their relationship that wasn’t quite there before. In Staff of Hermes, one month into dating, Percy says he’s just glad they’ve made it this long and hopes to keep it going. By Heroes of Olympus, the two of them are discussing their future together and making plans for college and living together in New Rome afterwards. That's a big change. There’s no uncertainty anymore.

That six-month separation was hard for them — especially Annabeth, since she was conscious for all of it — but it showed them that their relationship was more than just a teenage pairing. Annabeth admitted that she had fallen hard for him when they started dating, but that when he went missing, it was like being withdrawn from a lifesaving medication. Percy’s memories were wiped, and he was supposed to forget everything except the most basic thing about himself: his name. But somehow, Annabeth was just as integral a part of him — because he didn’t just remember her name, but had little flashing memories of her too. He didn’t remember his own mother, Grover, or anything about his life, but he knew Annabeth.

So any part of their relationship that was casual or uncertain before? That all went away the moment they were reunited.

Once we see them together again in HoH, it’s consistently commented on how natural they are with each other, and how comfortable they are touching and kissing. Annabeth says Percy is a part of her. Percy says he never wants to be apart from Annabeth again. Then, obviously, they walk through Tartarus together — which only reinforces how united they are.

So what this all shows is that by the end of HoO, their relationship has become as solid as concrete. There’s nothing but love, trust, and certainty. Therefore, once they get back and the world is saved and they’re together in New York again, I think every reason they had to wait before is gone. What’s left is two people who want to be together in every way, and they know their relationship isn't going anywhere.

Anyway, these are just my own personal thoughts. This subject will never get confirmed or denied by Rick, so there's never going to be a right or wrong here. I welcome other opinions and perspectives. And if you agree with me but have other thoughts, feel free to share. Again, just as long as it's respectful :)

#I just don't think they were ready before HoO #and i dont think a crowded ship with thin walls and the reminder of their possible imminent death was the right environment lol #and sally has probably already lectured them both on birth control and being safe lol so i have a feeling they are very responsible #as they should be #percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #heroes of olympus #pjo #pjo headcanons #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo

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jewishvitya · 4 months ago

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I'm gonna be completely honest, I followed you because of your politics/judaism-related posts but I've honestly always been curious as to what the hell Yuri On Ice!!! is about, because I've heard of it so much but I haven't the slightest clue what's up with it besides ice and possibly yuri(although it's probably yaoi? Idfk)

"What is YOI about" is such a funny question to me I can come up with so many meme answers.

But seriously, we meet the main character at rock bottom. He's talented and ambitious and he feels he just performed horribly at a major competition after getting terrible news, and we watch him pick himself up from that. He isn't confident, but he also knows he shouldn't be underestimated. His internal contraditions are one of my favorite things in the show, they make him feel real.

The other main character is also at a pretty low spot. He needs a change. And that change is going and supporting the other's growth.

It's about figure skating as a sport. And for me it's also about mental health, about carving your way out of depression and burnout and embracing connection with people who can help you.

I tried very hard, I'm really bad at recognizing what a spoiler is and avoiding them lol

Yuri is a name. Two of the three main characters are named Yuri. A Japanese Yuri (that most of us spell Yuuri) and a Russian Yuri (that the show calls Yurio, to differentiate).

No lesbians. Just Yuuri. But he's gorgeous.

I draw a sketch of him sometimes when I need to help myself feel better.

The main characters are Viktor, Yuuri and Yurio. The two adults are the ones in a relationship. The kid kinda treats them like embarrassing parents sometimes.

So, yeah, the main ship is m/m, and the fandom did make our own f/f ship.

Look at them, I love them. You'll get 3 seconds of each of them, and half a second that shows potential if you squint. We have fun building on that.

This show is my comfort space.

#riki babbles #yoi

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muiitoloko · 2 months ago

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Hello! Just wanted to sneak this ask in. You can do this after your sabbatical lol. I was thinking of an Alan Rickman oneshot where he meets his unknown daughter. Like he had this fling when he was younger and more reckless and the mother never told him. And now the mother passed and the daughter needed a guardian or she'll be shipped off to a foster home. I'm thinking of a teen girl. I'm not quite sure how he'll find out yet. Either the girl goes to him very friendly and profesional and asks for his signature so she can request emancipation in court so she won't go into foster care. She assumed that Alan won't want her and would gladly sign it and was shocked when Alan didn't know. All her life she thought her father abandoned her and her mom.

I'm craving for some platonic angst and fluff hehe. If it's a bad idea u can scrap this lol

Title: Paper Daughters

Summary: She came with a name, a photo, and a fury sharpened by sixteen years of silence. All she wanted was a signature—what she found was the father she never dared believe in.

Pairing: Alan Rickman & Daughter! Reader

Warnings: Angst

Author's Notes: Yes, yes, I cried writing this fanfic 😅 Thank you so much for your request, and here are the songs I listened to while writing it—I'd recommend playing them while you read: "Family Portrait" by P!nk, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron, "No Choir" by Florence + The Machine, "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic, and "All I Want" by Kodaline. Enjoy! 😊

Also read on Ao3

The year was 1992, and life wasn’t supposed to be hard when you were sixteen. It was supposed to be school and friends and awkward crushes and cheap lipstick and mixtapes. But not for you. Life had always been heavy on your shoulders, like you were born already carrying a debt you didn’t owe. You were poor, and that word meant more than just second-hand shoes and dinners that came from cans—it meant invisible. It meant quiet shame. It meant your mother working too much and smiling too little, raising you alone in a flat with cracked windows and walls that echoed your silences.

You never knew your father. You only asked once—when you were seven, maybe eight—because it was Father’s Day and your classroom was full of children drawing big stick figures with “DAD” written in bright colours, proud and bold.

You didn’t have a dad to draw, so you asked. “Where is he?” you said, simple, soft, not knowing that some questions cut deeper than they should.

Your mother looked at you as if you’d handed her a knife. She didn’t yell; she just cried quietly. She turned her back and pretended to clean the stove while her shoulders shook. You never asked again. You didn’t need to know badly enough to see her cry like that a second time.

Then you turned fourteen, and things that were already bad somehow got worse. Your grandfather died that spring, and two months later your mother got sick—seriously sick, the kind where the neighbours started whispering and casseroles appeared at your door.

You tried to juggle school, work, and keeping her alive, but you weren’t a magician. You were a kid. A tired, stubborn, angry kid with burnt-out dreams and a heart that kept beating only because it didn’t know how to stop. And now—now you were sixteen, and she was gone. One month ago. Thirty days since the last time you heard her voice. And all you had left of her was a letter, a fading photograph, and a name.

Alan Rickman.

It sounded made-up when you first saw it. She’d left the photo in the old biscuit tin where she kept her secret things—birth certificates, ration coupons from her father, a crumpled love letter never sent. You found it when you were going through her things for the last time. She had written the name on the back in neat, nervous handwriting: “Me and Alan. 1975.”

You didn’t recognise him—not really. You didn’t have time for movies. You had laundry to do and night shifts to cover. But you’d read about him once or twice in newspapers left behind on the bus. He was someone. An actor, British, rising through the world like a balloon you could never afford to chase. You didn’t believe it at first. But the letter confirmed it.

He was your father.

It should have mattered more than it did. Should have broken something open inside you. But instead, all you felt was tired. It was just another cruel thing—like the universe had held out this card all these years and now decided to slap it on the table, just a moment too late. Too late for answers. Too late for mother. Too late for care.

And now you were being told you were going into foster care. Sixteen, nearly grown, and they wanted to shove you into a stranger’s house with new rules and new sadness. No. You weren’t going to let that happen. You didn’t care if Alan Rickman was a world-famous actor or a cardboard cut-out. You needed him to sign a paper. That’s all.

So that’s how you found yourself on a bus to London, the photo in your backpack and your mother’s letter folded three times in your coat pocket. The city greeted you with its usual indifference—grey skies, busy people, the smell of wet stone. You had no plan, no address. Just the name of a theatre company and the hope that, if you looked desperate enough, someone might point you in the right direction.

You didn’t want anything from him—not affection, not apologies. You weren’t chasing a fantasy, you just needed to stay out of the system, you needed a signature. Just that.

But deep down, in the smallest part of yourself—the part you still hadn’t drowned—there was a question you hadn’t dared ask.

Would he look at you and know? Would he see your mother in your face? Would he feel anything at all? You didn't know, not yet.

People didn’t take you seriously at the theater company. A possible daughter of Alan Rickman? They laughed.

Not cruelly. Not to your face, anyway. It was the kind of laughter people used to soften disbelief—like you’d just told them you were descended from royalty or aliens or someone who mattered. One woman with a clipboard blinked at you for a long second, then gave you a smile so polished it almost squeaked. “We get all sorts, love,” she said kindly, but with a tone that meant run along now. Another man, older, with round glasses and a frayed scarf, muttered something about “fans” and the things they’d do for “a glimpse.”

