#that i really don’t even think he’s aware of | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kxsagi · 2 days ago

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heyyy how r u?? ^^

how would the blue lock characters react to seeing their s/o hurt by someone they don’t even know?? can you include rin, sae, kaiser and any others you want to add

thanks!!

“𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥”

a/n: hi hi! when you said blue lock players react to seeing their s/o hurt by someone they don’t even know, “hurt” was a bit vague, but because i definitely don’t write about abuse, i think being insulted(?) by a stranger would be more natural. i hope this is still within your expectations of me!

best believe these boys would stand up for you no matter what! + i always love writing for slursagi

ft. itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael

itoshi rin

stranger's comment: "what are you even doing with him? you’re clearly way out of his league."

rin was already irritated that day. training had been rough, and he was running on little sleep. but the moment he heard the stranger’s words directed at you, his exhaustion was replaced with a sharp, simmering rage.

his steps halted. his eyes, cold and piercing, locked onto the stranger. for a moment, he didn’t say anything, he just stared. hard. the kind of stare that could stop someone’s heart. his jaw tightened, hands slowly curling into fists at his sides.

“say that again.” his voice was low, barely above a whisper, but laced with venom.

the stranger, suddenly aware of the sheer presence rin held, took an instinctive step back. but rin was already closing the distance. his eyes narrowed with a deadly calm. "you think you’re funny?" he muttered, voice dangerously flat. "go ahead. say it again."

he didn’t need to raise his voice. the intensity alone was enough to make the stranger shut their mouth and awkwardly stumble away. once they were gone, rin turned to you with a softened expression, his hand slipping into yours. he didn’t say much, just gave your hand a small, firm squeeze, his silent way of making sure you were okay.

shidou ryusei

stranger's comment: "she’s pretty, but i bet she’s just another gold digger clinging to a rich athlete."

oh. ohhhh.

the stranger didn’t even get a chance to blink before shidou was already right in their face, sneering like a maniac. his eyes were wild, glinting with unrestrained fury and something far more dangerous: amusement.

“gold digger? really?” he let out a sharp laugh, but there was nothing funny about it. his fingers flexed at his sides, like he was seconds away from grabbing the guy by the collar. “hey. you wanna say that louder? or are you gonna piss yourself first?”

the stranger tried to brush it off with a nervous chuckle, but shidou’s grin only widened, showing too many teeth. “nah, c’mon. you were real bold a second ago. keep talking.” his voice was sharp with mockery, but the way he took a half-step closer, towering over them, made it clear he was seconds away from making it physical.

you quickly grabbed shidou’s wrist, tugging him back. his eyes flicked to you, and the moment he saw the slight furrow in your brows, his entire demeanor shifted. his jaw unclenched, and he released a long, annoyed sigh.

“well lucky for you… she’s nicer than i am,” he spat, pointing a lazy finger at the stranger. then he turned, casually slipping an arm around your waist, and walked you away like nothing happened. his fingers drummed against your hip as he leaned down to mutter against your ear, voice low and playful. “you should let me kick someone’s ass for you at least once, babe.”

itoshi sae

stranger's comment: "you sure you’re not just with him for the money? pretty girls like you don’t usually date guys like him unless there’s a price tag involved."

sae’s entire body stilled.

no eye-roll, no bored sigh, just a sharp, chilling stillness. slowly, he turned his head toward the stranger, his eyes narrowing with an unmistakable glint of disdain. he didn’t even bother with a witty remark. he just stared at them, completely blank-faced, expressionless.

and then, in a low, unimpressed voice, he asked, “who the hell are you?”

the stranger blinked, caught off guard. they opened their mouth to speak, but sae cut them off with a slight tilt of his head, his tone dipping further into icy condescension.

“no, seriously. who even are you? you think you matter?” his voice dripped with disinterest, making the stranger feel microscopic. “if you’re gonna run your mouth, at least be someone relevant.”

with a dismissive glance, he turned his back on them, clearly not sparing another second of his time. instead, he walked over to you, his hand naturally finding yours. his grip was firm, reassuring, but his eyes were still sharp with irritation.

“they’re not worth it,” he muttered under his breath. then he kissed your temple, voice softer this time. “you okay?”

isagi yoichi

stranger's comment: "why are you with him? you could do so much better."

at first, isagi doesn’t even catch it. he’s too busy laughing at something you said, his arm lazily draped around your shoulders, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. but when he sees the way your smile wavers, his expression immediately drops.

his eyes flick toward the stranger, brows knitting slightly.

“wait. what was that?” his voice is still calm. too calm.

when the stranger repeats the insult, isagi’s lips press into a flat line. his entire posture stiffens slightly, but instead of glaring them down, he just blinks. once. twice. then he tilts his head ever so slightly and –

“are you actually braindead or do you just practice in the mirror?” he blurts out, blinking at the stranger with feigned concern.

you freeze. the stranger’s eyes widen slightly. but isagi? he’s just getting started.

“nah, i’m serious. do you eat glue for breakfast? maybe sniff paint for dessert?” his voice is light, almost curious, but the sharp edge of mockery makes it sting. “what are you on man?”

the stranger scoffs, trying to brush it off, but isagi clicks his tongue and shakes his head with a disappointed sigh before letting him speak. “wow. full offense, but,” he gestures vaguely at them, “your parents really wasted their genes, huh?”

the stranger mutters something under their breath, but isagi instantly fires back with a look of faux sympathy. “aw, you’re mad? go cry about it. i’m sure the two brain cells you’ve got left will keep you company.”

and when the stranger finally storms off, defeated and red-faced, isagi slowly turns back to you with the softest, sweetest smile, as if he didn’t just verbally annihilate someone in public.

his hands cup your face, thumbs gently brushing over your cheeks. “hey… you okay?” his voice is suddenly so tender, so gentle, you could almost believe he hadn’t just called someone a glue-sniffing crack addict.

he leans in slightly, his forehead resting against yours, voice barely above a whisper. “you know they’re full of shit, right?” then, with a playful grin, he adds softly, “plus, they clearly don’t have taste if they can’t see how hot your boyfriend is.”

kaiser michael

stranger's comment: "i bet she’s only with you because you’re famous. girls like that are all the same, just gold diggers."

kaiser’s lips immediately curl into a slow, cruel smirk. his eyes glimmer with something sharp, something almost gleeful. oh, this is going to be fun.

he lets out a low chuckle – mocking, deliberate – before casually slipping his hands into his pockets. his tone is light, teasing, almost bored.

“gold digger? huh.” he clicks his tongue. “that’s cute. you actually think you’re qualified to talk about her?”

he takes a single step forward, eyes half-lidded with lazy superiority. the kind of gaze that makes people feel small.

“you realize i could buy your entire existence, right?” he drawls, smirking. “but even if i lost it all tomorrow, she’d still choose me. every. single. time.” his voice dips lower with each word, turning into a slow, smug purr.

and just for good measure, he adds with a cocky grin, “which is more than i can say for you.”

the stranger is gone in seconds, and kaiser casually throws an arm around you, walking away without a second glance. but once you’re alone, he glances at you, voice dropping to something quieter, softer.

“you alright, liebling?” his fingers brush over your knuckles, lacing them with his own. his eyes are steady, searching yours. “you know i don’t give a shit what they say, right? just you. always you.”

#men who clap back earn that #need a man like this #slursagi nation #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #shidou ryusei x reader #ryusei shidou x reader #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser michael x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #boyfriends with no chill

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yukinohiko · 22 hours ago

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you’ve been trying to seduce him for six months.

sae watches you make your rounds across the banquet hall. he sits at one of the round tables, hearing his manager’s voice humming into the void of sponsors and investors. his cheek is propped by his knuckles; his free hand holds a glass of malt.

he doesn’t often drink. but it’s been a successful season so far, and he’s off-training tomorrow.

and you’ve been trying to seduce him for six months.

look at you, he thinks as he observes you across the room. in your silk dress that drips down your body like rainwater. it’s backless. of course, it is. he hadn’t missed the little gold clip pinning up your hair, either. it’s a tasteful design that’s won you many compliments, but only he seems aware it’s not just shapes but a seabird. the gold design curving the bird’s wings into a perfect number 10.

how clever of you, he thinks. always watching but never anything more.

until tonight.

his phone flashes a new notification. confirmation. around the same time, he sees you fussing on a call, looking more agitated than you typically present yourself in public.

if he smiles slightly to himself, anyone who sees blames it as a trick on the light.

he leaves his drink unfinished and moves toward you. doesn’t touch you and doesn’t need to. you’re typically aware of him even when he’s five miles away; though he has the pleasure of surprising you this one time due to your state of panic.

“it’s getting late. don’t you tend to head home by now?”

“my ride.” you’re flustered. he drinks it in like the finest whiskey. “sorry, yes. I think there’s been some mixup with my ride service.” you avert your gaze, trying to balance your phone with your conversation. “I just have to wait until they can send another car.”

he hums. adjusts a stray curl, clipping it back into your hair without ever really touching you. he feels your eyes snap to him, as if worried he’d figure out your little symbol to him — as if he hadn’t known since you first strode in with it.

“I can give you a ride,” he says coolly.

“what?”

he doesn’t linger, already halfway to the door. he only glances back once, meets your startled gaze, and crooks two fingers at you. “coming?”

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pythonmoth · 21 hours ago

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cw: FLUFF. social anxiety. self-imposed exposure therapy (pls never do that!). cute and then not so cute, but cute again! panic attack. dissociation. reader is traumatized and inconsistent. implied sexual activity, nothing explicit. simon is a whiny little bitch. slightly styled text.

primary simon x f!reader. poly tf141.

word count: 4k

First | Last | Next

Having breakfast with Johnny, with the team, wasn’t something you realized you’ve been missing.

It fits right in your heart, filling a hole you didn’t know has been empty.

So many years have gone by and little things like this usually go ignored until you’re forced to be aware of them and their absence. Maybe it’s therapy; maybe it’s that you’ve gotten used to being alone after nine months, only relying on your brother for a few months and then being on your own, but breakfast with the people you’ve called your family for nearly ten years now, it’s something your body accepted as necessary once you got it back, only then understanding how much you’ve been missing it.

Once everybody’s tummy is filled with tea, coffee and good food, they take turns to shower, one by one leaving to get ready until it’s only Simon and you. He looks far more relaxed than the day before, his eyes warm as he nods when you talk, telling him about how you’ve been planning to remodel a little, maybe change the paint of the exterior or even add some flowers to your backyard. Now that you’re forced to stay home, there are things that you want to change so it looks prettier when you come back.

You don’t miss the way his right cheek jumps, as if he’s trying not to grimace; you know it isn’t a happy memory for anybody, but you’re glad he isn’t trying to shut it down, and merely accepting it as it is. Same as you are.

“Do you know if Tommy is available? I might have to call him up, since I can’t reach everything on my own. He’s the closest one to a professional I know, anyway” you hum, your fingers entertained as they rip apart a sugar packet, your eyes not leaving it for a moment.

“My brother? I think so. I can ask him to contact you” Simon mumbles. You look up when you notice how unhappy he sounds. He’s… pouting.

“What?”

Simon frowns, seemingly unsure if he should speak up or not. In the end, just when you’re starting to overthink and overanalyze everything you’ve said and done to get him to look like his, he finally looks up.

“I’m… I am available. I could help you” he grunts. “I’ve helped him at work before and I can get it done as quickly as he can” Simon rushes, as if he couldn’t help it. “With the right tools, perhaps even faster”.

When you go quiet, he shuts up. You’re hyper aware of his eyes on you as you look down at the ruined sugar packet in your fingers, biting down on your lip. It’s not that you don’t know he helps Tommy sometimes, it just felt like a safer question.

In the back of your mind, you think back to something your therapist mentioned as a possibility, something that could help you with the PTSD, though she said it wasn’t time nor a good idea for you yet. That was five months ago and, really, neither of you mentioned it again. Maybe…

Exposure therapy. It should be okay.

After all, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s just Simon.

“Wait, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I can just call him and—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay” you interrupt him, your eyes twinkling a little. “If you’re free… we could start today, buy a few things. Please?”

And so, when the morning comes to an end, Price, Gaz and Johnny say their goodbyes, only Gaz and Price coming over to kiss your cheek and pat your head. Johnny gives you a bright smile and a promise to come over later. Price makes sure you remember his number, just in case. Gaz cups your cheeks, kissing your forehead loudly before he walks out the door with Price.

Johnny kisses Simon briefly before they leave, Gaz playfully gagging behind them. You see him, however, getting nudged by Price, both of them looking quite content; surely, there was a conversation you weren’t part of. The sun is high up as the car disappears from sight, some part of your heart wishing they could stay longer, but this will be good.

You hope so, at least.

Then, it’s only Simon and you.

It takes you fifteen minutes to get ready, and another ten minutes for you to stop looking in the mirror, reminding yourself that you’re not going alone. You don’t have to double check behind you, you’ve nothing to fear. But, the reminder that is Simon who’s coming with you, brings an unwelcome feeling at the base of your spine.

It’s somewhat irrational, you’re aware. But it’s still scary, and it doesn’t make it less real.

Taking a deep breath, you nod to yourself in the mirror, and step back, hastily putting away your makeup and promising yourself you’re going to clean the few-weeks-old dust from it when you’re back.

