#the article itself is really stupid

[mummer]

my one single barry finale prediction is that he's gonna get off scot free survive and become very successful lol. he's gonna be on top

[thisisaname-whatahappyname]

fox news the absoloute Belothed fuck those bastards

[imsobadatnicknames2]

How can you consider yourself any sort of leftist when you defend AI art bullshit? You literally simp for AI techbros and have the gall to pretend you're against big corporations?? Get fucked

I don't "defend" AI art. I think a particular old post of mine that a lot of people tend to read in bad faith must be making the rounds again lmao.

Took me a good while to reply to this because you know what? I decided to make something positive out of this and use this as an opportunity to outline what I ACTUALLY believe about AI art. If anyone seeing this decides to read it in good or bad faith... Welp, your choice I guess.

I have several criticisms of the way the proliferation of AI art generators and LLMs is making a lot of things worse. Some of these are things I have voiced in the past, some of these are things I haven't until now:

Most image and text AI generators are fine-tuned to produce nothing but the most agreeable, generically pretty content slop, pretty much immediately squandering their potential to be used as genuinely interesting artistic tools with anything to offer in terms of a unique aesthetic experience (AI video still manages to look bizarre and interesting but it's getting there too)

In the entertainment industry and a lot of other fields, AI image generation is getting incorporated into production pipelines in ways that lead to the immiseration of working artists, being used to justify either lower wages or straight-up layoffs, and this is something that needs to be fought against. That's why I unconditionally supported the SAG-AFTRA strikes last year and will unconditionally support any collective action to address AI art as a concrete labor issue

In most fields where it's being integrated, AI art is vastly inferior to human artists in any use case where you need anything other than to make a superficially pretty picture really fast. If you need to do anything like ask for revisions or minor corrections, give very specific descriptions of how objects and people are interacting with each other, or just like. generate several pictures of the same thing and have them stay consistent with each other, you NEED human artists and it's preposterous to think they can be replaced by AI.

There is a lot of art on the internet that consists of the most generically pretty, cookie-cutter anime waifu-adjacent slop that has zero artistic or emotional value to either the people seeing it or the person churning it out, and while this certainly was A Thing before the advent of AI art generators, generative AI has made it extremely easy to become the kind of person who churns it out and floods online art spaces with it.

Similarly, LLMs make it extremely easy to generate massive volumes of texts, pages, articles, listicles and what have you that are generic vapid SEO-friendly pap at best and bizzarre nonsense misinformation at worst, drowning useful information in a sea of vapid noise and rendering internet searches increasingly useless.

The way LLMs are being incorporated into customer service and similar services not only, again, encourages further immiseration of customer service workers, but it's also completely useless for most customers.

A very annoyingly vocal part the population of AI art enthusiasts, fanatics and promoters do tend to talk about it in a way that directly or indirectly demeans the merit and skill of human artists and implies that they think of anyone who sees anything worthwile in the process of creation itself rather than the end product as stupid or deluded.

So you can probably tell by now that I don't hold AI art or writing in very high regard. However (and here's the part that'll get me called an AI techbro, or get people telling me that I'm just jealous of REAL artists because I lack the drive to create art of my own, or whatever else) I do have some criticisms of the way people have been responding to it, and have voiced such criticisms in the past.

I think a lot of the opposition to AI art has critstallized around unexamined gut reactions, whipping up a moral panic, and pressure to outwardly display an acceptable level of disdain for it. And in particular I think this climate has made a lot of people very prone to either uncritically entertain and adopt regressive ideas about Intellectual Propety, OR reveal previously held regressive ideas about Intellectual Property that are now suddenly more socially acceptable to express:

(I wanna preface this section by stating that I'm a staunch intellectual property abolitionist for the same reason I'm a private property abolitionist. If you think the existence of intellectual property is a good thing, a lot of my ideas about a lot of stuff are gonna be unpalatable to you. Not much I can do about it.)

A lot of people are suddenly throwing their support behind any proposal that promises stricter copyright regulations to combat AI art, when a lot of these also have the potential to severely udnermine fair use laws and fuck over a lot of independent artist for the benefit of big companies.

It was very worrying to see a lot of fanfic authors in particular clap for the George R R Martin OpenAI lawsuit because well... a lot of them don't realize that fanfic is a hobby that's in a position that's VERY legally precarious at best, that legally speaking using someone else's characters in your fanfic is as much of a violation of copyright law as straight up stealing entire passages, and that any regulation that can be used against the latter can be extended against the former.