You’d left with hot cheeks and your jaw tight, humiliated and furious.

You weren’t his fan, damn it.

You didn’t want an autograph. You didn’t want to breathe the same air or see the ghost of Sheriff of Nottingham or Hans Gruber or whatever role he was playing these days. You didn’t want to fall to your knees in reverent worship like the girls outside the back entrance who clutched flowers and notebooks and phone cameras like they were holy relics.

You didn’t even want to know him.

Why would you want to be a fan of someone who had never been to a single birthday? Someone who had never sent a card, or a letter, or a scrap of money when the electricity was cut off in winter and you and your mother spent a week wrapped in coats and shame? What kind of idiot wanted to admire that?

No. You weren’t a fan. You were a problem that had finally arrived at his doorstep with a name and a photograph and a law that said if you were really his, he owed you something.

And right now, you were sitting on a park bench with the wind stabbing at your cheeks, biting into a sandwich that tasted like wet paper, trying to keep from crying.

You sighed, staring down at the half-eaten thing in your hands. Ham and margarine, maybe. Cheap bread that stuck to the roof of your mouth. You chewed anyway.

You knew Alan Rickman was going to perform at the theatre one day. The posters were everywhere—plastered onto lampposts and the sides of buildings, smoothed across tube walls like they were announcing the second coming. Alan Rickman in rehearsal now… limited run… book early. Some play you’d never heard of, something that sounded elegant and tragic and expensive.

Tickets cost more than you had in your pocket.

Hell, shelter cost more than you had in your pocket.

You’d spent half of what you owned on the bus fare to London, the rest on this sandwich and a bottle of water you were already rationing like it was liquid gold. You’d considered finding a hostel, but that would burn through the last of your coins in a single night, and then you’d have nothing. Nothing but pavement and cold air and that stupid letter folded in your coat like a prayer you weren’t sure you believed in anymore.

So you'd decided.

You’d sleep on the street. Save up what little you could. Skip meals if you had to. Wait outside the theater until the night of the performance, until the lights went down and the curtain dropped and the crowd came pouring out in expensive perfume and soft murmurs.

You’d wait.

And when he walked out—when Alan Rickman, actor, stranger, maybe-father, finally stepped into the London night—you’d be there. You’d walk right up to him. You’d show him the photograph. You’d hand him the letter.

You didn’t care if he laughed.

You didn’t care if he sneered, or denied, or walked away.

All you needed was his signature on a form. A signature that said you were no longer the government’s problem. That you could be your own problem, and no one else’s. Maybe, if you were really feeling reckless, you’d ask him for money for a return ticket. Or a meal. Or a coat.

Would he at least give you that?

Probably not, you thought bitterly, shoving the last bite of sandwich into your mouth. But you’d ask. And if he didn’t—well, fuck it. You’d find a way.

You always found a way. Even if this time, it meant waiting in the rain, invisible and shaking, with nothing but a coat that didn’t zip and a mother’s ghost at your side.

That’s what you did the next night.

You waited. The air was colder than before, the sky darker somehow, pressing in with that thick, heavy London damp that seeped into your socks and your spine. You stood outside the theatre with your coat zipped as far as it would go and your hands stuffed into your sleeves. Around you, a small crowd gathered—mostly women, some men, clutching programmes and pens and hopeful smiles.

They weren’t here to change their lives.

They just wanted a piece of him.

You didn’t expect so many. Not on a weeknight. Not in the cold. But there they were—dozens of them, all eager for a glimpse, a signature, a photo. Eager for a bit of Alan Rickman. They whispered excitedly to each other, some clutching cameras, others reciting favourite lines under their breath like prayers. The kind of devotion you’d never known from anyone, not even your own mother in her final months.

And then the doors opened.

Other actors came out first—cheerful, gracious, easily missed. But then he stepped through.

Alan Rickman.

You froze.

There was no thunder, no dramatic cue, no orchestral swell. But still—it felt like something cracked open. There he was, larger than life and somehow smaller too, wrapped in a long black coat, a scarf looped lazily around his neck, a slight stoop to his tall frame that made him look both exhausted and eternal.

God, he was tall. And his nose—crooked and sharp, exactly like the one you hated seeing in the mirror.

You stared.

And then you stared some more.

You must’ve been frozen too long, because someone pushed past you, and then another. A few elbows caught your ribs, a bag clipped your arm, someone’s perfume filled your throat. People were shouting now—“Alan! Alan, over here!”—shoving programmes and cameras forward like offerings.

You blinked, snapped back to yourself.

Right. This wasn't a dream, this wasn't fate, this wasn't about any of that.

You weren't here to worship; you were here for a name. You pushed through the crowd, the photograph clenched in your hand so tight it crumpled at the corners. “Excuse me—sorry—I need to talk to him—” but no one heard. No one cared. They were all too busy smiling and gasping and crying over the man in the middle.

Alan was patient. Smiling. Signing things with quick flicks of his wrist. Someone handed him a box of chocolates. Someone else gave him a book. Another woman, breathless and beaming, reached out and touched his coat like it was holy fabric. He didn’t flinch. Just kept signing, kept charming, kept nodding with that easy half-smile of his, like all of this meant nothing and everything at once.

And still, you pushed forward.

You tried to speak—“Mr. Rickman, please—”—but your voice was too soft. It was swallowed whole by the chorus of desperate strangers calling his name.

So you did the only thing you could.

You held out the photograph.

The one of him and your mother, dated 1975, her smile so soft, so young. You held it in front of him, pointing, praying he’d look.

He didn’t.

His eyes didn’t flick down. His brows didn’t crease. His voice didn’t falter. He took the photo like it was any other, scrawled his name across the front in that fast, practiced script—“Much love, Alan Rickman”—and handed it back to you before moving on to the next outstretched hand.

You stared at it.

At the impossible thing in your fingers—his signature across the only proof you had that he’d ever known your mother.

He hadn’t even looked.

A laugh caught in your throat, but it wasn’t laughter. It was something uglier. Something hollow. You looked up at him—still smiling, still surrounded, still adored. This man who might be your father. This man who hadn’t seen you.

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or laugh until your ribs cracked.

Instead, you just stood there, invisible in the crowd, clutching the signed photo like it meant something. Like he meant something.

You’d come all this way for a signature. And he’d given you one.

Just not the right kind.

And maybe that was the most perfect thing of all. Because that was your life, wasn’t it? A little too late. A little too wrong. A little too quiet for anyone to notice.

You crumpled the photo in your fist.

You bastard. He would never give you anything. Not time, not attention, not even a goddamn glance. You could’ve been invisible. You were invisible. Just another hand in the crowd, another fan, another face.

No. He didn’t even bother to look. Or maybe—maybe he did. Maybe he looked right at you, right into your mother’s eyes in her face, and still chose to turn away.

Your breath hitched, your vision swimming with tears and fury and cold. You didn’t even know what you were doing until your hands were in his coat, grabbing, shaking, pulling.

“You bastard!” you screamed, your voice hoarse, feral, “You don’t get to pretend—you don’t get to walk out here and smile and sign your fucking name like you’re some goddamn hero!”

Alan Rickman staggered back, eyes wide behind the soft fall of his scarf, hands up in alarm. The crowd gasped—someone shouted for security—but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care. You were breaking in half, and he was standing there, rich and warm and well-fed and safe.

“Do you know how many birthdays I prayed for a father?” you sobbed, still clutching his coat like it could anchor you to something real. “How many nights I watched my mother cry herself to sleep because we didn’t have heat, because we didn’t have hope?”

He looked stunned. Silent. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he never did.

“You had everything,” you shouted. “And I had nothing. Nothing but her. And now she’s gone and all I wanted was a signature! Just a fucking name on a piece of paper so I wouldn’t get tossed into some stranger’s house—”

That was when the guard grabbed you.

You twisted in their grip, still shouting, still crying, the photo still crushed in your fist. You fought like your life depended on it, like something inside you had snapped and was spilling out unchecked.

“You could’ve saved us!” you screamed. “You could’ve called! Cared! You knew her—you knew her! And you left!”

“Miss—let go—”

“I HATE YOU!” you shrieked, wrenching an arm free long enough to hurl the photo at his chest. It hit him, bounced off, fluttered to the pavement like something shamed and small. He flinched.

And then they pulled you away—dragging you back through the crowd, people staring and whispering and filming on phones, too stunned or too entertained to help. Another guard stepped in, blocking Alan from view, shielding him like you were dangerous.

Maybe you were.

Maybe grief was.

Alan didn’t move at first.

He just stood there—heart hammering, chest rising and falling, scarf askew, the crowd’s voices buzzing like gnats in the background. He was still staring at the ground where the photo lay, half-trampled, smudged from your hand, the ink of his careless autograph bleeding at the edges.