Your guts flip when you realize the sun’s already coming down, and it makes you feel insane that you can’t even focus on things like that; why would you be unsure of how long you’ve spent spacing out? That’s something else to mention the therapist, maybe.

Simon’s waiting in the living room when you come down, his face relaxed and his eyes fixed on his phone. His leg betrays him, however, because you can tell he’s been waiting, anxious. When he hears you, Simon gets up, checking his pockets to make sure he has everything and gives you a thumbs up, gingerly walking towards you.

“You ready?” he asks, his expression inviting, as if giving you an out. He looks just as anxious as you feel, and that makes you feel a little better.

Reaching into your bag, you make sure you have your knife and the spare knife, before nodding at him. As you both make your way out and into the car, you also pat the left pocket of your jeans.

Pocket knife is a must, sometimes.

Buying the paint isn’t nearly as boring as you thought it would be.

Simon makes it his mission to keep you entertained, easily reading the anxiety in your body language; he talks.

He talks a lot. And quite easily, much to your surprise.

Simon tells you why the lighter painting is better, and why you shouldn’t go for the darker one in certain places of the house, and why grey is a hard no if you want your house to look good. The black surgical mask is almost funny with how much it moves over his mouth, but you focus on him, and soon enough, you’re less worried, talking more, smiling and laughing at his awful jokes.

Eventually, in the middle of one of Simon’s morbid comments —"Look, that ashtray would be a funny gift for Johnny, if you ask me. We could make him fit in there later. Do you think it would be cheaper if we tell them why we want it?"—, you find the perfect shade for the exterior of your house. Simon isn’t convinced, you can see it, but he doesn’t complain, only crossing his arms and tilting his head, as if calculating in his brain how much you’ll need. He’s been at your house many times, and knows it as well as you do.

Simon’s the one who asks for the paint and a few other tools, since you’re already aware he won’t let you carry it anyway. You hand Simon your credit card, and turn away, distracted with little light bulbs of soft white light that would look pretty good in your bedroom, so you don’t notice he doesn’t use your card to pay for it, but his instead. He doesn’t tell you either as he hands the plastic back to you and carries the bucket and the rest of the big tools to the car.

Just like a few days ago, you find yourself checking your surroundings, especially now that it’s dark. You keep the car locked as you check the back seats with your phone, making Simon wait a moment. After making sure it’s safe, you pat your left pocket to feel the knife there and quickly get inside, finally allowing him in as well. Maybe your therapist is right and you’re still jumpy, but it is dangerous out there anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with being paranoid careful.

The drive back home is pretty calm, your shoulders finally relaxing after nearly two hours of being on edge. Simon’s music blasts on the speakers, a little too loud to be safe, but you need the distraction, and the streets are pretty lonely at night so you only focus on it, mumbling the lyrics to yourself.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re home and carrying the little bag with tools, which is the only thing Simon will let you grab, and get inside. Not even bothering to turn back, you lock the door behind you and take your shoes off, letting Simon take the plastic bag from your hands so he can set everything by the back door.

“I’ll be up early. If you wanna help, make sure you’re up by 7am” Simon grumbles, yawning as he takes the mask off.

“I haven’t woken up at 7am in like… nine months. That’s too early”.

“Tough shit”.

With a happy feeling in your chest, you say goodnight and go up to your room, leaving Simon to get comfortable in the guest room. Neither of you mention it, but it’s implicit he won’t be staying in your room like he would if this were before. The stairs creak slightly when you pause, your hand over the handrail, looking down as he seems to hesitate before waving at you, making his way to the room.

Out of habit, and maybe feeling a little anxious, you lock the door before taking your heavy jacket off. Getting ready to sleep alone feels a bit odd now that Gaz isn’t laying in your bed, but soon enough, you’re fresh and clean, and ready to sleep.

A loud crashing sound makes you jump up, face wrinkled from the pillow and heart pounding in your chest. You make your way downstairs, nearly tripping over your bare feet, one of the long knives in your hand as you try to focus on whatever is happening. The sun hits your face from the back door, watching as Simon hisses and holds the bucket of paint up, a big splash of colour all over your wooden floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” you grunt, using the knife to scratch your forehead.

Simon looks up, his eyes widening as he takes in your appearance. He didn’t think he’d ever be given the opportunity to see you so messy in the morning, but here you are. He clears his throat and starts scraping up the paint before it dries. “I didn’t seal it and I kinda dropped it. It’s fine, I’ll clean it quickly”. He falters a little when he sees the knife in your hand, a little amused. “Are you gonna stab me for messing with your floors?”

“Maybe. Don’t tempt me” you huff, your shoulders relaxing. “Be back in ten. Don’t you dare use the skyscraper ladder without me”.

“Mhm”.

“You’re gonna break your neck if you do”.

“Heard ya” Simon grumbles, his lips curling up. “I’ll wait for you”.

The tone in his words makes your heart tremble, but your face betrays nothing. Excited to work on your house, and hoping the little challenge you're putting yourself through doesn’t end badly, you rush to get ready.

The toughest part of painting with Simon is getting the job done.

Simon doesn’t move until the edges are perfectly done. He accidentally touched something he shouldn’t have? He’s gonna spend as long as necessary to get the paint off. You’re doing it gently, slowly, so he doesn’t take the brush from you? You’re taking too long! And if you let him do it himself, then why are you sitting there all pretty while he does it all? In the end, you give him an annoyed look and he calms down.

But then, when the edges are done, and you have to use the roller? Now that’s fun.

Since it’s easier, he lets you do it yourself, one of his hands on your lower back so you don’t trip —if your heart is trembling a little, that’s none of his business. Though you’re not entirely sure if it's anxiety, or excitement—. Simon’s smiling now, guiding you with a lot more patience, chuckling next to your ear when you accidentally get paint over your hands, and some tiny, little drops on his hair.

“I’ll make something to eat after we finish the first layer” Simon promises, guiding your arm with his warm hand; a simple caress from your elbow to your wrist as he points to the little places that are missing some love, as he calls it.

It doesn’t take you both long to finish the first layer, though it is more than you expected, since Simon kept coming back to perfect the edges and some little mistakes you couldn’t even notice, but you appreciate his enthusiasm, so even if it can be a little annoying, you don’t really complain.

Simon cooks something “simple” that allows you both to take two hours off, letting the paint dry properly. With both of you working together, his movements less sudden than they were the last morning —especially with the knife, which you can appreciate—, you end up just eating on your feet, both of you in the kitchen, not even using the plates and eating straight from the pot.

Feeling lazy to clean up after this, you reach out for a single glass, lifting your eyebrow at him. Simon nods, taking it from you to pour some cold water for the two of you.

You can tell his eyes are fixed on the little mark your lip balm leaves on the glass and the way he drinks from the exact same place, but you’re easily distracted by food, so it doesn’t cross your mind to call him out for it. It’s something he used to do a lot back then, so you’re not surprised, but… it’s a little funny, honestly.

A few hours later, Simon’s on your ass again. The stupid edges are making both of your eyes twitch and your annoyance grows with each comment about how you’re doing it wrong. He isn’t even mean, but it’s so fucking annoying it makes your blood boil, your guts churning with murderous intent.

When he fucking whines that you’re not doing it as straight as it should be, you just can’t do it anymore. Your hand reaches down to the painting tray and, when your palm is dripping, you don’t give him a moment to understand what you’re doing before you place your hand right across his face, paint getting to his hair, his forehead, his nose and temples.

“Whom do you serve?”

Simon stares at you in shock.

You have exactly two seconds to run away when you see him reaching down for one of the brushes.

He catches up to you in just a moment, the cold brush getting paint all over your old shirt, as if he were slashing a sword across your back. You shriek, still trying to get away, but Simon’s determined now, an arm wrapping around your waist to hold you against him. “You little shit” he grunts, amusement dripping from his voice as clearly as the paint does from the brush.

“Wait!” you yelp, laughing when Simon runs the cold paint across your face, forcing your lips close for a moment as the coarse bristles run over your cheeks.

“See? Better” he laughs, his hand splaying on your stomach before he finally lets go. Your skin tingles when his warmth slips away, but then you turn around to huff at him, and notice the bright, rare smile splitting Simon’s face in two, so you end up tackling him to the ground instead.

You’re rewarded with his flushing face, a loud bark of laughter coming from deep in his belly as he doesn’t even try to stop you. You scoop the dripping paint from your cheeks with your fingers and wipe your hands clean on his hair, his shirt. The paint seems to glow over his flushed cheeks.

A loud yelp of surprise echoes in your backyard when Simon easily flips you around, one of his hands pinning your wrists to the soft grass as he uses the brush to paint ridiculously big dots all over your shirt and arms. Your entire body shakes with amusement, laughing with no inhibitions, until you try to free your wrists from his grip.

And you c a n ’t mo ve.

Your mind fills with awful memories, with pain, fea r, salt wa ter, and pain.

Pain. Pa in. One finger nail. Five fi ngerna ils.

Th r ee toe na il s.

You suddenly freeze, zoning out. You don’t even notice Simon’s holding you up, carrying you back inside as he mumbles, whispering soft promises. His hands are gentle and warm as he wipes the paint off your face, doing his best not to get much water on your skin, but you aren’t listening, your body is rock solid and your jaw is so tight he can’t even make sure you’re not biting down on your tongue.

When you wake up, you’re in your bed.

Your skin is clean, and there’s a soft towel under you that’s now a little dirty with paint; you’re still wearing the same clothes from this morning. It takes you a little moment to remember why you’re here, and look down at your wrists.

Right.

The sound of water running from downstairs makes you get up, taking the towel off your bed. You set it over your chair by the desk and walk downstairs, your cheeks warm with embarrassment when you see him in the kitchen. The lights are low so you can’t really see his face, but you can see his slumping shoulders, the tension on his nape and the twitching of his mouth.

“Simon?”

He nearly drops the glass when he hears your voice, but he manages to catch it just in time, freezing as he stares up at you.

He’s still covered in paint, including the mark of your hand across his face. The sight of him looking so worried and still giving you those big puppy eyes behind all that completely dry paint…

“I’m sorry”.

Simon’s lips part, the words heavy on his tongue. His eyebrows seem unsure if they should be surprised or angry, because they jump and pinch together at the same time. He lets the glass aside and walks over to you, stopping just a few steps from you, his shoulders trembling.

“Sorry? You’re— sorry? What the hell are you even apologizing for? That was my fault. I scared you, again” he mumbles, tears welling up in his eyes, even if he desperately tries to stop it, swallowing thickly and shaking his head. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It slipped my mind and I fucked up”.

You reach up to touch his shoulder, but Simon steps back, flinching away from you. Your heart breaks, your lips parting in surprise, but Simon’s too gone with guilt that he doesn’t realize it. Distantly, you wonder if this is what he’s felt this whole time. You wonder how many times you’ve broken his heart by now.

“I’ll just— I’ll call Tommy tomorrow. I’ll tell him to help you with the rest, so you don’t have to be around me for now. That will be easier” Simon mumbles, mostly to himself, his eyes darting from one place to another, avoiding your eyes. “Just let me grab my stuff. I can leave in ten minutes. I won’t bother you, I promise, I—”

Taking a quick step forward, your arms wrap around his middle, closing your eyes as you navigate through the complicated feelings growing in your chest. A little bit of fear as you feel him so close again, the panic still not gone from your system, but the love makes you weak on the knees; even like that, you don’t let go of him, your arms tightening around him when you hear him breathe shakily.

“I’m alright” you whisper, your fingers curling on his shirt, almost pleading. “Don’t leave”.

Simon’s heartbeat pounds against your ear, his arms still hovering over you, hesitant. And scared.

“Please”.

That’s all it takes for Simon to sink to his knees, gently bringing you down with him, his arms never restraining you, merely holding you close. His hands splay across your back, your sides. You grip onto him harder when you feel his tears running down your shoulders, shifting until you’re straddling his lap, his face buried in your chest as he cries in complete silence, your fingers lost in his hair.

“I love you. I’m sorry” he whispers, his voice muffled with your skin. You think he’s going to pull back, but his hands only curl slightly on your arms, your sides, one of your thighs, as if he were grounding himself.

As if he couldn’t believe you were holding him again.

The ball of feelings in your chest unravels until you’re able to slowly identify them as you both hold each other right there in the middle of the kitchen. His hands brush over your back, fingernails scratching softly over your skin, and you’re reminded of good memories, of better times; of the moment you realize you were in love with him, of the ridiculous moment he asked you to be together. Of the night Johnny joined you for the first time, of the instant you understood your own feelings, Johnny's, and Simon’s.

You’re reminded of the night you saw Price and Simon share a fervent kiss before disappearing into the Captain’s room, more than once. And then when you saw Gaz and Price do the same over the years, even if they never freely spoke of it.

The memories of that experimental kiss with Price, back in your first year with the team haunts your memory for a moment; both of you had paused after a while and grimaced. In the end, Price had given you his chocolate and you gave him your tea flavored mochi, the kiss forgotten and never spoken of again.

At some point, your arms relax around Simon, but he doesn’t seem in the mood to pull away, even if his grip isn’t even too tight. It takes a little bit of nudging, a few whispered words, but he finally pulls back, his face puffy and slightly wet with tears, staring at you.