Similarly, a lot of artists were cheering for the lawsuit against AI art models trained to mimic the style of specific artists. Which I agree is an extremely scummy thing to do (just like a human artist making a living from ripping off someone else's work is also extremely scummy), but I don't think every scummy act necessarily needs to be punishable by law, and some of them would in fact leave people worse off if they were. All this to say: If you are an artist, and ESPECIALLY a fan artist, trust me. You DON'T wanna live in a world where there's precedent for people's artstyles to be considered intellectual property in any legally enforceable way. I know you wanna hurt AI art people but this is one avenue that's not worth it.

Especially worrying to me as an indie musician has been to see people mention the strict copyright laws of the music industry as a positive thing that they wanna emulate. "this would never happen in the music industry because they value their artists copyright" idk maybe this is a the grass is greener type of situation but I'm telling you, you DON'T wanna live in a world where copyright law in the visual arts world works the way it does in the music industry. It's not worth it.

I've seen at least one person compare AI art model training to music sampling and say "there's a reason why they cracked down on sampling" as if the death of sampling due to stricter copyright laws was a good thing and not literally one of the worst things to happen in the history of music which nearly destroyed several primarily black music genres. Of course this is anecdotal because it's just One Guy I Saw Once, but you can see what I mean about how uncritical support for copyright law as a tool against AI can lead people to adopt increasingly regressive ideas about copyright.

Similarly, I've seen at least one person go "you know what? Collages should be considered art theft too, fuck you" over an argument where someone else compared AI art to collages. Again, same point as above.

Similarly, I take issue with the way a lot of people seem EXTREMELY personally invested in proving AI art is Not Real Art. I not only find this discussion unproductive, but also similarly dangerously prone to validating very reactionary ideas about The Nature Of Art that shouldn't really be entertained. Also it's a discussion rife with intellectual dishonesty and unevenly applied definition and standards.

When a lot of people present the argument of AI art not being art because the definition of art is this and that, they try to pretend that this is the definition of art the've always operated under and believed in, even when a lot of the time it's blatantly obvious that they're constructing their definition on the spot and deliberately trying to do so in such a way that it doesn't include AI art.

They never succeed at it, btw. I've seen several dozen different "AI art isn't art because art is [definition]". I've seen exactly zero of those where trying to seriously apply that definition in any context outside of trying to prove AI art isn't art doesn't end up in it accidentally excluding one or more non-AI artforms, usually reflecting the author's blindspots with regard to the different forms of artistic expression.

(However, this is moot because, again, these are rarely definitions that these people actually believe in or adhere to outside of trying to win "Is AI art real art?" discussions.)

Especially worrying when the definition they construct is built around stuff like Effort or Skill or Dedication or The Divine Human Spirit. You would not be happy about the kinds of art that have traditionally been excluded from Real Art using similar definitions.

Seriously when everyone was celebrating that the Catholic Church came out to say AI art isn't real art and sharing it as if it was validating and not Extremely Worrying that the arguments they'd been using against AI art sounded nearly identical to things TradCaths believe I was like. Well alright :T You can make all the "I never thought I'd die fighting side by side with a catholic" legolas and gimli memes you want, but it won't change the fact that the argument being made by the catholic church was a profoundly conservative one and nearly identical to arguments used to dismiss the artistic merit of certain forms of "degenerate" art and everyone was just uncritically sharing it, completely unconcerned with what kind of worldview they were lending validity to by sharing it.

Remember when the discourse about the Gay Sex cats pic was going on? One of the things I remember the most from that time was when someone went "Tell me a definition of art that excludes this picture without also excluding Fountain by Duchamp" and how just. Literally no one was able to do it. A LOT of people tried to argue some variation of "Well, Fountain is art and this image isn't because what turns fountain into art is Intent. Duchamp's choice to show a urinal at an art gallery as if it was art confers it an element of artistic intent that this image lacks" when like. Didn't by that same logic OP's choice to post the image on tumblr as if it was art also confer it artistic intent in the same way? Didn't that argument actually kinda end up accidentally validating the artistic status of every piece of AI art ever posted on social media? That moment it clicked for me that a lot of these definitions require applying certain concepts extremely selectively in order to make sense for the people using them.

A lot of people also try to argue it isn't Real Art based on the fact that most AI art is vapid but like. If being vapid definitionally excludes something from being art you're going to have to exclude a whooole lot of stuff along with it. AI art is vapid. A lot of art is too, I don't think this argument works either.