He stooped, slowly, and picked it up.

And that was when his breath caught.

The smile faded completely. The tension in his shoulders changed—not fear, not confusion. Something deeper. Something older.

Because he recognized her.

The girl in the photo wasn’t a stranger.

She was her.

She was—her.

His hand trembled slightly as he turned it over, saw the writing on the back. Her handwriting. Neat. Nervous.

“Me and Alan. 1975.”

The sound around him blurred. The guards were speaking—“Mr. Rickman, sir, this way, please, car’s ready”—but he barely heard them. His eyes were scanning the crowd, frantic now, sharp, searching.

“Where is she?” he asked, breath low, rough.

“Sir?”

“The girl. The one who threw this.”

“Escorted off, sir. She's being—"

“Stop them.”

“Sir?”

“Stop them. Bring her back.”

The man hesitated—clearly torn between protocol and a very sudden shift in priorities—but Alan Rickman didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. His baritone dropped into that dangerous register people usually only heard on stage.

And the man ran.

Alan stood there, the photograph clenched in his hand, the world shifting beneath him. Because now he wasn’t just a stranger in a crowd. Now he had a question ringing in his ribs, one louder than anything he’d said in tonight’s performance.

Was that my daughter?

And if it was…

What the hell had he done?

Alan didn’t even realize he was back inside the theatre until the heavy door clicked shut behind him. The noise of the crowd fell away like the end of a dream. He was standing in the wings now, the warm scent of old velvet and stage dust rising around him, the soft shuffle of crew members moving equipment in the background. But he didn’t see them. Didn’t register the quiet voices asking if he was alright. Didn’t notice the coat someone tried to drape around his shoulders.

He just stood there.

Still holding the photo.

Still staring at her face—her face from 1975. That damned summer. Her eyes, her smile, the way she curled slightly into him like she always used to when she was laughing. The girl in the photograph had been everything once. And then—nothing.

He hadn’t meant to leave like that. God, he hadn’t meant to vanish. But ambition was loud and youth was selfish. He’d chased theatre like a drowning man clings to breath. Came to London with a suitcase and twenty pounds and the arrogance of someone who believed love could wait.

It hadn’t waited.

They’d fought—ugly, stupid, loud. He remembered her standing in the rain, soaked to the skin, telling him not to come back if he walked away. And he had. He walked away. Thought he’d write. Thought he’d call.

He didn’t.

He meant to. At first.

But then roles happened. Auditions. Failures. More auditions. Life pulled him under. By the time he’d tried to track her down again, she was gone. No address. No phone. No trace.

Eventually, he stopped looking.

And now…

Now there was a girl. A girl who could be hers. A girl who was hers. Her voice, her fury, her grief—it had been like listening to a ghost yell through her own child’s mouth.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, still staring at the photograph, fingers smudging the ink of his own careless autograph.

Until he heard it.

“I’m sorry for attacking you.”

Alan blinked, looked up. You were there. Flanked by two security guards, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, your shoulders hunched like you were trying to be smaller than you were. One of the guards gave a soft nudge, and you stepped forward, clearing your throat.

“I was hungry,” you added bluntly. “Makes me stupid. And aggressive.”

Something flickered in Alan’s expression. A smile, barely there. “That’s a refreshingly honest diagnosis.”

You looked at him, blinking. His voice was so different in person—richer, deeper, like warm gravel. And his eyes… his eyes were the same colour as yours.

The moment held too long. Too quiet. Too strange.

And then the door creaked shut behind you, and it was just the two of you, the silence thick with something raw and unspoken.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. You reached into your coat and yanked out the crumpled paper—the emancipation form. You strode forward, slammed it down onto the nearby table, smoothed it with shaking fingers.

“There,” you said. “That’s what I want. One signature. That’s it.”

Alan stared at it. Then at you.

You kept going, voice hard, a practiced speech tumbling out. “You sign that, and I’ll be gone. You won’t have to see me again. You won’t have to worry about headlines or stories or some bastard daughter marching through your beautiful career. I don’t care who you are to anyone else. I’m not here to ruin your life.”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“I just… need to not go into foster care.”

Silence.

Alan didn’t say anything. His eyes were still on your face.

It made you squirm.

“What?” you snapped. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked, his voice quiet. “You have my nose.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Thanks. I got the ugliest part of you.”

Alan huffed a laugh—soft, surprised. “It’s not ugly. It’s… distinctive.”

You gave him a look, unimpressed. “It’s a beak.”

He smiled at that, something flickering behind his eyes—amusement, yes, but also something else. Something deeper. Something unsteady.

“You really do look like her,” he said, his voice lowering. “The mouth. The face. You even stand like her—like you’re ready to hit someone if they get too close.”

You folded your arms. “Funny. Maybe I am.”

Alan stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

You flinched. “Yeah, right.”

“I didn’t.” His voice was firmer now, but not angry. Just true. “If I had known… God, if I had even suspected—”

“She left you?” you interrupted.

Alan's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “We both did,” he said quietly. “In different ways. But I never… I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You stared at him, trying to read the truth in his face. It was hard. His voice was so calm. But there was something tight around his mouth. Something haunted in his eyes.

“I would’ve found her,” he said. “I tried to find her.”

“Not hard enough,” you muttered.

“Maybe not,” he admitted.

There was a pause. You looked away, blinking fast, your throat burning. Alan watched you for a moment, then picked up the paper from the table.

“This what you want?”

You nodded. “I don’t want money. Or help. Or hugs. I just want to not belong to the state.”

Alan looked at the form. Then at you.

He stepped to the desk. Took out a pen from his coat. Clicked it.

Then stopped.

“You said you’re sixteen?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. Looked at the paper again. Then slowly, carefully, signed his name.

When he was done, he placed the pen down.

“You have it now,” he said. “Your freedom.”

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t smile. You just took the paper, folded it, and shoved it back into your coat. You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

You stopped. Alan’s voice was softer now. “Do you have somewhere to go tonight?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “You said you didn’t want money. Fine. But I don’t… I can’t let you go sleep on the street.”

“Why not?” you whispered. “You did it for sixteen years.”

That hit him like a slap. His face twisted with something ugly and helpless. “I didn’t know,” he said again. “And I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

You said nothing. And Alan Rickman—tall, revered, elegant—stood in front of you, looking suddenly smaller. Older. Human.

“Let me put you up somewhere,” he said. “Just one night. You don’t owe me anything. I just… I need to know you’re safe.”

You hesitated.

“Please,” he added.

And for the first time, he looked like a man who was afraid. Not of you—but of losing you.

You nodded. Once. Barely.

Alan exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for sixteen years. He offered you his coat. You didn't take it, but you walked beside him when he led you out the side door into the night.

And maybe… just maybe…

It wasn’t too late after all.

Alan drove you to his house in silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence that asked for conversation. It was thick. Tense. The kind of silence that fills up the space between strangers who suddenly have too much history and not enough language to carry it.

You stared out the window most of the way, fingers curled into the sleeves of your coat. The rain had started again—light, persistent, just enough to blur the London streets into watercolour. Alan didn’t speak. But he kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he was trying to memorize the shape of your profile. Like he’d missed the first sixteen years and was trying to catch up all at once.

His house was nicer than you expected—not lavish, not cold, but clean and book-heavy. The kind of place where every corner looked like someone had once paused there with tea and a thought. Tall shelves. Dark furniture. Curtains that actually matched. You stood in the hallway awkwardly, soaking slightly, your hands stuffed into your pockets, while Alan hung up his coat and then just… watched you.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he said, “I have food.”

You followed him into the kitchen.

There were leftovers in the fridge—some kind of roasted vegetables, cold chicken, a few potatoes in a pan. You didn’t wait for an invitation. You didn’t ask. You just sat at the table and started eating. Fast. Focused. Not messy—but with the quiet urgency of someone who hadn’t had a warm meal in days and didn’t trust this one wouldn’t be taken away.

Alan stood at the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether he was heartbroken or fascinated. Maybe both.

When your fork scraped the bottom of the plate, you hesitated—then pushed it slightly forward. Not quite asking. Not quite done.

Alan took it. Wordless. Refilled it. Brought it back.

You ate more slowly this time. Still quiet. Still watchful. But you were chewing, not inhaling. That counted as trust.

“You eat like me,” Alan said suddenly, his voice low, wry. “Always have. My mother used to say I attacked food like it owed me money.”

You didn’t look up. Just mumbled, “It kind of does.”

He huffed a laugh at that—quick, dry, surprised by the truth of it. The next few minutes passed with only the sound of your chewing and the occasional clink of fork against plate. Then—

“You’re staring,” you said, not unkindly, eyes still on your food.

Alan blinked. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I suppose not,” he muttered, running a hand over the back of his neck. “But I’ve always been annoyingly well-mannered.”

You glanced up at that. Your lip twitched. He noticed.