“Sleep with me?”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, it seems; his hesitation appears to be long gone as his arms easily hold you up, calmly throwing you over his shoulder. That would’ve broken the tender moment, if it weren’t for the warm hand over your back holding you still, and the shaky fingers gripping onto your thigh again as he walks up to your room.

Simon hesitates, but you kick back on your door, hurrying him up. Once inside, he sets you down, waiting by the door.

“Are you... expecting me to kick you out?”

“Yes”.

Your lips curl up, forever glad he never holds back with you, and motion him to get in.

The anxiety doesn’t magically leave your body, and you’re still awfully terrified of him being able to just restrain you so easily again, but… progress.

It’s progress when he curses and rushes down to grab his clean clothes and a towel, asking you to let him take a shower after you’re done.

It’s progress when Simon lays in your bed, body stiff and hands shaky as he waits for you to turn the lights off.

It’s progress when you both awkwardly find a good position to sleep.

It’s progress when you wake up in the morning with his arms wrapped around you, your legs tangled, and one of your hands under his tshirt, warm against the bare skin of his back.

And it’s progress when you’re greeted with a small, sleepy smile from him before his eyes even focus properly on you.

henlo. how are we feeling? progress!!! progress!!! PROGRESS!!!

› buy me a coffee ♡

anyway, simon's autistic bc i am autistic and he's a whiny little bitch perfectionist!

if things go well, we have 8 chapters left :)

+18 people read here: yes, price and simon still fuck nasty from time to time. nobody gasped, nobody surprised.

taglist I: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @codeseven @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

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revelboo · 3 days ago

Note

Sorry if I already sent you that question, my WiFi sucks.

Hiii, how are you? I wanted to know if there are any updates on TFA Shockwave or maybe TFP Shockwave? I really love your writing and have almost read all your fics.

He is overdue…

Point Of Extinction Pt 16

TFP Shockwave x Reader

• You’re not sure what you expected, but for him to be more unsettling definitely wasn’t it. Had honestly thought that giving in might mellow him out, instead of whatever this is. Just staring at you, antenna back watching you try to clean yourself up with a damp rag. Still not sure what to make of his conviction to take care of you, including sexually. Though making the huge mech whine while you rode him? Apparently you have a thing for that. Flustered you glance at him and he’s still staring. “Thirteen’s body temperature is elevated,” he says, head tipping. Not about to admit that you get a little kick from dominating him or that you’re thinking about sex. Again.

• “Is it?” You mutter, rinsing the cloth he’d given you after you’d asked and then sliding it between your thighs. Cleaning away his release and it bothers him. Rumbling softly, he reaches to carefully catch your wrist, momentarily unsettled by how small your arm is in his grip. Aware that he could break you without meaning to. “What?” That you’re helpless to stop him. And that shivery sensation that can’t be fear slips through him, remembering being helpless.

• Servos curled loosely around your wrist, he’s just staring at his hand on you. Rocking forward slightly as his antenna flick. Absolutely not, he’s not having one of his moments with his big hands on you. Heart racing, you go up on tip toe. Can’t reach his face even with him mass displaced he’s so big, but you pat against his chassis until his optic brightens and he looks at you. Actually seeing you before his attention dips to the apex of your thighs. “My nanites are only effective if they remain inside,” he growls, reaching out with his free hand to cup you. And your brain blanks. Nanites?

• Pressing a servo inside you to keep you from washing away all of his release, you squirm. “I’m sorry. What?” You ask and he hooks an arm around you, cradling you against his chassis, his palm firmly between your thighs. Can always replenish his nanites, give you more, and that’s an unexpectedly desirable thought. “What nanites?” Can fill you again and stay inside you to make sure his release stays where it should be this time. Give his nanites time to work.

• Ignoring your question, he just makes a rough rumbling engine sound suspiciously like a purr. And you’re not letting this go, nanites sounds like weird sci-fi stuff and that crap goes right over your head. “How soon until you are amenable to being pleasured again?” Such a sweet talker, nose wrinkling at him as the servos of the hand cupping you to make sure you don’t wipe away anymore of his alien slick stroke you, you can’t let him distract you with sex, not when you have questions and he’s going to answer them. And that servo inside you is petting, coaxing your tired body despite your resolve and the fact that you’re still sore. Still slick with the last rounds. “I wish to pleasure you now.”

#transformers x reader #shockwave x reader #tfp shockwave

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devdozes · 1 day ago

Text

ACCIDENTALLY KIDNAPPING A MAFIA BOSS?!

silly idea :3 should i make this into a series? was listening to bring me to life while making this lmao (also more phainon fanart at the end of the post)

It started with a simple friendship—one that no one really questioned. You and Phainon were practically inseparable, an odd yet perfect duo that made everyone wonder how the universe aligned so well to bring you together.

Phainon was the golden retriever of your life, all bright smiles, mischievous grins, and boundless energy that made it impossible to be in a bad mood around him. He was always there—whether you wanted him to be or not.

Like that time when you had a late-night craving for bubble tea, and he showed up at your doorstep five minutes after your text, holding two cups like he had been waiting for the opportunity all night. Or when you got sick and insisted you were fine, only for him to barge into your apartment with an entire care package—complete with soup, blankets, and a ridiculously oversized hoodie that smelled like him.

“You don’t take care of yourself, so I gotta do it for you,” he had said, grinning as he forced a spoonful of soup into your mouth. “If I wasn’t around, who’d be your personal nurse, huh?”

You had rolled your eyes, but truthfully, you loved having him around.

Phainon was also a menace in the best way possible. He made it his personal mission to embarrass you in public, whether that meant dramatically fake-proposing to you in the middle of a grocery store or loudly announcing that you were his “number one best friend” every time he saw you in class.

“[NAME]!” he had once yelled across the university campus, sprinting toward you like a lunatic while students turned to stare. “I haven’t seen you in two hours! Did you miss me?”

You had barely dodged him, tackling you in front of everyone. “Phainon, oh my god, please calm down.”

He was never calm. He never was and never will be.

But that was what you loved about him—his relentless energy, his unwavering presence. No matter what, he was always there, like a constant, bright force in your life.

And yet, beneath the sunshine exterior, there were times when his blue eyes darkened, moments where his grip on your wrist would linger just a second too long, where his playful teasing held an edge of something deeper. Something..terrifying?

Phainon wasn’t just close to you—he revolved around you. Every little thing you did, every fleeting expression, every shift in your tone, he noticed. He memorized your favorite drinks, your quirks, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you loved. He lived for those moments.

There were nights he stayed up scrolling through your old messages, rereading your texts like they were sacred scripture. He had a folder on his phone filled with candid pictures of you—laughing, sleeping, lost in thought. Some you had sent him. Some you hadn't.

If anyone got too close, if anyone dared to make you laugh the way he did, his jaw would clench, his grip on his drink tightening. He knew you were his. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

And when you weren’t looking, when you weren’t aware of the way he watched you, the way his entire world narrowed down to just you—his smile would fade, his cheerful mask slipping, revealing the raw, unfiltered obsession lurking beneath.

On his wrist, always, was a simple black hair tie—yours. You had probably forgotten about it, left it on his wrist one day without a second thought, but to him, it was a sacred token, a symbol of ownership. He never took it off. It was stretched and worn from his constant fidgeting, his fingers absently tugging at it whenever you spoke, whenever you so much as smiled at someone else.

You had asked about it once, laughing, “Why do you always wear that? Do you even have long enough hair to need it?”

His grin was quick, easy. “It’s lucky,” he had replied, flicking it with his fingers. “And it reminds me of someone important.”

You had shrugged, not thinking much of it. But if you had paid closer attention, you would have noticed the way his fingers curled over the hair tie protectively, as if he were afraid someone would take it from him. As if losing it meant losing you.

Phainon was careful. He never let his obsession slip too far, never let you see the depths of his devotion. You thought he was just a clingy best friend, a lovable idiot who adored you. You didn’t know about the people who had gotten too close, only to suddenly lose interest, to quietly disappear from your life.

You didn’t know about the nights he watched you through the reflection of a window, keeping an eye on you from the shadows when you thought you were alone. You didn’t know about the things he had done, the people he had silenced, all to keep you safe—to keep you his.

And then, there were the little things. The way he always knew where you had been, even when you hadn’t told him. The way he always seemed to show up at just the right time, as if he had been tracking your schedule down to the second. He was always prepared—whether it was having your favorite drink ready before you even asked, or subtly steering you away from conversations with people he didn’t like. He never said it outright, never made his possessiveness obvious, but the hints were there. The intensity in his eyes when he watched you, the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when he pulled you away from a stranger, the way he always seemed to whisper, half-joking but dead serious, “You belong with me.”

It was a quiet evening when you curled up on your couch, flipping through channels absentmindedly, sipping on your favorite drink. The warm glow of the TV cast soft shadows across your living room, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion. That was, until the flashing "BREAKING NEWS" banner jolted you awake.

"Another victim of the infamous Flamereaver has been discovered in the city’s industrial district," the news anchor reported, their tone grim. "Authorities believe this is the latest in a string of calculated eliminations carried out by the elusive mafia leader. The identity of the Flamereaver remains unknown, but their signature brutality and precision leave no doubt—this was an execution."

You blinked, the weight of the report settling in your chest. The Flamereaver. You had heard the name before—who hadn’t? The ghostly swordmaster who had left entire organizations in ruin, a name spoken in hushed whispers, feared by even the most powerful figures in the underground world.

The news station flashed grainy images of the crime scene—police cars, body bags, shaken witnesses. You shivered, setting your drink down.

Another one? This was happening too often.

Your mind wandered, a passing thought striking you. Phainon had mentioned going out earlier, hadn’t he? Something about meeting an old friend.

You shook your head, dismissing the ridiculous idea that had briefly surfaced. No way. Not Phainon. He was too much of a goofball, too softhearted to be involved in something this violent.

Still, you couldn't help but feel an eerie chill run down your spine as you turned the volume down, trying to push away the unease settling deep within your bones as if someone or something was watching you.

Outside, hidden beneath the cover of darkness, Phainon stood motionless.

Draped in a black cloak and hoodie, his face concealed by the shadows, he watched you through your window, blue eyes burning with something indescribable. Admiration. Love.

You had no idea how beautiful you looked in this moment—so peaceful, so unaware. So his.

A gloved hand brushed against the black hair tie on his wrist, a slow, possessive motion. He never took it off. Just like he would never let you go.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you would understand.

Soon, you would be his completely.

And as the cold night pressed in, Phainon allowed a small, knowing smirk to curl at his lips. The world might fear the Flamereaver—but you? You would never have to.

Because he would do anything to keep you safe.

Even if it meant making sure no one else could ever have you. . . . . Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour. Only when the house lights dimmed, signaling you to retreat to bed, only then did Phainon finally move. He let out a slow exhale, fogging up the cold air before turning away, his steps eerily silent against the pavement.

And then, his expression changed.

His once cheerful blue eyes turned glacial, devoid of emotion. The warmth drained from his features as he tilted his head downward, staring at the lifeless body sprawled at his feet. A fresh corpse, still warm. Blood pooled beneath it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement, glistening under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The man’s face was twisted in frozen terror, eyes wide and vacant, his lips still parted as if in a final, unfinished plea for mercy.

Phainon had granted him none.

A golden blade protruded from the man’s chest, its edge gleaming even through the thick coat of crimson that dripped from its surface. Phainon knelt, completely unaffected, and with a practiced, almost lazy motion, he wiped the blade clean against the dead man’s own shirt. The metal shone again, immaculate, as if it had never been tainted with the act of ending a life.

His fingers moved to his face, smearing away a thin line of blood that had splattered across his cheek. The expression he wore now was unreadable—detached, mechanical. This was not the same Phainon who grinned and cracked jokes, who draped himself over your shoulders with a playful whine, who gazed at you like she was the very sun in his sky.

This was the Flamereaver.

His gaze flicked down at the corpse once more, unimpressed, before he stepped over it without hesitation, leaving only the scent of blood and death in his wake. His black hoodie rustled slightly in the night breeze, his golden blade disappearing into the folds of his cloak. As he walked, his fingers briefly brushed against the black hair tie wrapped securely around his wrist—the only tether left to the warmth he allowed himself to feel.

For her, he would remain the Phainon she knew.

For the rest of the world, he was a nightmare in human skin.

Meanwhile, inside your room, you sat on your bed, the faint hum of the television still lingering in the silence. You had retreated into your space, but your mind was far from tired. Instead, it buzzed with the same consuming thoughts that had plagued you for months—Phainon.

Your walls were a testament to your obsession, though no one else would ever see. A large corkboard hung above your desk, filled with drawings of him—his laughing expression, the soft tilt of his head, the way his golden blade gleamed when he trained. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edges of one of the sketches before you turned your gaze to the digital clock beside your bed.

12:30 AM.

Like clockwork, your head snapped toward your window. You knew Phainon's schedule down to the minute. He always returned home at this hour, no later, no sooner. You had memorized the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his habits, the way he sometimes hummed to himself under his breath when he thought no one was listening. The way he would smile, the way his oh so beautiful cerulean eyes would glimmer under the moonlight.