Like, look, I'm not really invested in trying to argue in favor of The Artistic Merits of AI art but I also find it extremely hard to ignore how trying to categorically define AI art as Not Real Art not only is unproductive but also requires either a) applying certain parts of your definition of art extremely selectively, b) constructing a definition of art so convoluted and full of weird caveats as to be functionally useless, or c) validating extremely reactionary conservative ideas about what Real Art is.

Some stray thoughts that don't fit any of the above sections.

I've occassionally seen people respond to AI art being used for shitposts like "A lot of people have affordable commissions, you could have paid someone like $30 to draw this for you instead of using the plagiarism algorithm and exploiting the work of real artists" and sorry but if you consider paying an artist a rate that amounts to like $5 for several hours of work a LESS exploitative alternative I think you've got something fucked up going on with your priorities.

Also it's kinda funny when people comment on the aforementioned shitposts with some variation of "see, the usage of AI art robs it of all humor because the thing that makes shitposts funny is when you consider the fact that someone would spend so much time and effort in something so stupid" because like. Yeah that is part of the humor SOMETIMES but also people share and laugh at low effort shitposts all the time. Again you're constructing a definition that you don't actually believe in anywhere outside of this type of conversations. Just say you don't like that it's AI art because you think it's morally wrong and stop being disingenuous.

So yeah, this is pretty much everything I believe about the topic.

I don't "defend" AI art, but my opposition to it is firmly rooted in my principles, and that means I refuse to uncritically accept any anti-AI art argument that goes against those same principles.

If you think not accepting and parroting every Anti-AI art argument I encounter because some of them are ideologically rooted in things I disagree with makes me indistinguishable from "AI techbros" you're working under a fucked up dichotomy.

[6gumi]

scandalous!

synopsis ﹒bllk men reassuring you that all those useless false scandals and fake news online are false ! ( in a rather . . peculiar way than normal reassurance . . <3 )

pairings﹒ michael kaiser, itoshi sae, oliver aiku x f!reader

cw ﹒nsfw MDNI. unedited ( mistakes might be present ) 、 blowie ( oliver aiku ) 、dirty talk 、riding ( michael kaiser ) 、small titplay ( itoshi sae ) 、mentions of cheating but it doesn’t acc happen, promise ! 、v4ginal fingering ( itoshi sae ) 、use of feminine terms ( girl, gf (?) etc) 、 more tba !

note ﹒hello every1 ! ! :,3 wrote this while working on my art project lol ! ! ! first bllk work i believe ? ? i hope there isn’t too many mistakes in this one i’m very very sleepy trying 2 make my art look nice . . :,3 | reblogs r highly appreciated, feel free 2 send me an ask ! — millie ♡

୨୧ 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑

“come on, mein liebling . . is that really what you’re worried about? i assure you . . these pathetic scandals aren’t true anyways.” with a firm grasp on your hip, he guided you on his cock with such elegance and ease, wanting to fuck all worrying emotions lingering beneath that pretty face of yours. “speak to me, liebling. do you seriously believe all of those rumours going around about me? about us?” his voice was addictive . . your head was completely empty . . filled with nothing but his damn voice. even so, these stupid rumours and scandals . . . as reassuring as he is, you can’t help but think maybe there’s some truth behind those rumours.

sweat glistened his well-fit body and yours, mingling the intoxicating fragrances within the air. squeezing your breasts in his hands with a lick of his lips, his fingers grazed down your spine, grunting at his own sharp and desperate thrusts. you rode him with the same amount of desperation and arousal he had. your passion filled him with both satisfaction and hope . . hope that you believed you were his only, utterly dependent and devoted to you. the blonde’s fingers dug into your soft flesh as every movement brought you both closer into harmony, each groan echoed against the walls of your shared bedroom. “that’s it . . .” he whispered hoarsely into your ear, his breathing ragged from exertion. "ride me hard, beautiful.”

your face contorted in pleasure as you slammed yourself down against his cock, feeling the tip kiss your sweet-spots as you struggle to speak up, the mere feeling of his cock was enough to send you to heaven itself ! just then, your mouth opened to speak. “i—it’s not impossible,” you murmured, “what if you’re lying to me . .” “oh baby . . . do you really think i’m not telling the truth?” kaiser’s face grew serious, snapping his hips upwards against your pussy. he relished the feel of your warm body against his, wanting to fuck those precious thoughts out of you. he was telling the truth, those stupid articles . . were only trying to ruin his image. his large hands gripped your hips tighter, his nails practically digging into your skin with a sense of desperation . . wanting to prove himself to you.