He tilted his head slightly. “Was that a smile?”

“Maybe.”

“Good,” he said, quietly. “You have hers.”

You looked back down at your plate.

He cleared his throat. “When… when did she pass?”

You didn’t even pause your chewing. “Month ago.”

Alan’s fingers twitched slightly on the edge of the counter. He nodded once. Slowly. “I see.”

“Leukemia,” you added around a mouthful of potato. “Quick. Ugly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Another pause.

“Did she ever talk about me?”

You swallowed.

“No.”

Alan’s jaw flexed. “I see.”

You wiped your mouth with your sleeve. “I found out on my own. There was a tin. You know. A biscuit tin. Blue. The kind that always lies about being full of actual biscuits.”

“I know the one.”

“There was a picture inside. Of you. With her. And a letter. She never sent it. But she wrote your name.”

Alan didn’t speak for a while. He just leaned against the doorway, hazel eyes far away. When he finally said something, his voice was quieter.

“She said once that I’d break her heart if I left.”

You stabbed a piece of carrot. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe that’s why.”

Another silence. This one less sharp. Less cold. You were both sitting in the middle of a broken thing, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were enemies.

Alan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you finish the last of your food with that same quiet focus you’d had since arriving. The plate was nearly empty now, your fork resting on its edge. You hadn’t said much—not after the story of the biscuit tin, not after the picture.

But something had changed.

He could feel it. Like a pane of fogged glass between you both was starting to clear. Alan stepped forward slowly, the soft creak of the old floorboards betraying his hesitation. His voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it. Still baritone, still steady—but careful now. Like it had weight, and he was trying not to drop it on you.

“You can stay, if you want.”

You didn’t look at him.

So he kept going, his fingers tightening slightly on the back of a chair.

“I mean… this house. It’s yours if you need it. I can—” He paused, frowning slightly, then exhaled. “I can take care of you. If you’ll let me.”

Your gaze dropped to the table, lashes lowering, jaw tight.

Alan’s voice softened further. “I won’t reject you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Still, you didn’t look up. Not yet. But your fingers curled inward, like you were holding yourself in.

“You don’t have to call me ‘dad’ or anything,” he added quickly, almost stumbling over the word. “Christ, you don’t even have to like me. But… let me do the right thing, now. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Alan stepped closer, more confident now, his voice warmer, steadier—drawing on that quiet gravity he always carried onstage but rarely used off it.

“You’ve done enough surviving. Let someone else do the heavy lifting for once.”

That's when you finally looked up at him. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You weren't crying. Not yet, but close.

“I used to be jealous,” you said, your voice hoarse, quiet. “Of the other girls at school. The ones who had dads who picked them up, who came to parent night, who… who sent sandwiches instead of coins in an envelope.”

Alan didn’t speak. Just listened.

You swallowed hard. “They used to make us draw our families in primary. For Father’s Day. I never had anyone to draw. So I drew a house. A stupid little house with a chimney, and told the teacher my dad lived far away, but he sent letters. I was seven. I made up letters.”

The silence in the room shifted. Thickened. You weren’t angry anymore—you were breaking.

You kept going. “Some of the kids figured it out. They laughed. Said I was too ugly to have a dad. Said even he didn’t want me.”

Alan inhaled sharply. Not loudly—but it was there. Like something inside him had folded in half.

You sniffed. Your fingers curled tighter. “So I stopped drawing. I stopped asking. I just… got on with it.”

Alan stepped closer, slowly, like approaching something delicate—something precious that might bolt or shatter if he moved too fast.

He reached across the table, resting his hand lightly atop yours.

“Daughter,” he said.

The word broke something.

Your fork clattered onto the plate, and you slapped your hands to your face—hard, as if trying to hold everything in. But the tears came anyway, streaming between your fingers, fast and hot and unrelenting.

Alan didn’t hesitate.

He walked around the table and pulled you to your feet, arms wrapping around you with the kind of certainty that didn’t ask permission. He held you, tight and warm and unshaking, his chin resting gently against your hair as you wept into his chest, your small frame trembling in his arms.

“My daughter,” he whispered again, and it was a prayer this time. “My daughter. My girl.”

You clung to him like you were drowning. Like he was the only solid thing in a world that had always asked too much and given too little.

He didn’t let go.

He didn’t want to let go.

His eyes were wet too, though he’d never admit it aloud. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped tight around your shoulders, and for the first time in your life, you felt what it meant to be held without expectation. Without condition.

Just held.

Alan Rickman—your father—held you while you cried.

And nothing had ever felt more real.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader

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claypigeonpottery · 4 months ago

Text

FAQ

(I figured it was about time to make one of these)

What is the name of the technique you use for decorating pottery?

this technique is called sgraffito.

It's made by painting a piece of pottery with underglaze or coloured slip, and then carving through it to reveal the white clay underneath. it is similar to linocut, but slightly more forgiving, since you don't need to make prints of it.

this piece shows two techniques:

the fine black lines were created using an inlay technique called mishima, where the piece is coated in wax and then a fine line is carved through the wax and into the clay. Underglaze is brushed over it and wiped away, and the underglaze will stay in the fine lines, but be wiped neatly off the wax.

and the colour is from underglaze painting. Underglaze is a food safe paint for ceramics. They can be used a lot like acrylics, though they definitely have a few quirks of their own.

What tools do you use for sgraffito?

My favourite is Kemper’s wire stylus, but I also like Xiem’s ribbon tools

here's a little video about them if you want a more in-depth look

Do you sketch your designs out before carving them?

Yes, 99% of the time, though I do sometimes vary from my sketches once I start carving. I also press them into the clay to give myself a guideline to follow

Do you use references?

Yes, almost always.

What kind of clay do you use?

Tucker’s M370 white clay, Plainsman porcelain white, PSH red, and PSH dark granite.

Do you take commissions?

Yes, you can check my commission slots to see if I have an opening. Also please read my commission details post.

I live on a different continent, can your ceramics be safely shipped to me?

Yes, I’ve shipped to a few different continents and my break rate is under 1%. BUT if there is an issue and your piece is damaged, please tell me so I can try to make it right!

Can I get a tattoo of one of your designs?

Go for it, and please send me pictures! I’d love that.

Can I make a patch/sticker/pin of one of your designs?

Absolutely. I’d rather they not be mass produced but if you’re making them for you and your friends I’m fine with that! (and I might ask you to make one for me too lol)

Can I make art like/based off of one of your pieces?

Yes, and I’d love to see it!

Can I use a picture of your art for an icon/an aesthetic post/etc?

Absolutely, go for it! I’d appreciate if you give me credit if possible, or tag me in the post

Do you mind if I tag your work with my OC/my blorbos/OTP/etc?

I don’t mind at all!

Do you mind if I tag your sculptures “furry”?

Not at all! Some of them are more furry than others, but however you want to tag them, I don’t mind

#ask #FAQ #frequently asked questions

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aphroditeinthesea · 1 year ago

Note

I love your work so much omg 😭 🙏🏻 you’re such a good writer 🫶��

I saw you were looking for requests 👀 and I was wondering if you’d be willingly to do Leo Valdez x f!reader where they are kinda rivals (yk they just bicker all the time) both working on the argo together or making weapons with a team in the forge. But then some guy joins their team and starts mansplaining the basic equipment. There’s just situation after situation where the reader will explain something to the guy and he won’t listen but then the second Leo says it he gets it. And at first Leo kinda notices but just thinks it’s because he’s in charge and stuff. At some point though he overhears the guy showing her how to do something (the wrong way) and he’s like “yo back off man, she knows what she’s doing”. Maybe he even protects her from open flames when the guy almost burns her handling the equipment wrong (something she’d told him a million times before)?? Maybe both happen idk?? The two just become close after that and he ends up confessing or something

Sorry about how much I wrote 😭 your request rules said you liked the requests to be specific and I wasn’t sure how in-depth to write… so if that’s too much you can totally take a bunch of it out lol (I work with power tools because I’m an arts major and I’ve had so many guys trying to explain basic power tools to me… so this has been on my mind for MONTHSSS)

“ i’m a feminist, obviously (but i wouldn’t really mind him saving me) ”

leo valdez x fem!reader 🔨

⚠️ o/c being creepy, mansplaining, almost getting set on fire

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

“That’s not,” Y/N stormed over to the boy. She grabbed the wrench out of his hands and began turning it, “righty tighty, lefty loosey.”

“What did you just say to me?” He scoffed.

“You were turning your wrench the wrong way, Valdez,” she replied, handing the tool back to him.

He grabbed it from her, crossing his arms, “for your information, that’s exactly how I wanted it.”

She rolled her eyes, “did you sleep, like at all?”

“A little.”

She huffed, “get some sleep, I’ll clean up.”