Slipping quietly to your window, you peered through the curtains, your pulse quickening with anticipation. Your eyes locked onto the street below, searching, waiting.

Because just like Phainon watched you, you had been watching him all along. . . . . . . Something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark black robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Your fingers clenched around the windowsill as you watched, heart pounding. The figure stood motionless for a moment before casually wiping the blade against their sleeve, as if the act of killing meant nothing to them. Then, with eerie calmness, they sheathed the weapon beneath their cloak and turned slightly, revealing just enough for you to see their towering frame—easily around 6'3.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between the figure and Phainon’s front door. He still wasn’t home. He was late. He was never late. A creeping dread coiled in your chest as you gripped your phone, debating whether to call him, to warn him. But would he believe you? Would you even be able to explain this?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just as they simply stood in front of Phainon's house, looking left and right as if he was searching for something.

But something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just standing their eerily in front of your best friend's house, looking left and right as if they were searching for something or someone. . . . . Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sprinted down the stairs, your thoughts racing just as fast. Who the hell was that outside Phainon's house? A murderer? A thief? Some lunatic waiting for Phainon to come home?

You didn’t stop to think. Your body moved on instinct.

Grabbing the cold, heavy metal baseball bat from beside the shoe rack, you tightened your grip, your knuckles turning white. As you shoved your hands into the worn leather knuckle gloves Phainon had given you—his little “gift” after you won a sparring match against him—you took a deep breath to steady yourself.

Stay calm. Stay sharp.

You flung open your front door and stormed outside, your breath misting in the night air. The distant hum of streetlights and the soft rustling of tree leaves did nothing to ease the sheer unease creeping up your spine.

And there he was.

The figure stood still—eerily, unnaturally still—right in front of Phainon’s house. His tall frame loomed at around 6’3, making him tower over most people. A long, black cloak with patterns of a crescent moon billowed slightly in the cold wind, its hood casting a deep shadow over his face. But what really made your blood run cold was the weapon in his hand.

A golden blade. Its edge gleamed faintly under the moonlight, marred by something dark, something wet. Blood.

Your grip on the bat tightened as your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t moving. He was just... standing there. Watching.

Was he waiting for Phainon? Did he already—No. You refused to finish that thought.

Without hesitation, you stormed forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Hey!” Your voice rang out in the dead of night, sharp and unwavering. “Oi bastard what the fuck are you doing outside his house?”

No response.

The man didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge you.

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed danger. But you weren’t about to back down.

“Oi, asshole! I’m talking to you!” You took another step forward, raising the bat slightly. “I don’t know what creepy shit you’re trying to pull, but you better step the fuck away from Phainon’s house before I break that fancy little sword of yours over my knee.”

Still, nothing. The figure remained silent, his presence as cold and unmoving as a statue.

The only shift was the subtle tilt of his head—just slightly—like he was regarding you.

Something about that small movement made your skin crawl.

Why did it feel so familiar?

But you had no time to second-guess yourself.

You tightened your stance, shifting your weight, ready to swing if you had to. This bastard wasn’t about to get past you.

The figure finally moved.

With slow, deliberate precision, he tilted his head downward—as if looking at the bloodied golden blade in his grasp. Then, with an eerily casual flick of his wrist, he wiped the blood off its edge with his gloved fingers.

The movement was practiced. Effortless. Like he had done this a thousand times before.

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t just some random thug.

This man was a killer.

And yet… he still didn’t strike.

He simply stood there, staring at his weapon, his face obscured by the cloak’s deep hood. The silence between you stretched, suffocating and unnerving.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

For a split second, you considered your next move. Should you charge at him? Should you call someone? Should you—

You stood frozen in place, gripping your bat so tightly your hands ached.

The golden weapon. The black cloak. The blood. The way he moved. The way he didn’t attack you.

Your stomach churned.

Who the hell was that?

And why… did something about him feel so unsettlingly familiar?

. . . .

The moment he turned his back on you, something inside snapped.

Oh, hell no.

You weren’t about to let some bloodstained creep just walk away after standing in front of Phainon’s house like some horror movie stalker. What if he was waiting for Phainon to come home? What if he had already done something?

You didn’t even think. You ran.

Your feet pounded against the pavement as you rushed forward, closing the distance between you and the cloaked bastard in seconds.

And then—

CRACK.

Your fist slammed into the side of his face, the impact so strong you felt his jaw shift beneath your knuckles.

The force of your punch sent him staggering back, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

You pivoted on your heel, twisting your body for momentum, before swinging again.

BAM!

Your second punch landed hard on the opposite side of his face, his hood shifting slightly from the sheer impact.

The bastard stumbled further, nearly losing his balance.

But you didn’t give him a second to recover.

Your hands gripped the bat tightly—muscles coiling like a spring—before you swung with everything you had.

WHAM!

The bat slammed into his head with full force.

A sickening thud echoed through the empty street as the figure’s entire body jerked from the impact.

His legs gave out instantly.

His body collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

The once-imposing figure—shrouded in mystery, with a golden weapon still faintly glinting in his grip—now lay sprawled out at your feet.

Knocked out cold.

You took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, before glancing down at him.

And then…

You grinned.

A slow, faint smile curled at your lips as you admired your handiwork.

There was something thrilling about seeing this so-called intimidating figure sprawled out, helpless, after you had beaten him down.

“Tch.” You scoffed, tilting your head slightly as you inspected his unconscious form. “What, that’s it? No fight back? No last words? Kinda disappointing, really.”

You nudged his side with your foot, testing for any movement.

Nothing.

Your smirk widened.

This idiot seriously underestimated you.

Big mistake.

The golden weapon lay loosely in his grip now, the blood along its edge darkening under the moonlight. You eyed it for a moment, debating whether to take it—or at least break it—but then your gaze flickered back to the figure’s half-uncovered face.

And for a split second, something nagged at you.

Something felt… off.

That jawline… that build…

Why did he look so—

You shook the thought away. Who cares?

Right now, you needed to figure out what to do next.

This bastard clearly wasn’t some random mugger. Murderer? Maybe. Either way, you weren’t about to leave him lying here without some answers.

Maybe… you should drag him somewhere and question him when he wakes up.

Your grin turned sharper.

Yeah. That sounded like a fun idea.

You exhaled sharply, gripping the unconscious figure by his arm as you dragged his heavy, lifeless body across the pavement.

His golden weapon gleamed faintly under the streetlights, the bloodstains dark and fresh along its edge. You had it clutched tightly in your other hand, fingers curling around the hilt as you stole a glance at its intricate design.

This was no ordinary blade.

No mugger or common thug carried something this finely crafted.

Your grip tightened.

Who the hell was this guy?

Even unconscious, his presence felt off—too eerily still, too controlled, even in this state. It almost pissed you off.

No fear. No desperation. Just… silence.

You dragged him up the porch of your house, gritting your teeth at his weight before kicking open the door.

THUD.

His body hit the floorboards with a dull noise, limbs sprawled like a broken puppet.

Without wasting a second, you grabbed a chair, shoved it into the center of the room, and hauled him onto it.

His black cloak rustled as you forced his arms behind his back, tying them up tightly with thick rope. You did the same to his legs, making sure he couldn’t move an inch.

But the most unsettling part?

Even as you worked, his face remained hidden beneath that black metal mask—its golden vine-like engravings catching the dim light of the room.

You stepped back, crossing your arms as you inspected your handiwork.

He looked… oddly regal like this. A fallen king, tied up and waiting for judgment.

You tilted your head.

Something about this moment—about him sitting there, unmoving, under your control—sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

You stared.

Now… all you had to do was wait.

You stepped forward, tapping the flat edge of his own golden weapon against your palm, staring at him with amusement.

“Alright, mystery man,” you muttered under your breath, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see who the hell you really are.”

And with that, you settled onto the couch across from him—watching.

Waiting. . . . . .

You sat on the couch, idly twirling the golden weapon in your grip, its weight heavier than you expected. The craftsmanship was exquisite—each detail carved with precision, the sharp gleam of the blade still slick with drying blood.

Your fingers traced the intricate patterns along the hilt, a mix of black and gold, before your gaze drifted lower…

And then you saw it.

A small engraving near the base of the blade.

A crescent moon.

Your brows furrowed as you leaned in, squinting at the faint lettering just beneath it—so subtle, it was almost impossible to notice unless you were looking closely.

“Flame—”

Your stomach dropped.

“—Reaver.”

Your breath hitched.

Your grip on the sword tightened, pulse hammering in your ears as realization slammed into you like a freight train.

No. No, no, no—this had to be some sick joke.

Flame Reaver wasn’t just some low-level criminal—he was a fucking legend. A nameless swordmaster, a phantom of the underworld, responsible for massacres that tore entire syndicates apart.

Nobody knew who he was. Nobody even had a confirmed sighting.

But every victim—every last one—had been ripped apart with a blade.

And you just… tied him up.

In your own house.

Fuck.

A low groan echoed from across the room.

You froze.

The sound sent a cold shiver crawling down your spine.

Your head snapped toward the chair.

The figure—Flame Reaver—shifted slightly, his bound form tensing as he started to regain consciousness.

Your fingers instinctively curled around the weapon tighter, but your palms felt sweaty now.

Shit.

Your mind raced.

What were you supposed to do? Run? Kill him? Hope he has amnesia?!

Before you could even decide—

His head lifted slightly.

His chest rose and fell steadily.

And then—

The black metal mask tilted up, ever so slightly…

And you could feel it.

Even without seeing his eyes, you could feel his gaze locking onto you.

A quiet, low chuckle rasped through the air.

Oh, you were so fucking dead.

A dull, throbbing pain bloomed at the back of his skull. His senses were sluggish, slow to return, like wading through thick water. For a few moments, there was nothing but darkness, a heavy weight pressing down on him, his body sluggish and foreign. Then, piece by piece, it all began to come back.

The night. The streets. Blood.

A fight. A sharp pain bursting at the side of his head.

And then—

His consciousness snapped into place like a whip.

His muscles tensed.

Bound.

His arms wouldn’t move.

Neither would his legs.

The air was stale. The scent of the room was faintly familiar—wood, a trace of perfume, something warm yet utterly foreign in this moment. But none of it compared to the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he was restrained.

A cold blade of tension ran up his spine.

He knew better than anyone that being tied up meant being vulnerable. He was never the one on this end of the rope. Never.

Where the fuck was he?

Slowly, deliberately, he cracked his eyes open behind the black metal mask.

And the moment he did—

His breath caught in his throat.

There, seated in front of him, holding his own golden blade, was 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

But it wasn’t you. Not the way he knew you. Not the way he had memorized you—every expression, every playful glint in your eyes, every ridiculous joke you cracked at his expense. The warmth, the laughter, the way you made his obsessive devotion feel justified.

No.

The person sitting in front of him now—this was different.

You were looking at him wrong.

Your expression was cold.

Your fingers gripped his weapon with a force that made your knuckles go white.

And worst of all—

You were looking at him with pure burning hatred.

Not mild irritation, not the usual exasperation you had when he stole your food or teased you too much—real, burning hatred.

Why? What Happened? Why..why were you..

His breath came slow and measured, but his mind raced violently. Everything was wrong. Everything was out of place.

And then it hit him.

You didn't know.

You didn't realize.

You didn’t know it was him. You didn't know that he was flamereaver You didn't know that he killed for you for years. He felt something deep and ugly twist inside his chest, but he remained utterly still. If he spoke now—if his voice slipped, if his tone wavered even slightly—you would realize. And he wasn't ready for that.

The second you moved closer, heart pounding in your chest, your fingers reached for the black and gold metal mask covering his face.

But before you could even brush against it—

SNAP.

The ropes shattered like they were made of paper.

Your eyes widened.

What the fuck—?!

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step back, a sharp golden clawed hand shot up and grasped your wrist.

Not tightly. Not enough to hurt.

But enough to stop you in your tracks.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the sharp, deadly claws glinting in the dim light. They were curved like talons, polished gold reflecting your startled expression. They could have pierced your skin. Could have ripped through flesh effortlessly.

But they didn’t.

He wasn’t hurting you.

He wasn’t even squeezing your wrist.

He was just… holding it.

Stopping you.

Slowly, your gaze trailed up from the golden claws to his mask.

It was still intact. Still covering his entire face. That damn mask—black with intricate golden vine-like patterns etched into it, elegant yet eerily haunting.

And then, he moved.

Not roughly. Not aggressively. But with a deliberateness that sent shivers down your spine.

He tilted his head.

His free hand, the one that had just torn through the restraints like they were nothing, reached up towards his mask but stopped.

Like he was considering something.

Like he was debating.

Your breath felt uneven. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move any further.

He just… held your wrist in place. Why isn't he hurting you?? Why isn't he trying to kill you?? What fucking game is he playing.

A sharp tension filled the room, thick and suffocating.

Your fingers twitched, still aching to rip that mask off.

To see who the hell he really was.

But his claws remained firm on your wrist—gentle, yet unyielding.

He was stopping you.

But he wasn’t hurting you.

And that was somehow worse.

Who the fuck was he?

Your fingers tightened. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, a deafening rhythm of adrenaline and disbelief.