“mein liebling . . . seriously. i’m telling the truth. i’m telling the truth when i say this pussy is mine and mine only. and i’m definitely telling the truth when i say this cock is yours to fuck yourself dumb on.”

“ . . you, mein blume . . . have nothing to worry about. my cock belongs to you.”

୨୧ 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐄

“i mean it, [name].” sae whispered against your ear, sending streams of electricity through your spine. his renewed determination to reassure you became his goal for the day, pressing his nose against your neck again, inhaling the scent of your fragrance. he had you seated on his lap, his hardness pressing close against your ass . . . trying his best to hold it in when the time comes. his fingers darted out again, swirling around the sensitive nub. “y—you don’t mean it . .” you protested, which only made things more harder for sae. he hated when you doubt his words, his movements growing more confident and skilled with each passing moment . . mind focused solely on pleasing his pretty girlfriend who was all worried about these articles that weren’t even true.

“i do mean it.” your boyfriend’s heart pounded in his chest, free hand reaching out to touch your breasts. his fingers brushed against your nipples, making them harder than steel. "hm. what can i do to make you believe me?” he grips your hips, pulling you towards him, erection straining against his shorts as he struggled the urges to fuck himself balls deep into your pussy. “those articles aren’t always true, angel-face. i mean it. i’m telling the truth, okay?”

grinding his cock against your lower back, he pushed another finger inside. your walls trembled, gripping his digits with pure vigour, you could almost feel his cock throb ! “mmh.. but the article . . .” your whimpers were music to his ears, pleasure dancing across your face, replacing the looks of uncertainty and concern. an absurd wave of protectiveness washed over sae then— the idea that these people were making up false and uncouth claims and lies filled his heart with sick dissatisfaction. their declaration of his infidelity was another layer to his coldness, he hated all of them, he wanted you and you only . . . was that not obvious ?

“i know, angel, but they’re not true.” he whispered huskily, holding your heavy breasts steady. “fuck . . . you always say such pretty things," he murmured against their your damp hair, fingers lightly grazing down your labia as he thrusted them back in, wanting to make you cum and lose your mind completely. “please, you know those articles are just bullcrap trying to put our relationship at risk. but i’m not letting it happen.” there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he pulled out from within you, leaving behind an echo of fullness in your core.

“you know i love you, angel-face. is that in your head yet? or do i have to fuck it into you?”

୨୧ 𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐔

“oh fuck . . baby, you’re suckin’ me good.” oliver bit back a grunt, eyes drifting shut. he was supposed to be reassuring your pretty little head that he only had eyes for you, but it feels too fucking good. too tempting. he hoped and prayed you wouldn’t blame him later for wanting your mouth. the way your wet heat surrounds him sends him in a frenzy . . . your tongue swirling and dancing around was enough to drive him absolutely insane, he wanted to push your head down further onto his dick, thrust inside and give you all of him . . show you just how truthful he was being at this moment. “m—mmf . . listen baby, all those articles are just tryna’ ruin people’s images of me, of us. they ain’t real and will never be, kay?”

the sensation of your soft mouth enveloping him sends electricity straight to his body, wanting more of your mouth. desire raced through his veins, drowning out rational thought. your warm breath, soft moans . . he can hear all, feel every stroke of your tongue. your small sobs, and even those pretty tears. ohh . . . those tears. he loves them. gripping the armrest, fighting to maintain control. your precious tears streaming down your face . . . it only aroused him further, his dick twitching in your mouth.

you sniffled, trying your best to accommodate his size. “baby, i’m really telling the truth. all those cheating rumours . . . those pictures are photoshopped— ah fuck . . baby you gotta’ believe me.” oliver groaned loudly, mouth curling into a satisfied yet concerned smile as he watched his dick go in and out of your lips, his hips slowly moving on their own as he slammed himself against you, forcing you to take more of his cock. “i’m tellin’ ya, baby doll,” his voice rasped hoarsely in the air, swallowing a lump in his throat. “does my cock being in ya not prove anythin’? you’re the only one i imagine suckin’ me off so perfectly like this . .”

oliver couldn’t help but grin cheekily at the slurping he heard from you, “damn, you’re takin’ it all, baby. always knew ya were my girl . . never thought i’d end up with such a pretty girl like you . . don’t believe those dumb rumours, kay?” a low groan escaped your beloved boyfriend, hands running through your hair tenderly, guiding your movements until he could take it no longer. “just like that, darlin'. make me yours, again and again."