“No,” he defended, “I just need to finish this up-”

“If you try to use power tools why you're half asleep, you'll end up getting yourself killed,” she grabbed the wrench from him again, “and you know who’ll have to clean up your dead body? Me, and that’s gross.”

“You're too good to me.”

“Fuck off.”

He chuckled, wiping his forehead, “okay, fine. I’m heading out.”

“Bye,” she waved him off.

“See you later, sweet cheeks.”

“Shut up!”

He closed the door of bunker nine behind him, leaving her alone. She sighed with relief, tightening a few loose screws.

She hummed to herself as she began cleaning the mess around her. She picked up some tools, placing them back on their shelves.

“Nice song.”

She jumped at the voice. She turned around to see a boy standing by the stairs. “What are you doing?”

“I’m Marcus,” he replied, walking closer to her, causing her to slowly back up, “son of Hermes.”

“Well, what are you doing here?”

He put a hand on the ship, “heard you're working on this Argo thing, figured I could give a few pointers.”

She grabbed a toolbox, quickly walking away, “we don't need any help, thanks though.”

“Come on,” he smiled, following her, “you can always use some help, the more the merrier, right?”

“Take it up with Leo,” she answered, avoiding eye contact with her. She rushed to collect her things and made an escape to the door.

“I’ll walk you back.”

“I’m fine,” she sighed, opening the door and walking out.

She almost forgot about the incident the next day when she walked into the bunker. She found Leo with an annoyed look on his face, digging through a toolbox.

“What’s up with you, Bernard?” She commented as she walked towards the son of Hephaestus. She knew it was a stupid name, but she did love how much he hated it. She also loved the fact that he didn't understand it (she started using it more after finding out he had never seen the Santa Clause movies).

He sighed, “Mr. Macho over there,” he nodded his head toward the boy from the night before playing with a blowtorch. “He convinced Chiron that he should be working on this, too.”

She scrunched her face, “he gives me the creeps.”

“You know him?”

“He came in here last night after you left,” she explained, “I think he has a thing for me or something.”

Leo’s face tensed, his fist clenching around the hammer he held, “you think?”

“Hope not.” She took a deep breath before walking past the tall boy to grab some extra wood.

“Hey,” he grinned at her, “miss me?”

She forced a smile, walking away from him, “you know it.” She cursed herself for trying so hard to be nice to the little fucker, but she really didnt feel like starting something right then.

The day went on with her desperately trying to ignore his comments towards her. She found herself staying by Leo’s side in hopes that Marcus would think they were dating. As much as the idea grossed her out, it was better than some weirdo thinking he had a chance with her.

“I’m gonna head out,” Marcus mentioned, wiping off his hands with a rag.

“Bye,” Leo spoke flatly. Y/N stayed silent but let out a breath of relief when the boy walked out.

Leo looked up at her, noticing her change in demeanor, “are you okay?”

“What?” She met his eyes, “yeah, yeah,” she nodded, “I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow, “are you sure? Because I can figure out a way to get him out of here, if you want?”

She shook her head, “thanks, Leo. But, I’m fine, really.”

“Okay,” he breathed out before looking back to continue what he was doing.

She grabbed the blowtorch Marcus had formerly been using. She began using it (i don't know how they work i’m sorry), when Marcus walked back into the bunker, he immediately rushed over to her.

She rolled her eyes as he wrapped his hands around hers, “you're using it wrong.”

“I don't think I am.”

“No, you hold it like this-”

“She knows what she’s doing,” Leo called over.

Marcus just shook his head, “see when you do this,” soon the flames blew back towards them. Marcus threw the blowtorch down in the direction of Y/N in a panic. The flames spewed out and before Y/N could react, she felt herself pulled into a corner, tanned arms wrapped around her.

“What’s the matter with you?!” Leo yelled, his arms tightening.

“Look, it was her fault,” the son of Hermes motioned his hand towards the girl.

“Are you kidding? Since she’s been here, nobody’s almost died (italic). Then the second you walk in you almost turn her into toast!”

She nervously sighed. She slowly reached her hands up to hold onto his forearms, brushing her thumb against his skin.

“You shouldn't have a girl working on this in the first place, there's no way she knows anything about this!”

Leo took a deep breath before yelling once again, “get out!”

“What?” The boy scoffed.

“Get out!”

Her heart rate quickened. Despite all her fighting with him, she had never seen him this angry. She watched as Marcus shook his head before stomping out of the bunker.

Leo’s grip on her loosened, letting turn around to look at him, “are you okay?” He asked, briefly looking her up and down for any wounds.

She nodded, “I’m okay,” she looked up at his face, yet avoiding eye contact, “thank you.”

He softly smiled down at her, “yeah, well, that guy was an ass.”

She giggled, nodding in agreement.

“Don't worry, I’ll set him on fire next time I see him.”

She wrapped her arms around his torso, “thanks, really.”

“Of course,” he nestled his nose into her hair, “if anything happened to you, I think I would have actually killed him.”

“Good to know.”

#leo valdez x you #leo valdez #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez fanfic #leo valdez imagine #leo valdez fluff #protective!leo #percy jackson #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians

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vershl · 1 year ago

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Okay I think I made y'all wait long enough LOL

SORRY THEY'RE ALL UNCLOTHED BTW, I HAVENT FIGURED OUT OUTFITS YET- 💀

I don't really have a lot to share tbh in terms of lore/plans. This AU is very VERY fresh in my brain atm. But I will fill in some details for you guys so you somewhat/mostly understand the current characters I have for now.

---

Shadow

He is a red diamond (ultimate lifeform yada yada), and as stated, a "blood" diamond. I mean this somewhat in modern terms, but not entirely. In real life, diamonds mined in a war zone and sold to fund the costs, hence "blood". In this case; Shadow was created by the other diamonds (primarily white) as a weapon, the plan was to have a gem on equal footing in terms of strength and power that they could order around to do their bidding and do their dirty work.

Clearly, that didn't work out the way they wanted. Shadow pretended to be obedient, following white, and the other diamond's orders. He shattered other gems for whatever reason the diamonds deemed fit (among other things I haven't decided on yet), only doing so to avoid the risk of being deemed defective and shattered himself, or the gem being shattered regardless by someone else.. he at least knew he could give them a swift end without pain.

Once Shadow gained the diamonds trust to wander around as he pleased, the moment no one was looking, he stole a ship and left Homeworld. Going as far as he could into the universe until he found Mobius and crash landed there. It wasn't very long before Sonic found him, and eventually became allies, inviting Shadow into the Crystal Gems, to which he accepted, and chose the name 'Shadow'. He didn't want to be called 'Red' or 'Red Diamond' anymore. He was free now. (This is as far as I got with him, sorry y'all HAHA)

Sonic

Sonic is a yellow prism in the shape of an isotoxal star (the yellow is a nod to super Sonic). In my AU, because offical SU lore with gems is relatively limited, different colored gems even if of the same type, give different abilities/powers. In Sonic's case, yellow prisms give the ability of super speed, because of course, and he chose his name based on that fact as well.

Lore wise with Sonic-- He's the leader of the Crystal Gems (makes more sense considering the CG's signature symbol is a yellow star, so I just ran with that but changed the normal star to the isotoxal). But that's all I have for him.

the rest of these characters have 0 lore at all, i will just try to explain their gems a bit- sorry

Amy

Amy is a Mimetite, a heart stone which helps with emotional stability, inner balance, serenity, joy, and adventure (according to google). Because Amy is basically canonically that 'therapy' friend, mimetite fits perfectly with her personality. As you can see, there are only a few designs that have weapons currently, Amy's being obvious because it's her signature weapon and just works here in the AU as well.

Tails

Tails is a yellow peridot, it's obvious why, and I don't need to elaborate LOL. There isn't much different between peridot colors, it's more-so personality traits than abilities. Green peridots are quite egotistical and arrogant in themselves, while yellow peridots are more adventurous and selfless.

Knuckles

Sorry for his naked hands btw. Honestly, I don't think I have to explain why Knuckles is a garnet. It just tracks. (Reminder that in the show, Garnet isn't a real garnet, it's just what she decided to call herself. In this case, Knuckles IS a real garnet.) Is his signature gem weapon gauntlets/gloves, yes. Did I steal the idea from Garnet? Shut up. :] Besides, Knuckles needed his usual gloves somehow, and he fights by punching shit anyway, so why not? Star on the back of the gloves ofc for obvious reasons.

Rouge

GOD this stupid bat bitch, aaaanyway, ahem. In my AU beryls are information gatherers, either by stealing it or manipulating their way into obtaining it. Beryls are generally under diamond control and report back to their assigned diamond with information they demand for, obviously Rouge is part of the Crystal Gems, so she gathers information for them. And more often than not...is her usual self, and snoops around, digging up dirty secrets/information about her comrades and teases them to no end with it (Shadow being her favorite to torment for... reasons.)