He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t trying to stop you any further, only holding your wrist in that maddeningly gentle yet firm grip.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp inhale, you yanked your hand free from his grasp and lunged forward.

Your fingers caught the edges of the black metal mask, and before he could react—

Rip.

You tore it off his face.

The mask clattered onto the wooden floor with a loud, echoing clang.

And for a split second—

You still had no idea who he was.

Because your eyes weren’t on his face yet.

They were on his hands—his claws. They were trembling, the golden tips slick with faint traces of blood.

And then—

Then you saw it.

The moment your gaze snapped up to meet his—

You stopped breathing.

Your stomach twisted into a thousand knots.

Because staring back at you—

Was a pair of wide, terrified, cerulean blue eyes.

A face framed by fluffy white hair.

A face you had seen every single day.

This can't be fucking real.

“P—Phainon?”

But you didn't even get a chance to speak the words in your mind.

Because in the next second—

Your back hit the floor.

He pinned you down against the cold wooden floor.

Your wrists were trapped beneath his claws, his weight pressing down against you. His breath was uneven, a mixture of fear, adrenaline, and something unreadable swimming in those now-exposed, once-gentle blue eyes.

Now they were shaken.

Now they were desperate.

But the worst part?

There was blood on his face.

Small splatters of blood on the corner of his jaw and cheek.

And it wasn’t his.

No, no, no, no.

Your brain couldn’t process it.

Couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Because this was Phainon.

Your best friend.

The cheerful idiot who always smiled at you, laughed with you, annoyed you.

He couldn't be—

The Flamereaver.

But the golden blade lying beside you on the floor—

The bloodstains on his face, his hands, his claws—

The fact that he had been standing outside his own house, alone, covered in blood, wearing a mask.

The fact that he hadn't said a single word.

It all made sense.

HI GANG !! this is the fanart I did for phainon. i am so down bad for him if you like this , please like, follow, reblog and comment :D

LONG HAIR PHAINON AAAA

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fangdokja · 18 hours ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙃𝙚'𝙨 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙠𝙢𝙖𝙣

The first knock is polite.

Rhythmic, even.

A pattern you recognize: three taps, a pause, then two more. It’s your usual milkman’s way of announcing himself—an old man with stiff joints, wrinkled hands, and a tired smile. Mr. Hayashi never misses a day. Never strays from routine.

But when you peer through the peephole, the figure standing on your porch is not Mr. Hayashi.

The uniform is the same—crisp white, the company logo stitched neatly over his chest. The cap is identical, shadowing a face too perfect to belong to anyone who delivers dairy for a living.

He grins. It’s wide. Blinding.

"Hey there, sweetheart."

You don’t move. The handle of the door feels cold beneath your palm.

His voice is playful, airy. "Aren’t you gonna let me in?"

The uneasy weight in your stomach thickens.

"Mr. Hayashi always leaves the bottles by the door," you say through the wood.

Something in his expression flickers, just for a second. But then he chuckles, head tilting like a predator indulging a particularly amusing prey.

"Ah, but I’m not Mr. Hayashi, am I?"

Your pulse trips.

There’s a shift—so small, you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t already hyper-aware. The air presses heavier, like something vital has just been sealed. The hallway behind you shrinks, the walls closing in.

The doppelganger lifts a gloved hand and presses it flat against the door.

"I’d really like to come in, though."

A pause.

"You should let me in."

A command, disguised as suggestion.

You turn to grab your phone.

The door caves inward.

You don’t even get the chance to scream before he’s inside, before gloved fingers seize your throat and press you against the nearest wall. The scent of cold air and something artificial clings to him, sickly sweet and sterile. His grip isn’t tight—just firm, a reminder that he could snap your neck if he wanted to.

"That’s cute." He leans in, lips brushing your ear. "You really thought that’d work?"

His hips grind against yours, deliberate, a filthy little tease. There’s nothing rushed about him, no sign of desperation—just indulgence. Leisure.

Like he enjoys watching you tremble.

"I mean," he exhales, nosing at the curve of your jaw. "You opened the door, didn’t you?"

You didn’t. He did.

But you can’t say that—because his fingers are already slipping lower, already cupping between your thighs through the thin fabric of your shorts.

"I was just gonna have a little fun," he murmurs, faux sympathy dripping from every syllable. "But now…"

His palm presses harder.

"Now I think I’ll stay for breakfast."

He grins when your breath hitches, when you writhe but don’t escape.

Like he’s already won. Like he already knows—

You won’t be getting out of this.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh , @call-memissbrightside

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gabriella-arareyes · 15 hours ago

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Reasons why I absofuckinglutely loved First Frost:

Okay, it's 1 a.m., and I just finished First Frost. I need to unload all my emotions, thoughts, reviews—everything—because there’s a LOT.

First of all, it has been a hot minute since I’ve enjoyed a Chinese drama this much. But First Frost reminded me why I love East Asian dramas in the first place. It pulled me in, chewed me up, and spat me out in the best way possible.

And since I’m now a full-fledged adult (ugh), I no longer have my childhood bestie to call on our landline at 2 a.m. to scream about a new drama. So here I am, dumping my thoughts onto the internet instead.

Reasons why I absofuckinglutely loved First Frost:

1. Wen Yifan is NOT your average female lead. She’s layered, mysterious, and in my opinion, the series's hero. Sang Yan, while being the main male lead, honestly felt more like her love interest. We see everything through her lens, and unlike many dramas where the male lead gets all the depth, First Frost had its focus on our complex female lead.

Sang Yan? We know a little bit about his character—but we don’t really get to know him beyond his role in Wen Yifan’s life. And honestly? I find that dynamic super refreshing.

2. People say Wen Yifan is "boring"— IMO: she’s real. Some might say she’s too quiet or reserved, but that’s what makes her character so compelling. She had died so many times in her lifetime through numerous heartbreaks at such a young age, so I don't think it's very fitting to see a typical bubbly female lead.

If there’s a sun in this drama, it’s Sang Yan (don't let his cold demeanor fool you, he is actually very warm).

3. Wen Yifan standing up to her mother was everything. As a Filipino, I understand how deep family ties run. But I also know that family is more than just blood—it’s about who actually shows up for you. So when Wen Yifan didn’t just blindly forgive her mother for being her mother, that was one of the most satisfying moments in the entire series.

<<SPOILER ALERT>> Wen Yifan cutting off her mom? BADASS. And completely justified. Asian culture often pushes the narrative of the ever-filial child, but this drama made an important statement: Parents have a duty to their children, too.

4. The plot is THICC. It’s not just romance. Not only do we get the layered, slow-burn romance between Wen Yifan and Sang Yan (which, by the way, is the epitome of first love-to-mature love evolution), but this drama also tackles:

Family issues (Wen Yifan’s mom, Su Haoan’s family struggles)

Sexual harassment (Subplot of a crime, can you believe it?)

The reality of enduring love is not all butterflies and roses. It goes through pain, patience, and healing before it can stand the test of time.

It’s a deep, emotionally rich story with multiple subplots that actually get proper resolution (a rarity in dramas, let’s be real).

5. Their time apart was NECESSARY Yes, it hurts that they didn’t date for six years. But let’s be honest—if they had, they wouldn’t have grown into the people they needed to be for each other. Their separation made their reunion even stronger, and it set them up for a long and enduring love with lots of understanding and deep connection.

6. Su Haoan & Zhong Siqiao? Adorable!!! Their relationship added just the right amount of fluff when things got too emotionally heavy. There are times when I look forward to watching these two, because I can't wait to see how their love story unfolds.

7. The intimacy was perfectly done. Not over the top, not underwhelming—just right. Through their long embrace and sweet (and hot) kisses, you can feel their yearning for each other after being apart for 6 years. ALSOO DARE I SAY, by East Asian drama standards? Those make-out scenes were intense. Bless.

8. I was on my toes the whole timeee!! The ending tied up every loose thread beautifully. No plot holes, no random forgotten side stories (we are fully aware that other dramas introduce subplots just to ghost them).

9. The acting? EXQUISITE. Bai Jing Ting and Zhang Ruo Nan understood the assignment. Bai Jing Ting’s micro-expressions are on point! Specifically, I love how his eyebrows are very expressive. While our girl Zhang Ruo Nan’s ability to embody Wen Yifan's quiet, reserved, shy, but also assertive demeanor is just chef's kiss!

10. The OST? Absolute banger.

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

The story does not end yet:

I just found out that First Frost is a spin-off of Hidden Love! Which makes SO much sense because I knew there was something familiar about Sang Zhi and Duan Jiaxu. And now? I need to:

✔ Read the First Frost and Hidden Love novels ✔ Watch Hidden Love ✔ Read the First Frost manhua (Eternal Love)

So yeah. I am deep in this rabbit hole now, and I have no regrets.

10/10. Would spiral into obsession again.

Wen Shuangjiang, don't you get it? After all these years, I still only like you.

The First Frost 难哄 (2025) dir. by Chu Yu Ning [upcoming]

#first frost #the first frost #cdrama #bai jingting #zhang ruonan #edward chen #zhang miaoyi #sang yan #wen yifan #I am just a fan that can't get over how beautiful First Frost it #I don't know how else to cope

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pieandflannel · 1 day ago

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౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ talking to the moon 🌔

₊⊹ ʚ ₊⊹｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ｡˚ ₊⊹｡ ₊⊹ ୨♡୧ ⊹₊ ｡⊹₊ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ｡⊹₊ ɞ ⊹₊

pairing: dean winchester x gn!reader

summary: you never really got over deans death.

cw: heavy angst, death, grief, denial. brief reference to events in s15.

word count: 684

julia yaps: i literally cried while writing this… </3 (proof)

inspo: talking to the moon by bruno mars + s15 ep20

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

you knew the risks of this job. you and the boys always have. any day can be your last, every hunter knew it and accepted that fate, but now?— you are taking baby out for another ride onto an empty field where you regularly go, you park it and walk out, the door creaking like always, something dean never really cared to take care of when it came to baby. but that’s what gave her personality.

you sit on the hood of the impala looking up at the darkening sky, dean’s last words to you repeating themselves inside your head. “when you look up at the night sky and see the first star appear, that’ll be me saying i love you, so look out for it, okay sweetheart?”

you take off the jacket you’re wearing, dean’s favourite green jacket, and lay it beside you on the hood. you gently stroke the canvas material, a button finding it’s way under your fingertips. tears forming in your eyes as you remember how much dean loved to wear that jacket. You didn’t even have the courage to wash it.

the feeling of longing ripping you apart from the inside out. no matter how long ago it happened, it will never feel real. denial haunts you every single day ever since dean passed away.

as you wipe away your tears you notice the first star up in the sky, “hi dean” you spoke softly with a small sad smile, not being able to hold your tears in. soft sobs coming from your petite being.

rarely has there been a night where you didn’t talk to the moon and stars, desperately hoping that they pass on your messages to heavens mailroom.

“i miss you so much… we all do, especially sammy.. he misses his older brother” you say, your voice croaky from the tears. you wipe your eyes with your sleeve, it’s being stained with your tears after so many nights of crying.

“miracle literally has to have one of your flannels in his doggy bed in order to sleep properly..” you spoke up to the sky, but deep down you were praying that dean was listening.

“i even gave baby a bath today..” you share, your hand gently patting her, imagining dean proudly smiling at the news. “i couldn’t collect myself to clean the inside just yet… but at least she’s shiny on the outside now” tears welling up in your eyes as you talk with a pained smile.

“i hope you know how much i love you… and that there is not a single day where i don’t think about you” you take a deep breath, trying to stop yourself from sobbing. the frosty air burning your nostrils. but the cold weather doesn’t stop you from talking to dean before sleep. it became a ritual, a habit of yours. you couldn’t go to sleep unless you did so.

you sit in silence for a good while, just appreciating the stars shining. star gazing used to be your and deans go to date. he would drive the impala onto this exact field, park it and the two of you would simply gaze up into the night sky, cuddle up into each other and exchange some stories or memories of yours. whether it was a funny one or traumatic, it didn’t matter because you had each other.

this was also the place where dean confessed his feelings for you years ago, so this spot holds a very special place in your heart.

the faint sounds of your sniffles echo through the grass, you take a deep breath before speaking up again, “i should get going.. but i’ll be back tomorrow” you reassure, grabbing the jacket and putting it on before sliding down the car.

you wave up into the sky, and at that exact moment a shooting star flies across the sky. you gasp softly deciding to take that as a sign, you were well aware that others thought of you as a bit delusional, but you didn’t care, you needed to believe. faith is what kept you somewhat sane.

“goodnight dean, sleep well”

disclaimer: grief can be a very very difficult thing to deal with, i myself go through it every day for the past couple of years, it never really goes away, so if you ever need someone to talk to or for someone to simply hear you out, feel free to message/contact me! you are never alone and you always have me! <333

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3

tags: @jensino @emeraldcrs @soldiersgirl @jensenacklesballsack @missus-ackles @littlesoulshine @deanswifeyy @slut4jackles @h8aaz @figisonline @figthoughts @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @rositaslabyrinth @deanspookiebear @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @heartrendercastiel

♡ comment to be added/removed!

#deanwinchester #pieandflannel #Dean is actually alive because I don’t believe in season fifteen #supernatural #spn #fanfic #dean x reader #dean winchester drabble #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester angst #dean x you #spn angst #angst #jensen ackles

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ferigrievous · 2 days ago

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USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI HCS ⋆˚࿔

says good morning at any time of day and sees nothing wrong with it

the kind of guy who pees with the bathroom lights off and door wide open.

completely unfazed by horror movies, but jumps a little when the toaster is finished

autistic. got diagnosed when he was like four and he thinks it doesnt affect his life but everyone else knows otherwise.

a quarter south east asian on his moms side, but he doesnt know where because they barely talk.

doesnt know how to pose for photos, even post timeskip, and stopped smiling in them for a while because a fan called it scary

doesnt understand sarcasm, and finds it odd that people think he’s being sarcastic often. he speaks the way he wants to be understood, and hates it when people find ulterior meanings

has a little bit of an ego, but its lowkey justified. people talk about him like he's the reincarnation of jesus, so its only natural he thinks that he's better than the average person. doesnt act like it on purpose though.

driest texter in the world like actually. dont even bother texting him at all.

never asks for help when he should, and is stubborn enough to go at it until it works

became self aware in his thirties but didnt end up changing because he doesnt feel the need to explain himself. the people he cares about understand him, and thats enough for him

has had the same breakfast every day for years. only thing he changes is the drink.

probably very particular about the way he does certain things, but not in a way that makes sense to other people, and will not explain it to anyone.

biggest pet peeve is wasting time

has absolutely no awareness of pop culture. he literally reads the ads on magazines this man does not know who beyonce is.

doesnt own anything he doesnt need to own, so his place post timeskip literally looks like he just moved in yesterday

but he also keeps everything anyone has ever given him, and is basically the only decoration

doesnt think of it as sentimentality, more of ‘if i throw this away im disrespecting the person who gave it to me

he doesnt even have a TV, and didnt have a dishwasher until he turned thirty

very practical dresser. doesnt own anything just for ‘fashion’. very function over form

actually reads instruction manuals back to front

genuinely honest to god could not care about social norms. not even in a rebellious way, but in a ‘why would i put in that much effort to be misunderstood anyway’ way

never rewatches shows or movies. doesnt get the concept of it.

a very good listener, but only offers logical solutions

doesnt believe in luck.

never loses his temper, just gets really quiet and cold because he doesnt want to say something he doesnt mean.

always drives the exact speed limit. no more, no less, and if someone brings it up while riding with him, he’ll give them the nastiest side eye unintentionally

once won a raffle and tried to give the prize back because ‘someone else might need it more’

doesn’t correct people when they misunderstand him. they’ll figure it out or they won’t

has never once left a voicemail. if they don’t pick up, he just hangs up

when he’s done talking to someone, he just stops responding

actually a really good cook but eats like three meals because he just doesnt have time

has never once in his life misplaced a sock,

always remembers exactly where he parked, no matter which exit he comes out from

people assume he’s no fun, but he just has very specific definitions of fun

[ req ; @deardoelle ]

#⊹ ࣪ ˖ greywrites #⊹ ࣪ ˖ headcanons #haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x reader #haikyuu ushijima #hq ushijima #ushijima x you #haikyuu time skip

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crownics · 3 days ago

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McLennon won’t be revealed overnight, nor will he be exposed in an explosive way as everyone wants and expects. For over 50 years, they have been weaving wrong and false narratives. These narratives are already ingrained in the minds of older fans and intrinsically plastered in the history of the Beatles. The change of parameters that we want regarding Lennon/McCartney won’t be abrupt or happen magically. People don’t accept when something is imposed on them, even more so when they have very strong beliefs and refuse to give up what they have always believed. The view that John and Paul were lovers and had an affair is relatively recent and only part of a new generation of fans. It’s still a niche “theory” that few people know about. Not everyone has contact with it. Only the youngest fans are aware of it. And we are a minority. If this “theory” is exposed without any filter and spilled all at once, the old audience is likely to reject it and show aversion to it (as always happens when we ourselves present this narrative to other Beatlemaniacs). Unfortunately, some people will not deal well with the idea that John and Paul were lovers. Human beings tend to be frightened by the unknown and to create resistance to the new. We are talking about past generations and a cultural heritage. Everyone already has, in their heads, a preconceived concept that John and Paul were just friends and brothers. Precisely for this reason, the idea that they were in love needs to be implemented with caution, persuasion and subtlety. It needs to be gradual so that it can first be processed, and then finally accepted. Profound changes are prolonged and take time. You have to learn to dribble and gradually convince. All this movement has been happening since Get Back and the release of Now and Then and, if we stop to think about it, none of the information is being released all at once. They are taking it slow — it’s no wonder we’ve been stuck on this turning point for almost five years.

Ian Leslie can turn things around and get other historians, biographers, and fans to follow the same path. He won’t provide all the answers to the questions we have. He won’t make any big announcements. We won’t find out (at least for now) what really happened in Paris or India. Unfortunately, an LGBTQ+ woman or man wouldn’t be taken seriously, because the Beatles fandom is extremely sexist, misogynistic, and homophobic. The fact that the first person to come up with this “theory” was a straight, white man gives us a certain advantage and, like it or not, caused an extremely strong initial impact. It’s fair? Definitely not. However, it gives us support and we can take advantage of it. This book is for a audience that doesn’t know half of what will be written there like we do. It’s not exactly for us, because theoretically we already know everything about John and Paul’s relationship/history. It’s being released with the objective of introducing McLennon to the rest of the world. The point it’s Ian is bringing a new emotional perspective to John and Paul — a dependent, passionate, romantic view that many deny or refuse to accept — not that he will reveal secrets that have been kept hidden for decades. I’m not saying that we need to idolize him or put him on a pedestal, because we absolutely don’t. His character and intentions are being questioned, and it’s a valid question. But I do think that we need to take a broader, more general view of what is going on. Try calm down.

#mclennon #the beatles #john & paul #john lennon #paul mccartney #lennon/mccartney #ian leslie #john and paul: a love story in songs

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fixated-cookies · 3 hours ago

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Imagine pv and shmilk competing to be the one who fills us up with their babies...

this one is a long one! i've been working on this for two days now.

Warning- pregnancy talk, double penetration

Smut ahead

“This is unacceptable,” Shadow Milk growled, throwing his hands up dramatically. “How dare you think you get to be the one to—to get them pregnant!”

Pure Vanilla, as calm as ever, turned his head just enough to glance at him. “What are you on about now, Shadow Milk?” All he did was subtly bring up how cute you'd look with his kids.

“Oh, you know exactly what I’m on about,” Shadow Milk sneered, his voice turning into a mockery of sweetness. “You think you’re entitled to that privilege? Meant to be the one who gets them pregnant?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong, Vanilla. You’re too… gentle for that. Too sweet. The world isn’t gentle enough for what’s required.” He wagged a finger at him, his voice turning to a purr of superiority. “You wouldn’t even know what to do, would you?”

Pure Vanilla’s smile never faltered. “I’m sure our dear one would appreciate my gentleness far more than your… showy theatrics.” He said this with a calm certainty that only made Shadow Milk’s frustration grow. “No, no, no!” Shadow Milk snapped, throwing his arms out wide. “I’ve worked for this! You think it’s just about being gentle? You have to know how to excite them, to keep them wanting more, to make them feel like they need you!” He looked Pure Vanilla up and down with a smug grin. “You wouldn’t even know what to do when they get desperate, would you? Hmm? All you do is offer sweet words and soft touches, Vanilla. You have to demand attention! You have to claim them!”

Pure Vanilla simply chuckled, not at all fazed by the outburst. “Oh, I’m aware of what they need,” he said softly, the warmth of his voice undercut by a steely edge. “And I believe our dear one appreciates the way I give it to them… with patience and care.” He stood up slowly, placing his hands on his chest. “I am their protector. The one they can always rely on. They don’t need your… chaotic displays.”

Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a sinister grin. “Chaotic? You call this chaotic?” He gestured to himself dramatically. “I’m the one who can give them excitement—who can challenge them!” He leaned in closer to Pure Vanilla, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “I can make them beg for me. Beg to have my child.”

Pure Vanilla’s smile faltered for just a second, and a flicker of something more intense passed over his face. But then he straightened up, his calm persona returning. “You think that’s what they need? Something as trivial as excitement? No, Shadow Milk, they need stability. They need someone who can give them what they truly desire, long-term.” His gaze turned almost predatory for a moment, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “And I’m more than happy to give it to them… again and again.”

For a moment, the two stood locked in a silent battle, their personalities at odds, but both resolute in their beliefs. But then, in an unexpected twist, Shadow Milk broke the silence with a sharp laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fine, Vanilla. You think you’ve got it all figured out? You really think you can win this? Go ahead, try. But just know, I’ll be right there watching, ready to take the crown when you falter.” He grinned wickedly. Pure Vanilla’s smile remained, though there was something dangerously sharp about it now. “If you insist.”

....

The atmosphere in the room was suffocatingly warm—not from discomfort, but from the sheer attention radiating from both sides. You were seated between them on the couch, one on either side, caged in by their devotion. They weren’t holding you down, and yet, somehow, you felt trapped, as if the weight of their unspoken desires pinned you in place.

"You've been so quiet, my dear," Pure Vanilla murmured, his breath warm against your temple. "So shy… yet, I can feel it. Your heart—" his lips brushed your hairline in the faintest of kisses, "—it races when we're close, doesn't it?"The heat in your cheeks was unbearable. He always spoke so sweetly, so full of love, yet there was something weighty underneath it all.

From the other side, Shadow Milk Cookie smirked at the scene unfolding before him. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was an unmistakable glint of longing behind them. He draped an arm over the back of the couch, his posture lazy, but his presence was anything but. "Poor thing," he purred, shifting even closer, his lips almost dangerously close to your ear. "Are we overwhelming you? Hmm? You can tell us, darling. Or better yet—" his hand ghosted lower, his fingertips grazing the fabric of your clothing just above your stomach so faintly it was almost like he wasn’t touching you at all, "show us." Your breath hitched and the air changed.

The teasing was still there, the playful light in Shadow Milk’s eyes, the soft, unwavering patience in Pure Vanilla’s touch. But there was something else now.

Shadow Milk’s fingers stilled just over your lower stomach, barely pressing, almost as if he was imagining something there. His grin turned into something softer, more contemplative, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "Wouldn't it be funny?" he murmured, a chuckle escaping his lips, but this time it lacked its usual sharpness. "A little version of you… of us?"

Pure Vanilla Cookie exhaled softly, his hand shifting, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before he let his palm rest just below your navel, overlapping Shadow Milk’s touch. His fingers were warm, comforting. "How sweet it would be," he sighed, voice almost dreamy. "A child—our child." His thumb traced absent circles, his voice low, reverent. "A little one… with your eyes." He let the words linger, watching for your reaction. Shadow Milk huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Of course, you'd say something all soft and poetic," he muttered rolling his eyes, though his fingers still hadn’t moved. "Come on, my dear," he cooed, leaning in once more. "I bet you'd look so cute, round and full, carrying something so precious."

Pure Vanilla smiled sweetly, a soft hum vibrating in his chest. "It’s just a thought, my love," he assured, but his touch lingered, warm and achingly affectionate. "One I can’t seem to let go of."

Shadow Milk, never one to be outdone, grinned. "Come now, darling," he crooned. "You know you want to imagine it too."

They were closing in on you, pressing their love, their desires, their devotion against you with every soft word, every lingering touch. The intensity of it all was suffocating, yet... somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away."

One moment, they were simply talking, coaxing you, murmuring things they knew would fluster you beyond belief. The next? You had two pairs of lips pressed against your skin, hot, needy, desperate, peppering kisses across every inch of your face like they were starving.

Pure vanilla kisses were slow yet powerful. his lips hot against your skin as if he were consuming you.

"Ah, ah, Pure Vanilla," Shadow Milk chuckled between kisses, pressing his lips against your jaw before trailing them up toward your cheek, grinning when he felt you squirm. "You’re being so slow. If you hesitate, I might just take all these sweet little kisses for myself." Pure Vanilla barely spared him a glance, too focused on you, your warmth, your scent, pressing tender, melting kisses along your forehead, your temple, your fluttering lashes. His lips trembled against your skin, his breath ragged—he wasn’t just kissing you, he was soaking you in, indulging like a man deprived.

"You're so impatient," he finally murmured, voice breathy, thick with longing. His fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your face toward him, forcing Shadow Milk to relinquish you for just a moment. "Slow down. Let them breathe." Shadow Milk scoffed, rolling his eyes as he stubbornly kissed down the column of your neck instead.

"Oh, please," he taunted, voice syrupy, mocking, but low with want. His fingers gripped at your waist, almost kneading, thumbs brushing over your ribs as if he needed to keep touching you. "You want them just as much as I do, don’t pretend otherwise."

Pure Vanilla let out a soft, wavering breath against your lips before pressing the sweetest, deepest kiss there. His lips lingered, molding against yours in a way that felt more like a plea than a kiss. He was desperate. He wanted you to feel it. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he exhaled a shaky sigh.

"You belong with me," he murmured, voice dreamy, honeyed, but possessive. "With us."