Silver

I chose Silver to be a sapphire simply because of the fact that in the Sonic universe, he can time travel. So instead of time travel in this Steven Universe AU, he gets future vision. I mean it works, right?

Blaze

We can talk about her gem right.. right? It's really tasty and I want to eat it. So; opals are very, VERY rare (which fits with her whole being a princess thing or whatever). She was originally going to be a fire opal... that is until I found out about dragon's breath opals and changed my mind. Blaze is an absurdly rare gem, who knows, maybe even the only one of her cut. :]

Her gem gives her the ability to control fire as a weapon, and her unique cut gives her fire more power as well as makes the flames an unusual pinkish hue.

---

And that's everyone for now! I'm doing some little doodles that I might post a bit later on to compile together, but you can have the two I made of Shadow for now. eats him

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dustmusings · 8 months ago

Text

oldest trick in the book

Hardcase x F!Reader

word count: 3.4k

description: you've been secretly pranking hardcase as payback for a prank he pulled on you, but this time he catches you in the act

warnings/tags: friends to lovers I suppose, hardcase is a smug little shit at the beginning & a little bit adhd-coded, reader is described as shy/anxious and potentially also neurodivergent in some way but I wasn't writing it to be like that on purpose am I telling on myself? I feel like this is very cheesy lol

a/n: alright. I wouldn’t say this is my best work but I just needed to get it out of my system. this definitely took a more sweet turn than I was anticipating, probably because I didn't plan it at all and just pulled it outta my ass. I blame @ghostymarni making me thirst for this man to a concerning degree

masterlist | join my taglist | read on ao3

Perhaps if anyone knew what you were doing, they’d think it was weird, and honestly, maybe it was.

You tiptoed into the barracks, your footfalls light and ear reaching out in search of any noises. You knew there shouldn’t be anyone in here at this time, but it didn’t stop you being cautious. After all, that was how you had kept this operation going so long.

Not entirely sure which bunk was the one you were searching for, you tried to look for any identifying items. A pack of smokes? He didn’t seem the type. Hairbands? Definitely not, that one most likely belonged to Tup. A pile of laundry? Could well be his. Among other things, you knew Hardcase could be messy, something you had picked up on in your time studying him, figuring out his daily routine. It was much the same as the other clones, naturally, but in watching him you’d realised just how different from them he was.

As strange as this all sounded, you didn’t start it. At least, that was how you rationalised what you were doing.

Hardcase was a known prankster aboard the Resolute. Him and a few of his brothers, namely Fives, filled their spare time by terrorising the rest of the crew, and you were not immune. You had been burned by them on several occasions, and the most recent was a tipping point for you.

That time, it had been just Hardcase, and he had made you look a fool in front of your employees. You were the head technician aboard the venator, and standing in front of your team, giving a briefing without being privy to the ‘kick me’ sign stuck to your back, was not something you had been pleased about. It was especially irritating as you were still relatively new in the role at the time, and to have your leadership put into question, being a little shy to begin with, did more damage to your confidence that Hardcase probably realised.

So, you had been pranking Hardcase back. They weren’t so much proper pranks as harmless inconveniences for him, but in any case, it was a satisfying form of payback. Most of the time you’d steal his things only for them to ‘turn up’ in the strangest of places, none where you could be implicated, and other times you arranged little situations designed to embarrass him.

The only problem with that was that he refused to be embarrassed, and honestly you admired him for it. His ability to brush off jokes at his expense was commendable, and made you feel like a spiteful cynic for reacting in the way you had to his admittedly innocent prank. Though, you were having too much fun with it now to stop. You knew you were safe from him suspecting you, considering he probably just saw you as the quiet ship tech who he liked to bother when he was back on the Resolute, and he was yet to mention it if he did.

So here you were, rifling through the drawers beside his bunk for something you could steal or use to your advantage. You opened the final draw and your lips curled into a grin as you saw the only item inside: his music player and headphones. You had stolen them before, and remember him being particularly irritated about it, more so than at your other exploits.

You were so caught up in your glee at finding the player again that you didn’t register that someone had entered the room. The pile of dirty blacks should’ve been a clue really, but when someone cleared their throat and you whipped around, finding Hardcase himself with just a towel slung around his waist, you couldn't help but gawk.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his suspicion as obvious as his amusement at your flustered state.

Your hands were behind your back to hide the almost stolen item, your eyes fighting to keep away from his bare chest and failing miserably. You had no idea that his tattoos stretched down his chest, and the way they dipped beneath the edge of the already dangerously low towel had your mind reeling.

“Nothing, just a— it's a routine check” you finally peeped out, trying to sound casual. You had never been good at lying, and you could tell that much was obvious to Hardcase by the way his lips twisted in a smirk.

You quickly darted for the door, the offending item still behind you back to not get caught. You knew the jig was going to be up soon enough, but you didn't feel like answering for your crimes while he was only wearing a towel and you couldn't keep your eyes on his. Unfortunately, Hardcase had other ideas.

He reached out, blocking the exit and causing a small startled yelp to fall from your lips. Your eyes trailed along the toned arm that stopped you from leaving, lingering on the tattoo that circled his bicep, and finally making your way up to his face.

“A routine check?” he spoke, smirking broadly at you, “mesh'la, we both know that's well beneath you”

“Well, I like to know what's going on aboard my ship” your voice was wavering and you internally cursed yourself for letting him get to you like this.

He leaned in a little, his voice dropping fractionally, “you need to know what's going on in my bunk specifically?”

Hardcase had always had fun toying with you, even outside of the pranks. When he'd seek you out during his moments of respite and natter away, telling you a great many things about his most recent deployment, he'd always find a way to gently push your boundaries, not enough to make you uncomfortable, but just enough to get you flustered. It was low hanging fruit really, with you being so shy it was so easy to make you blush, as you knew you were now.

“I— it wasn't just— I was—” you shut your mouth, just looking up at him not knowing how to explain yourself without some kind of confrontation.

Hardcase stared back, his gaze appraising and amused. He nodded behind you, “what have you got there?”

Your eyes went wide, “nothing! It's like I said, just doing some checks”

You knew you were bright red, betraying your lies even further than your shaky and stuttering voice, and you had to look away from him. He took the opportunity to quickly reach around you, taking back his property and holding it above his head so you couldn't seize it again, even though you tried to. He was much taller than you, it was helpless.

“Ah, my player, you know this has gone missing be—” his eyes thinned as he looked back at you.

You rocked back onto your heels and clasped your hands together, looking up at him innocently. You knew you were caught now.

“…Before” he finished the thought and his eyes widened, “you're the one who's been stealing from me?”

You were surprised to see that he was grinning as he said it, and it only unnerved you more.

“No! I don't do that sort of—” you tried to argue your case, but he wasn't having it.

“And yet here you are… stealing”

You looked away, your face aflame, and uncertain of how to get out of this situation. Before you could figure it out, you felt his hand on your chin, tipping your face back his way.

“I must admit, I'm impressed” He said as he looked down at you with a thoughtful expression.

“Impressed?” you practically squeaked, unsure what direction this was going in.

“Mhm” he hummed as he ran his thumb over your chin, “I didn't realise you were so… devious”

You didn't say anything, but one side of your mouth quirked up on instinct. His gaze flicked down to watch it happen and then he peered back into your eyes, mischief swirling within his own.

“You know, you owe Jesse an apology” Hardcase said, towering over you even more as he stepped into your space, and you frowned a little, not understanding his words. “I called him a thief and said he was stealing my stuff, started watching him more closely”

You were entirely captivated by him, hanging on his every word, and it was as much a shock to you as it was amusing to him. He was still holding your chin and with his proximity to you now, your head was tipped back to look up at him.

He gripped you tighter with a calculating smirk, “Only… you were the little thief I should’ve had my eye on”

You gulped, the deep baritone timbre he was employing evidently having its intended effect, and rendering you speechless.

“Better watch your back, mesh'la”

You didn't know what that word meant, he’d said it to you before, but that was no comfort as he left your space and went back over to his bunk, placing down the items you had tried to steal. Still rooted in your place and watching him, he hooked his thumbs into his towel, and smirked at you once again when he noticed you standing there.

“you're not gonna try steal my towel too, are you?”

At that point you scrambled from the barracks and back to your own quarters, too embarrassed to do anything dignified.

It had been so long since Hardcase had caught you in the act, that you'd forgotten just how long it had been.

You'd kept your eye on him ever since, and watched out for incoming pranks every moment of every day, but nothing had happened. Hardcase went on like he hadn't even caught you that day, continuing to throw small adulations your way as he passed you by in the corridor, occasionally sitting by you in the mess hall, coming to irritate you when you were working late. Though, unfortunately for you, it wasn't so irritating anymore. Maybe it never had been.