Shadow Milk scoffed. "There you go again," he muttered, pressing a final kiss to your shoulder before his hungry gaze flickered back to Pure Vanilla. "Us? How polite of you. You should just say what you really mean." His eyes darkened. His smirk widened.

"You want them to be yours," he purred, tracing the shell of your ear with his lips before nipping ever so slightly. His breath was hot against your skin, his voice dipping into something dangerously intoxicating. "You want them so badly you can barely breathe, don’t you?" Pure Vanilla shuddered, his grip on you tightening. His fingers curled against your waist, clutching, trembling slightly.

He was always the composed one. The tender one. But right now? Right now, his voice was breathy, heated, slipping into something messy.

"Of course, I do," he admitted, his lips pressing against the corner of your mouth, lingering, as if he could barely pull himself away. "And so do you."

Shadow Milk chuckled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his hands squeezing at your sides just to hear you gasp. "At least I’m truthful about it," he teased, voice muffled against your skin.

perhaps the couch gets too stiffening, too restrictive.

"Enough of this—if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right." only to get snatched away by shadow milk

Before you can even blink, Shadow Milk Cookie's arms are around you, and the next thing you know? The world flips. A startled gasp escapes your lips as your stomach presses against his broad shoulder, his grip tight around your waist, holding you in place like some kidnapped damsel in a stage play.

You wriggle, hands gripping at his back, your legs kicking in protest. Not that it matters. He only chuckles, adjusting his hold like you’re nothing more than a prized possession—which, to him, you are.

"Relax, sugar drop~ I’m just making this comfortable for us."

From the couch, Pure Vanilla Cookie watches with an expression of pure disbelief, before standing up to follow. "Shadow Milk! That is not how you treat someone."

"Oh? Would you rather I tie them up with a bow and hand them to you? Tch—boring."Vanilla’s soft gasp of horror is priceless. A slight pout forming on his lips as he quickly rises to his feet.

"You could at least be gentle with them—"

"Pfft. I am gentle! Just… direct."

You kick again, yelping when his hold tightens, keeping you securely against him as he finally reaches the bed.

Without an ounce of hesitation—he drops you.You land on the soft sheets with a huff, wide-eyed, body bouncing slightly from the impact. And then, Pure Vanilla is there, immediately kneeling beside you, his warm hands cupping your face with such tender concern that the contrast from Shadow Milk’s carelessness is almost comical.

"Are you alright, my love? Did he—did he hurt you?" His voice is so soft, so worried, like Shadow Milk had just tossed you off a cliff instead of onto a plush bed."Ugh, gag me. You’re so dramatic." He tilts your chin up with one finger, his mixmatched-slit pupils gleaming with mischief.

When useless unnecessary fabrics are off and thrown to an unknown corner of the room you may find yourself facing two sentimental beings. One who devotes himself to you eternally;

"You are… beautiful," he whispers, voice breathless with awe. His lips brush against your forehead, trailing soft, fluttering kisses down to your temple, your cheek. "Are you sure, my love? You must be certain. I won’t let you regret this." And the other who's desires are an engima; "I want to hear you, sugar drop~" his voice drops, a low purr against your skin. "I want to feel you tremble. Give me that, and I’ll be so good to you."

But oh, the moment you give them that tiny nod? The air shifts.

And there’s no turning back.

But of course...right when things are at their most heated—your body trembling beneath their touches, their breaths fanning against your skin—Shadow Milk Cookie just has to ruin the moment.

"Tsk, move aside, Sunshine. I’ll take it from here~" he purrs, already reaching to pull you closer. Pure Vanilla Cookie's hand shoots out, pressing against Shadow Milk’s chest with just enough force to halt him. His smile is gentle—his tone? Firm.

"Patience, Shadow Milk. You always rush into things," he chides, fingers brushing your cheek, voice achingly tender. "I’ll go first—" "Ohhh, no you don’t!" Shadow Milk interrupts, scoffing. "Why should you go first? Just because you’re the goody-goody doesn’t mean you get priority! If anything, I should—"

"Because," Pure Vanilla cuts in, his voice so sweetly unwavering it drives Shadow Milk crazy, "I will treat them with care. Unlike you, who turns everything into a performance."

Shadow Milk clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. "Ugh, there you go again—acting like you’re any better than me! Admit it, you’re just as desperate. Maybe even worse~." Pure Vanilla’s ears tint pink. But he does not deny it.

But the situation doesn't last long , they definitely come to a solution—just not one that benefits you.

After all, why take turns when they can simply share?

"Hah… see? Now this is fair~," Shadow Milk practically purrs, his grip tightening against your waist from being seated in between you. His voice is a syrupy, taunting thing, drinking in your trembling frame as if it’s the most satisfying sight he’s ever witnessed. "You’re just greedy, Sunshine. Didn’t wanna admit you’d rather keep them all to yourself, huh?"

Underneath you, Pure Vanilla exhales softly—a sound too serene for the situation, but his hold on you tells an entirely different story. His fingers ghost along your skin tenderly, his lips brushing close to your ear. "You’re the one who refused to wait," he murmurs, warm and breathless. His touch lingers, pressing, needy. "But… I suppose this is fine. So long as they can handle it." his breath tickles you "Can you handle it, my dear?"

Handle it?

Their cocks lay against your sopping cunt basically dripping onto them with your essence. Shadow milk grinds slightly in a teasing motion with a little sigh, his countless eyes within his strands of hair focused on you...waiting for your answer.

"Y-yes..." Then you see a smile

Feeling the both of them trying to make room inside you makes your nerves catch on fire, little gasp of strain falls through. Pure Vanilla is slow, deliberate—he treats you like something precious, something to be worshiped. Every touch, every movement is wrapped in devotion, as though he’s memorizing every shift in your expression, every tiny gasp you make. "Breathe, my love," he murmurs, voice barely above a sigh. "You’re doing so well… Just hold on..."

Shadow Milk? Oh, he’s nothing like that. He’s still teasing, still watching you with that insufferable, knowing smirk—but there’s something different this time. His voice is lower, his words lacking the usual sharp bite. He doesn’t just want you to feel this—he wants you to know he’s the one making you feel this."You’re trembling, dear" he croons, his breath hot against your skin, his hold firm while sliding deeper into your warmth. There’s a hunger in the way he moves, an unspoken urgency that makes his usual playfulness feel… something else. Something almost tender. He chuckles, low and throaty, fingers tracing over your form. "C’mon now, don’t go shy on me—I wanna hear you." he notices you holding in your whimpers.

Pure vanilla beneath you shudders "There’s no need to hide from us, my love—ah… Don’t hold back." he borderline whispers into your ear, laying his chin beside your neck feeling you tense around him. He pushed his cock deeper inside you experimentally coaxing the tiniest whimper from you lips. Shadow Milk chuckles "Hah, there we go..." trailing his hands up your sides.

Soon a pace is set in motion from them. dragging out countless moans and mewls for them to enjoy. Shadow milk outpaces pure vanilla in his thrust, his dick hitting the sensitive spot inside you quickly. While pure vanilla ever the tender lover he is, hits deep and with a slower pace, mushing the tip of his cock against your cervix every time.

"Hah... just imagine it, sugar drop~" Shadow Milk purrs against your ear, his breath warm, teasing. His fingers slide down to your stomach, pressing there with an almost possessive touch. "You’d look so cute carrying my kid." Pure Vanilla stiffens. His entire rhythm falters for a second before he exhales, slow and measured. "Excuse me?"

Shadow Milk, ever the instigator, only grins. "What? Just saying how sweet it’d be. You, glowing, full—ngh of my little bundle of mischief—" "Yours?" Pure Vanilla’s voice is dangerously soft. His hand moves to cover Shadow Milk’s, fingers pressing firmly against your stomach in direct opposition. "What makes you think you have the right to claim something so precious?" Shadow Milk groans, rolling his eyes. "Oh, here we go—‘precious, sacred, blah, blah.’ You’re so dramatic. Face it, old man, I’d make a way more fun dad." Pure Vanilla sighs "Oh really? Last time I checked, you're older than me" They continue to bicker clueless as to what pleasure they were tormenting you with, cocks sliding in and out of your hole as if their lives depended on it.

Shadow Milk scoffs, shifting against you with an infuriatingly lazy roll of his hips. "Please, like you could even handle them the way I can." Pure Vanilla huffs, his hands gripping your waist with just a bit more possession than before. "Handle them? Don't be ridiculous" They ignore your moans of passion "this is about love, about cherishing—"

"Ohhh, here we go again~" Shadow Milk groans theatrically, throwing his head back. "‘Cherishing,’ ‘reverence’—Vanilla, I hate to break it to you, but they’re already melting for me."

"Shadow Milk, stop saying such things in front of them!"

In front of them?! As if you weren’t right here, suffering from every unintended thrust and every careless, possessive touch they kept throwing into their heated debate.

"Oh, I’m sorry~" Shadow Milk drawls, voice dripping with mischief. "Should I whisper it instead?" He leans in close, lips grazing your burning ear. "You like this, don’t you? All helpless between us~?" coaxing another sweet mewl out of you, causing him to groan lowly.

Pure vanilla realizes, his breathing halts for just a second. Then, his arms tighten trying to cradle you towards him, his hands suddenly stroking up and down your sides in the gentlest, most adoring motions.

"Oh, my love…" he buries his face into the back of your neck, pressing soft kisses feeling you flutter around him. "Are we… overwhelming you?" His tone is sweet, so sweet, but there’s an undeniable strain to it now, like he’s barely keeping himself together.

of course! cocks pressed in at nearly every angle of you, tormenting, torturing, grinding into your cunt like dogs. you hear them speak more but your mind barely registers it.

"My love… if this keeps up, you’ll be carrying my child before long," he murmurs, voice low and reverent, like it’s an inevitable truth. He cast a strange glance at shadow milk. Shadow Milk only smirks, tilting his head with mock sympathy. "Aww, feeling threatened, are we? Face it, Vanilla—our sweet thing’s gonna be full with my kid first."

"oh? We’ll see about that."

guess who's back? i can't get over these two they have my heart.

Especially pure vanilla he's so hypocritical in the softest way possible sometimes hahaha

'Don't say that!" he says as he later says the same thing with poise

@_@

I really need them to fill me up with their babies sigh

#shadow milk cookie x reader #pure vanilla cookie x reader #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk smut #pure vanilla x reader #pure vanilla smut #pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #crk smut #crk #smut #p

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nobodyinfart · 2 days ago

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How would they react to your jealousy?

PSA: green is such'a good look on you, dear

Let’s be real, all of them will attract attention from different groups of people (oftentimes, not from just one sexual or gender orientation). There is no doubt that there will be instances where your jealousy sparks brighter than ever, seeing a cheeky hand on your lover that sends your blood boiling. Of course, you are secure in your relationship,, but that’s not to say that the boys will not have a certain reaction to your possessive attitude.

For our beloved Soap, he is the life of the party. More often than not, he will be seen in the middle of the dance floor pulling off the cheekiest dance moves known to man. Like hot damn, who taught him how to swing his hips like that? For him, it’s more of the aftermath - hearing you growl at the offender with the sleazy hand to get off your boyfriend or you’d rip them a new one had to be the greatest aphrodisiac to exist. That fire behind your eyes is so pretty, a spark that Johnny is sure would lead to fireworks in bed later on. He can’t help himself, really - not when he knows that he would be railed out of his thoughts later. For a good couple of days, no one even dares to approach him - with the way his hickeys make him look like he’s been mauled by a bear. That pleased smirk he wears does make you suspicious that he swings his hips extra hard intentionally - as if he wanted some hopeless idiot to chase his tail.

Gaz is no doubt the residential pretty boy, like come on. Those chocolate brown eyes look too alluring to ignore, beckoning him many free drinks along with irritating company. Even at work, there is a threat from the higher-ups to not fall for his puppy dog eyes, no matter the request. Unlike playful Soap, I don’t think Gaz is the type to get you jealous on purpose - since he seems to be very content with being off the market to everyone else. However, that’s not to say there aren’t people who will try to get the elusive Kyle. Definitely the type of guy who will sass the other person to deter their advances, that sharp tongue paired with the nastiest attitude. If that’s not enough,,, let’s just say his darling’s shadow is starting to loom over his intruder - here’s to hoping you will go easy on this one, not all of them can handle your threatening like the last one.

Captain Price may just be surprised at the fact that he can still get game,, since he isn’t the conventional attractive type people go swarming for. Unbeknownst to him, age is just a number to many and he caters to a different taste that is still well in-demand. Maybe it’s a barrack bunny, hoping to climb up the hierarchy - not observant enough to notice that the absence of his wedding ring on his finger because it was looped onto his necklace. Captain is sure to mention being taken - happily, he will add - but not to much avail, the bunny pursuits rather intensively. Rumours fly, and it’s safe to say that the barrack bunny’s next visit would be hijacked. You on his lap with a raised eyebrow and a dazed Price with an absolutely dazed expression, his lips swollen enough for the poor soul to know that he was very much accounted for.