While you were weary of incoming tricks, his presence was such a simple joy that you didn't mind it at all. It was often soothing in a particularly strange way. You didn't speak an awful lot, but Hardcase would fill the silences with stories of his time in deployment, telling you about the tricks that him and his brothers had got up to. The friendship between you worked well because of it. He didn't mind that you were quiet, and in fact seemed to respect you more for it.

You were working in your office, sat on the floor with a cup of caf balanced dangerously on your knee as you tinkered with your malfunctioning datapad. You would be sat at your desk, but the mess that was atop it made doing any sort if work difficult. Besides, you preferred working on the floor, it made the work feel less tedious.

The door slid open and Hardcase strolled in, as if the office were his own, and he walked over to your position with a grin on his face. Without a word he sat down opposite you, cross legged to mirror your posture, his knees almost touching yours as he grabbed the mug of caf from your knee and took a sip. He placed it down on the floor as you eyed him suspiciously.

This behaviour wasn't abnormal for him, and you didn't mind it, but you were still suspicious of any incoming pranks. Your eyes roved his body, looking for anything unusual, but you found nothing. His expression was amused, watching you evaluate him.

“What?” you asked, giving him an uneasy look.

“What?” he asked back.

You narrowed your eyes at him. He wasn't usually bugging you at this time of day, usually he came by during the evening, but right now it was early in the morning. You had gotten up before everyone else to finish up a personal project; fixing your datapad. It had been on the fritz for a few days and it was starting to affect your workflow.

“Why are you awake?” you asked, looking back down to your datapad and flipping the tool in your hand to access a new angle.

You saw him shrug in your peripheral, “why not”

“As good a reason as any, I suppose” you muttered, your focus more drawn to your work than him.

He began tapping his foot gently, watching you as you worked. It was more of a comforting rhythm than a distraction, but you noticed it all the same. Then it stopped, as if he'd been thinking and come to a conclusion.

“Tell me something mesh'la” he spoke quietly, and your gaze snapped up to his, “have you been watching your back like I suggested?”

You frowned, suddenly very unnerved, “yeah, I suppose so”

“You've been watching me? making sure I'm not up to anything” he asked, the hint of a smirk lifting one side of his lips.

You were hesitant, but you answered, “yeah”

He hummed, nodding a little, “and what have you noticed?”

“Nothing”

“Nothing? Mesh'la, I'm hurt” he pouted, his hand rested over his heart, mockingly upset.

You huffed, unimpressed, “stop saying that, I don't know what it means”

In a distinctly agitated manner, you continued on tinkering with your device. Hardcase tipped his head so that he entered your field of view, trying to gain your attention.

“Come on, humour me”

Your eyes flicked up once again, and the look he was giving you made your stomach flip. His smile seemed genuine, so you put down your datapad and tool, clasping your hands together in your lap and giving him your undivided attention.

“I haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary” you said honestly, looking for an indication of what he might have done in his reaction.

His eyes narrowed a little, sending you an almost puzzled look, “then what is the ordinary?”

“I don't know…” you trailed off, the response somewhat of a default, but Hardcase looked strangely interested, “I don't need to tell you what you do ordinarily”

He chuckles, “maybe not, but go on anyway”

“Okay…” you gave him a strange look, not understanding why he wanted you to report your findings about his everyday routine. You thought for a moment, looking down to your fiddling hands, “well, you… you’re always more excitable right before meal times, just because you have more energy then. You use your music player when you've been around your brothers for a long time and they're being loud. You sometimes shy away from things if you've said you're going to do them, but otherwise you're impulsive. Uh— not that that’s a bad thing. You're… more focused than your brothers give you credit for, at least, when you are focused it's—”

You halted when you looked up, Hardcase’s expression was so tender that you were startled into silence for a moment.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked hesitantly, your body recoiling unsurely.

“You already knew all that stuff about me before I said to watch your back?” his voice was quiet, quieter than usual, and everything about his demeanour made you put your guard up further.

“Yeah, I mean I—” you stopped, eyes widening as the credit dropped, “wait…”

Hardcase’s lips lifted into an amused smile, though it was no less genuine.

“This was the trick, wasn't it?” you gestured vaguely in the space between you, “getting me to watch out all the time?”

He huffed a small laugh as his grin grew, “maybe, I figured you might torture yourself trying to figure out where it was coming from, so I just let you get on with it”

You shook your head in disbelief of your own foolishness, a light scoff passing your lips as you looked back down to get on with fixing your datapad. You really should have thought of that, but the more you let your mind dwell on it, the more you realised it was the perfect prank for someone as anxious as you.

You heard your name called before you could pick up your datapad once more, letting your eyes wander back to the man before you.

“I don't—” he paused, mouth twisting as if holding himself back before he found the right words, “I didn't know you… knew all that stuff”

“Well, it's just— no one pays attention to me, so it's easy to move around unnoticed” you shrugged nonchalantly, “it was pretty easy to figure you out”

“My brothers haven't figured out half the stuff you just said” he pointed out, his smile bordering on a smirk.

You scoffed quietly, “they're just not paying attention then”

“And you are?”

“I—” you then realised what he was really saying, what he had been saying, or trying to imply. You had to look down with the way a rosy tint spread across your cheeks, mumbling a reply, “I don't know, maybe”

Hardcase leaned forwards, resting an elbow against his knee as he tapped your chin gently, urging you to glance up at him once more. He was a lot closer than he had been, his face only a few inches from yours now, but you didn't back away.

“I did notice you, for the record” he said gingerly, his tone far more reverent than you were prepared for, and your insides constricted at the sound.

You waited for him to continue, make himself clear; you didn’t want to misinterpret what he was saying. Looking between his eyes to try and search for his meaning yourself, he let a small smile lift one side of his mouth to give you a more subdued version of his usual lopsided grin.

“I noticed you watching me, I just didn't know why”

You tilted your head to the side, “why didn't you say anything?”

“Didn't want to get my hopes up” Hardcase shrugged.

A frown creased your brow as you tried to understand, “I don't— um…what?”

He chuckled, the sound so warm and inviting that your heart skipped a beat, “I guess I hoped you were watching me because you were… interested in me, or something”

As his eyes darted to the side, his hand curling around the back of his neck in a sheepish manner, you saw the way his cheeks bloomed with colour, his eyes a little wide as if he'd said something he shouldn't have. You had never seen him act so bashful, and something about it made your stomach erupt into butterflies.

“And if I was?”

“What?” his eyes snapped back to yours, growing even wider.

“Interested in you” you clarified.

Hardcase's mouth hung open slightly, and you couldn't help but let a gentle smile curve your lips at his almost shocked expression.

“You are?” he was now grinning, his voice a whisper of disbelief.

You nodded tentatively, and his hands reached forward to grab you. A squeak left you at the sudden motion, and you had been pulled into his lap before you could even comprehend what's going on. His grin was enough already, but the steadfast grip he had on you made any self-discipline you had crumble into nothing.

“Mesh'la…” he whispered the foreign word as his eyes trailed the lines of your features, his fingers gently brushing across your cheekbone and resting his palm against you.

You offered a fake pout, and he chuckled, running the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “sorry, can't help it”

He didn't seem very apologetic at all, and as much as it drew a laugh from you, it made your intrigue grow. The words were almost on your lips, to ask what the word meant, but Hardcase got there first.

His lips captured yours with an eagerness and fervour that made your heart implode, beating against your chest and his as his arms snaked around your waist and pulled you flush against him. It was good really, that he held you so tightly and kept you rooted in place, otherwise you may have melted into a puddle as his ardour thawed any of the apprehension within you.

You pulled away, unable to hold yourself back from asking, “what does it mean?”

“what?” he blinked at you, his expression almost worried at your sudden departure from his lips.

“Mesh'la” you clarified.

“Oh” he broke out into a grin, rubbing his nose against yours as he chuckled lowly, “I'm not telling”

You huffed with a frown but he just smiled broadly at you, his eyes shining with the usual lick of mischief. Of course he was still going to find a way to toy with you, even now. You shook your head and brought your lips back to his with a fond smile, and he melted against you, a blissful hum sounding in his throat and rumbling through his chest.

taglist: @darthnihila @cdblake1565 @heidnspeak @burningnerdchild @orangez3st

#trex writings #star wars #the clone wars #clone troopers #clones #star wars the clone wars #tcw #clone trooper hardcase #tcw hardcase #clone wars hardcase #501st #clone wars 501st #501st legion #501st battalion #501st shenanigans #hardcase x reader #hardcase x f!reader #divider by saradika

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ranticore · 5 months ago

Note

Is there any "canceled" settings that never got out? Or just some canned ideas like OG modified people(?) thera

I have loadssss of canned ideas which couldn't work in the setting I envisioned:

the first story idea for Siren i had was going to be about an unmodified human (employed by modern atom corp) crashlanding there, and the three explorers (huarvaa, qedivar, and terwy) would volunteer to help them travel to the precursor settlement to find parts to fix their space ship. But along the way they would all make the discovery that they were all humans all along (obviously with the unmodified human believing they were being helped by three aliens). So there'd be points in the story where they'd be like "huh what a weird coincidence that [some similarity they share]" finally turning into "wait so your people made us to be slaves on this planet??" and the unmodified human having to absorb the rammys. Reason I didn't go with it: didn't like the focus on an unmodified human, I felt it a disservice to the sirenians' intelligence to imagine that they couldn't figure out all that shit on their own.