There are two schools of thought for Ghost, that he’s well aware he’s smoking or that he’s in denial. I’m a firm believer that dear Simon Riley knows he’s a looker. C’mon, anyone who sees that hunk of a body whips their head to gawk when he walks past, he has to be an idiot to not notice. He has biceps big enough to crush someone’s head - and the perfect size for arms to loop around for a hug. Along with the yummiest ass on this earth, the man is eye candy. Personally, Simon is the type to not acknowledge some admirer’s existence - just a chuff of acknowledgement translated into a simple thanks. Hell, you don’t even have to move a muscle - since Simon’s nonchalant attitude changes when he sees you. The man moving to your side faster than the other can blink, the soft look of hs brown eyes enough for all to see how much he adores you. Admirer, what admirer? Doll, he’s all yours - heart and soul with your name etched like an engraving to metal.

On the other hand,,, I believe that they will be equally tempted if you were to scoff at their company - a hint of mockery in your tone, as if you're in disbelief that these flies would ever appeal to your beloved… the yummy possibility that you are confident of their love enough to know that their attention is entirely yours,,, IS SO YUMMY. Maybe, your own payback or giving them a gentle smooch just for the flirt’s idol to melt at your feet? WALK THEM LIKE A DOG, WOOF WOOOOFFFF

#can you tell i was biased #nobody's works #kyle gaz garrick x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #john price x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon riley #cod #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #gaz x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #price x reader

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aalana-bear14 · 3 days ago

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I remember a post where it’s bio-Dad Bruce for Danny.I could be getting this confused with another one but Bruce,Maddie,and Jack knew each other in College and Jack was infertile after ecto exposure or smt(Jazz must’ve already been born before Jack lost the ability to have kids)so Bruce helped them out with the fertility issue.Bruce thought he wasn’t cut out to be a parent ever so he just became an uncle for Danny with the plan that since he’ll never have kids Danny would inherit everything if he died.He showed up to Danny’s birthdays and I think sent letters.It was a good Bruce(to Danny at least)and I think he has Danny before Dick because nobody from the batfam was aware of it. Danny knew who his biological father was but considered Bruce an uncle and Jack his father.

Btw the post had like multiple story ideas on it that I can’t remember the rest.

I remember being so annoyed at Jason for once because dude got angry at Bruce for abandoning his son and it rubbed me the wrong way since it really wasn’t his business or right(?) to judge him for that.Like Danny’s a grown adult(28?maybe older than Dick)he can fight his own battles lol and he has a father.

In the post the Bat siblings find out I think by Bruce saying he’s going to be late to Danny’s birthday.Batfam either snoops and comes to assumptions or Alfred or Bruce tell them.Bat sibs wanna meet their sibling but I don’t remember if Danny’s opinion on them was ever stated in the post but I feel like he wouldn’t want to be involved in the bats drama or was never interested in them since he consider Bruce as his uncle not his father.(Bruce was actually okay with it too)

I just really hope someone added on to it..

The other prompts on it were pretty good too even tho I don’t remember them lol

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc crossover #fic prompt #help me find this please #It must’ve been a good reveal too #Retired Danny maybe?

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smilesrobotlover · 2 days ago

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A super out of context thing for Edmund’s brothers. Basically something happened with the second-born Charles and the brothers all split on what they wanted to do. Ares, Louis, and Dante on one side, and Silas, Matthias, and Edmund on the other, while our unbothered chill guy Maximus not taking a side cuz he doesn’t gaf lol.

I’m gonna be so honest, I know nobody cares about these characters who aren’t even in my fanfic, but I really like them. I’m very proud of the designs (at least faces) and personalities, so safe to say I like them a lot 😔

Some info on the brothers for the 5 people that care

Ares is the first born, and is 43 during Love at Twilight. He’s the crowned prince and is the “golden child”. He thinks very highly of himself, and is very aware of the reputation he must uphold. But he does a VERY good job at upholding the reputation. He’s the golden child after all! A perfect prince! He actually loves his family a lot, caring deeply for his parents and his younger brother Charles. But the other brothers are sorta ignored by him. He’s more focused on taking over the kingdom anyhow. Which honestly makes him come off as aloof.

Charles is the second born, 42 during Love at Twilight, and feels like the failure to his parents. He gets second everything, always in his older brother’s shadow. He doesn’t feel like he can amount to anything, even with his younger brothers, he can’t seem to be special like them. Ares loves him, but Charles deep down resents him and everyone else in the family. But cuz he’s nothing compared to everyone else, nobody really cares. He’s just kinda there, and he’s frustrated about this. When Zelda enters the family, he really takes his frustrations out on her, cuz even tho she’s queen, she’s just a woman, right?

Silas is the black sheep of the family. Aged 40 during LaT. Many believe him to be a child born from a different father, and many hate him for it. He doesn’t deserve to be apart of the royal family, he clearly doesn’t belong! Because of this, he comes off as cold and avoids the others, not really bothering to reach out to the others. But he actually is quite smart and has a good moral compass, being very dependable when he needs to be. Quite underrated if you ask me. The queen defends Silas constantly, saying that he is of royal blood and she was never disloyal.

Maximus, Age 36, was born way later because the king and queen had a lot of issues with Silas. He’s a very aloof guy who never takes charge, letting things run their course which makes him chill and also very indecisive, which is no good. I don’t have much on him but he’s very neutral on things a lot, which can be good, can be bad.

Louis, age 34, had become the high priest of Labrynna and is EXTREMELY self righteous. He constantly condemns others and preaches repentance, however he has a lot of skeletons in his closet, he just believes that as the high priest, he’s perfectly fine. A bit of a… bad fella, probably the worst on this list, because he doesn’t come off as bad, which makes him extremely manipulative. Of course, he doesn’t think he’s being manipulative. You just don’t want to see him snap and lose it. I might make him narcissistic but I don’t know enough about that to feel confident in writing it, and people just throw the term around with no issues so… we’ll see? But he’s a very fascinating character to me.

Matthias, age 32, is a very caring soul who really looks out for the youngest brother, Edmund. He wants to watch over and care for the “little guy” and is deeply loyal to those around him. He doesn’t seem to like Charles all that much, and the two argue constantly. Other than that, he gets along with everyone and serves his kingdom in whatever way he can. He seems to be the only one in a genuinely loving relationship with his wife.

Dante is a very materialistic, greedy, and prideful man. Age 30, Dante is highly confident in himself and looks down on others, believing them to be below him. Even his older brothers he finds to be foolish, though he’s a bit of a yes man to Ares. I also don’t have much of him but yeah. A guy.

And ofc our guy Edmund! Age 28.You kinda know him. He’s known as the smallest and weakest brother, having severe asthma, so he can’t do things the others can do. He was also very sickly as a child, hence why Matthias is so protective of him. But he makes up for it with his wit and unique ways to be strong. He’s very pompous tho, and I like him a lot.

#long post #sorry I just really wanted to ramble #if you read all the rambles I love you so much #Zelda oc #love at twilight #legend of Zelda #legend of Zelda au #Zelda au #changed some colors in the digital version lol #I just like them #I find them so fascinating #I don’t show this well but Ares is only two years younger than Rusl!#and Edmund is the same age as Link and Zelda #so a BIG age difference between the two #I lik Silas

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empressdede · 3 days ago

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Whispers of Magnolia - 7

Chapter Seven

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A/N: This is a love story set during segregation times. The languages are harsh but please be aware that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible for fictional content. Racial slurs will be used, and some chapters involve really dark content: Death and Non consensual sex. Please read at your own will.

The car ride home was quiet.

Jey sat in the passenger seat, his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head.

Jimmy drove, his face set in hard lines, knuckles gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

Roman sat in the back, silent, staring out of the tinted window as the dark streets of New Orleans blurred past them.

It wasn’t until they were nearly halfway home that Jey finally broke the silence.

“Man, that shit crazy,” he muttered. “They got a whole lot goin’ on in that house. They ain’t say nothin’,” Jey continued, his voice low, laced with frustration. “Not ‘cause they didn’t know—but ‘cause they scared.”

Jey understood that fear now. It wasn’t just about loyalty. It was survival.

Neither his brother nor his cousin responded.

Jey exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his head. “I mean, I get it. Black people do what they gotta do to survive. They look out for their own. I respect that. But…” He shook his head again, his voice quieter now. “To always have to look over your shoulder? To always be waitin’ for the next hit, the next punishment? That’s a different kinda life, Uce. I don’t even know how they do it.”

Jimmy scoffed. “Ain’t much of a choice, is it?”

Jey didn’t answer.

They both knew the truth—there was no choice.

Not for them.

Not for Evangeline.

But Roman?

Roman didn’t hear a single word they were saying.

Because Roman was stuck in his own head.

Was she really spoken for? Maybe.

Did he give a fuck? No.

But the thought of Seth Rollins—that pathetic excuse of a man—putting his hands on Evangeline?

That didn’t sit right with him.

It wasn’t just about the bruises.

It wasn’t just about the injustice of it all.

It was about principle.

He wanted even.

Because even though she wasn’t his yet…

She would be.

And he’d be damned if anyone thought they could get away with touching what was his.

—

Roman didn’t go to bed that night.

Instead, he sat in his study, learning everything he could about Seth Rollins.

He had his people gather every detail, every dirty secret, every weakness that the Rollins’ son thought was hidden.

And what he found?

Seth wasn’t as untouchable as he liked to pretend.

A gambling problem.

A mistress in Baton Rouge.

A nasty habit of losing his temper in public.

And—most importantly—he was desperate for his father’s approval.

Roman smirked to himself.

That was all he needed to know.

He would catch Seth exactly when he least expected it.

—

Solo found him before sunrise.

Roman didn’t even look up when his younger cousin stepped into the room.

Solo was quiet, as always.

But his presence was heavy.

He stood by the doorway, watching Roman go through the files one last time before finally speaking.

“Make sure she’s strong enough to stand by your side, Uce.”

Roman finally glanced up, one eyebrow raising slightly.

Solo continued. “’Cause if she’s not? All this might be in vain.”

His tone wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t even critical.

It was a warning.

A simple truth.

Roman leaned back in his chair, considering his words.

Then, after a moment, he simply nodded.

Solo left without another word.

He was right, of course.

Roman had spent all night thinking about Seth—but what about Evangeline?

What about her?

Because whether she knew it yet or not, she was already in this.

The moment he acknowledged her in front of Kevin Rollins, the moment he showed her any kind of favor—she became a target. And if she wasn’t strong enough to withstand it?

She wouldn’t survive it.

Roman exhaled slowly.

He had to be smart about this.

He had to come up with another plan.

Because one thing was clear:

He needed to get Evangeline alone.

Two months had passed.

Two months of silence.

Two months of avoiding glances, of forcing herself to be invisible again, of pushing every single thought of him to the deepest part of her mind.

And yet—

Roman Reigns stayed in her head like a tattoo she couldn’t remove.

She told herself it was foolish.

She told herself it was wrong.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But that was a lie.

Because it did matter.

Everything about him haunted her—his height, his power, the way the entire room shifted when he entered.

But the worst of all?

His voice.

The way he said her name, slow and deep like he was savoring it, like it meant something.

It gave her butterflies, ones she didn’t dare admit to anyone—not even herself.

No one had spoken his name since that night.

Not Kevin Rollins.

Not Seth.

Not even the other maids who had once whispered about the small, fleeting moment when Roman Reigns acknowledged her.

They all moved on.

But Evangeline never did.

Because late at night, when she lay on the stiff mattress of her cot, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling above her, she thought about him.

She wondered if he still remembered her.

And even worse—

She hoped that he did.

It wasn’t until Solo arrived at the estate that things changed.

The Bloodline had come calling.

Evangeline had been sweeping the front parlor when she heard the front doors swing open, the heavy thud of boots against the polished wood.

She knew who it was before she even looked up.

They walked differently than any other men she had seen.

Kevin Rollins stood stiffly in front of them, his face strained but controlled as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, forcing a polite smile.

Solo didn’t smile back.

Instead, his dark eyes cut through the room like a blade, scanning the maids who had frozen in their places, before landing back on Kevin.

“Roman’s father,” Solo said simply, voice low and deep, “is hosting an event. He needs all the maids for 48 hours.”

Evangeline felt her breath catch in her throat.

Kevin’s eye twitched—just barely—but he didn’t argue.

He wouldn’t.

Because no one refused the Bloodline.

Not even a man like Kevin Rollins.

He nodded stiffly. “Fine,” he muttered. “Take them.”

It all happened quickly.

The maids were rounded up, some whispering amongst themselves, others too nervous to say a word.

Evangeline packed a small bag with whatever little belongings she had.

Lena was silent beside her, her fingers shaking as she folded a simple dress into Evangeline’s hands.

“Please, Line,” her mother finally whispered.

Evangeline looked up, meeting her mother’s tired, worried eyes.

“I know he might seek you out,” Lena continued, voice barely above a breath. “But leave that man be, okay?”

She didn’t have to ask who she meant.

She already knew.

The buses came. Big. Black. Tinted windows that made it impossible to see inside.

Evangeline stood by the steps, gripping her bag, heart hammering in her chest.

She told herself she wasn’t hoping to see him. She told herself she didn’t care.

But as she took those steps forward, the heavy doors closing behind her—

She couldn’t stop herself from wondering.

Would he be there?

It’s not as long yall but I have so much homework to do. I hope you enjoy it, the real tea happens in the next chapter….. maybe I’ll post it tomorrow along with the next chapter of the secretary.

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