That one jumps to mind as this was originally a Siren blog and I do still work away at it here haha.

For outright cancelled settings and stories, kiiinda ISOK, i don't really make new things about it anymore and it never grabbed my attention enough, I'll draw my faves but don't feel like developing stories or characters there right now

Twist the manticore came from a very recently fully cancelled story about curses which you can find in the #manticore tag on my big art blog. Basically a concept of a really fucked up city built on a mine of the substance which allows people to visualise magic spells and particularly curses. The story was about a curse broker who would be hired to cast curses not necessarily of his own design, but he'd be the one pulling the trigger because it's like this nightmare gig economy where you need an endless supply of new people to cast curses because each casting takes a cumulative toll on the body. Anyway I fell away from it because it was hard to write a very actively suicidal pov and I never figured out the ending so it felt aimless. Sometimes when I have no ending in mind I can just go on and on throwing new scenarios at the characters to see them react but I wasn't feeling it here. But I liked the manticore and sphinx designs

Obviously all of my 21st century Inver writing is gone noncanon now which is great. The future now is entirely uncertain yippee!!!

I've also had one billion story ideas which are up on the shelf kind of waiting. A big one you might know from my werewolf sketchbook is the glam underground werewolf subculture stuff which I came up with while watching dog shows lol but essentially warring werewolf packs decided to cut down the body count by doing head to head dance battles instead based on the beauty and aesthetics of their werewolf forms, it was a little inspired by drag balls but it's something I'm not very familiar with so if I were to go at it seriously I would need to do a lot of work. The story would be about a guy who got bitten and had to find his way to one of these spaces where because of his lovely werewolf form he gets poached by a pack and ends up competing with them, until he stumbles across the dead body of the current best in show competitor, rival to his new pack, and is accused of murdering him. He is charged with proving his innocence, but also finding out who the hell bit him because it seems like it may have been done on purpose to create a scapegoat for this murder. Anyway yea full murder mystery and the werewolves had show names which were as extravagant and striking as u can imagine*, essentially leaving their straightsonas at the door once a month to queen out among the only people who understand them. The only setting I could possibly imagine for it was vegas lol but in a more homophobic era (the underground lycanthropy scene being analogous to gay culture ofc).

Another story I wanna work on eventually is a revamp of the radio dragons, I realised ultimately that I was still trying to 'fix' pern with it when presenting a rebuttal to the ethical problems with dragon rider stories ends up really boring ("the dragons are in charge and they pick their riders when the riders are teens and there's an element of choice etc etc" boring). Ultimately I should just be completely inverting the dynamic and leaving it unchanged so that the issues are made blinding rather than fixed - in this case, the dragons are in charge, but they are picking their riders from birth. Newborn human baby instantly hooked up to an adult or at least older adolescent dragon and treated like a particularly smart parrot for most/all of their lives. And the story told entirely from dragon pov of course (dragon would do anything for their beloved rider!! even maybe let them vote?)

I have more but that's off the top of my head

#*guy who bit our main character was known only as Hermes Ericacea He's All That ⭐⭐⭐

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henrioo · 1 year ago

Text

°•*⁀➷ THE BIG CROCO BROTHER: CROCODILE

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : "Being a father was not easy, imposing limits was necessary and no matter how cute his face was, that of the Crocodile's only son, he couldn't allow you to do whatever you wanted... Especially when you're running around with three deadly wild animals."

꒰ WARNINGS ꒱ : PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP! NON ROMANCE, Father and Son! Male reader! Child reader! Soft dad Crocodile! Cross guild! Savage animals (bananawani), the reader has a powerful man in his control (his own dad)

꒰ WC ꒱ : 1k

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : And here I'm again, trying to post again and idk, nothing much to say today, my mood is horrible and my life sucks, but here some family fluffy to see if that motivates me to write again. Also the names of the wani are terrible because my discord friends choose them lol hahahah blank/no pronouns/fem=block

Crocodile was listening to Mihawk talking about the latest news he had gotten on his last trip, Buggy was looking at some maps that his henchmen had given him and the lizard himself was looking at the management papers of that entire alliance. At least now it was working a little better and giving more profit than headaches, but Crocodile still refused to accept that a circus really had so many needs and needed such a big budget just for those pathetic shows... that clown was probably deceiving.

“FUCK!” Buggy shouted, making the dark-haired man snap out of his reverie and try to figure out what the shouting was about.

It was then that he saw a peculiar scene that had curiously been repeated a lot in the last few days. One of the baby bananawani was biting Buggy's leg, another seemed to be eager to eat the clown's colorful papers and the third and last was trying... no, he was begging for a lap to the strongest swordsman in the world who simply stared at him without reaction.

You see, being a parent is extremely difficult. Being a father and being a pirate with a young son and with Crocodile's current situation is even more so, he wouldn't want that to be the case but he really managed to be quite absent, he tried to make up for it by spoiling you and the problem was that he spoiled you a bit too much. You weren't a bad or rude child, but you simply faithfully believed that you could have the world at your feet if you asked your father nicely. Of course you could, but it wasn't good for your ego to be completely sure of it.

So, in a way of trying to teach you some good values like responsibility and any other nonsense, he left you in charge of taking care of three bananawani babies. You needed to feed them, take them out of the water tank, clean the tank, all the normal activities of a normal pet. With the difference that your pets were deadly creatures even as babies and were more than ready to rip off some arms for your protection.

“(Y/n), what did we talk about getting them out of the tank?” Crocodile sighed, this wasn't the first time the babies had wandered around the ship instead of being safe in their water tanks. He can still hear the cries of the henchmen who received unexpected bites because their pets were out of control.

“I’m sorry daddy” you said entering the room, you quickly went to the baby in Mihawk and picked him up. Not completely up since that single bananawani baby must have been heavier than you, so you just held him the best you could with his entire lower part dragging on the floor.

Buggy whimpered trying to pull the baby off his leg which only made him bite harder, causing the clown to scream again. Crocodile sighed and got up to help you deal with the mess.

“They’re still too young to wander around alone, they’ll just create trouble” he tried to convince you again.

“But... Miss Banana Split was sad” you said worriedly as you looked at the lizard in your arms who was smiling happily like a baby in his parents arms. Crocodile could feel Mihawk's eyes on him from the animal's name but he decided to ignore it.

“They are sweet animals, they don’t get sad” he tried to convince you, ruffling your hair.

“Of course they stay! Mr. Banana even whines!” You said with a huge hurt pout, heavens you really loved those animals...

“Look at feelings, I don’t know, but this pest is really hungry and is about to swallow my leg, so if you can have a father-son moment another time, I’d appreciate it!” Buggy screamed desperately, shaking his leg again, trying to free the animal, but in vain.

“Sorry, Mr. Buggy… Drake is eating too much these days…” you said, releasing the one in your arms and going to take the other one off the clown’s leg. Luckily the animal was happy to be picked up by you and easily released its prey.

“Drake?” Buffy looked at you perplexed, was that the fucking name you chose?

“Don’t you dare” Crocodile growled at him as if he could read his thoughts. It was a clear message, make my son ashamed of the names he chose and you will become real bananawani food.

“They like being close to you daddy” you said petting Drake who was rubbing against you, the other two cubs at Crocodile’s feet.

“Of course they do, I was there when they were born, that doesn't mean you can let them loose like that” he crouched down to your height “They're still cubs and without training, you won't find it fun if they actually eat someone's leg would you?” Crocodile would find it hilarious, but you were a good-hearted child so you just shook your head “See? So for now let’s keep them in the tank and teach them some tricks, if they can behave you can spend more time with them, okay?”

"Okay!" You smiled happily at the possibility of continuing the walk with your animals, without waiting any longer you picked up Drake and dragged him out of the room, followed by the other two animals.

Crocodile sighed, satisfied that you would obey him for now, at least this way he would stop hearing the clown crying.

“Drake? Seriously? What the fuck is that name? For a bananawani!” Buffy said shocked once you were far enough away, he wasn't even paying attention to the ruined maps.

“Shut up…” your father would also love to know where you got that name from but that was an answer that not even you had.

“I actually found Miss Banana Split quite charming” Mihawk said with a cocky grin at Crocodile who just snorted, getting annoyed. He didn't mind having a son as his weakness, but having that weakness exposed and made fun of was something he hadn't gotten used to yet.

“Go back to work” he said irritably, just wanting to pretend that none of that had happened.

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