“can’t wait to be inside ya tonight. provin’ to you that i only want my dick to be inside this pussy.”

[yeyinde]

ghoapxreader in the baby trapping series IM BEGGING 🧎‍♀️

i think i've exhausted the whole "tampering with contraceptives" thing to death by now so i would probably do something different with them. like a surrogate situation or something, but awful lmao

maybe down on her luck reader is in desperate need of cash, and these two men swoop in to save you from this horrible pit you've fallen into.

you need money. they need a baby.

simple, right?

except the simplicity falls apart when they blatantly tell you they want a natural insemination—as in, a threesome.

multiple, the pretty Scot tells you. after all, it has tae take, hen.

(and this is the part where you should have run. the moment when you'd be screaming at the television at the hapless protagonist as they walk mindlessly into danger despite the warning signs hanging overhead. but like the oblivious hero, you're too blinded by pretty, gleaming white to realise that the thing you're marveling over is a maw. cracked open wide and full of jagged, deadly teeth rearing up to sink inside of you.

but the problem with making shady deals when you're desperate is that no one really bothers to read the fine print, do they? and by the time you see past their crooked charm, you're waving your child off as they skip up the stairs to school, standing like a prisoner between them as they lean down and ask if you're ready for another—)

but that comes later.

what comes first is message on Craiglist.

one that you spend less time considering it than you should have. desperation, you find, clouds your judgement. blots out common sense. makes you susceptible to manipulation. and oh, how susceptible you are. despite priding yourself on your common sense and keen self-awareness, the overarching issues hanging over your head like an idling guillotine seem to erase that instructive need for self-preservation.

so, when the message itself pops up, you're already primed for making bad choices. ones out of malformed desperation. the barrage of texts from your landlord demanding rent, the ones sent to your family in moments of dire need asking for fruitless aid that will never come in time if the read receipts mean anything at all. the package from HR apologising for the inconvenience, but this was, regrettably, the only feasible option for the company at present, and too bad you didn't sign up for that union, huh? student loans. credit cards.

the measureable calamity of your life manifests itself in the shape of a black cloud hanging onto your aching shoulder, wrapping long, inkstained fingers around your jugular as it hisses the insurmountable figure needed to climb out of this pit in your ear.

sleepless, of course, hasn't helped.

and in that bog you can't swim through, their offer sounds far more appealing than it should.

let's meet up somewhere, comes the next message at half past three in the morning as you talk yourself in (and out) of this mess. talk about things more.

what else are you supposed to do?

job hunting sites mock you with their generic emails, thanking you for applying, and saying they'll reach out within a few business days for an interview if you're a good fit. ones sent off weeks ago. hundreds of them to no avail. it's almost like you're being plagued. blacklisted from the city.

even the fast food chain down the street refused your application when you sent it in, and the help wanted sign has been taped on the drive-thru window since you were sixteen.

it all pushes you closer and closer to making stupid choices, like replying with a simple (nervous, shaky, bile-tinged) sure to the message they sent. i'm down—

(—and drowning)

but you're smart enough to know better, so you act like it, too.

ping your location to your friends. tell them where you're going. clutch your keys so tightly in your fist that your knuckles just out through thin skin. layers upon layers of safety measures glimpsed through the various articles about how to stay alive.

but all the tremulous air is siphoned from your lungs when you see them for the first time.

something magnetic thrums through your chest. copper sutures running lines from their skin to yours until touching just seems like the most natural thing in the world. and you suppose it is when the pretty Scot folds you into a tight hug, cinching you close to his chest as if he's known you his whole life instead of just several seconds.

he's a thing of beauty. chiselled from marble, almost; David made human when he runs his tanned hand through the tumble of uneven hair along his crown. eyes the same varicoloured palette of a boscage in autumn framed in the setting sun's golden halo.

there's a distinct ruggedness about his beauty, too. one that reminds of you a lion's mane. the sleek fur of a stallion. pretty in a wild way. and as his eyes list towards you again and again, like he can't quite manage his fill of staring at you, taking you in, you think about that wildness again. the hunger in his eyes so similiar to the desperation of a predator fattening up for the encroaching chill of winter. it makes you shiver, but you can't look away

(because you know what's waiting for you when you do)

and when you finally pluck up the courage to glance at the shape devouring the light with his intimidating bulk, you come to quick realisation that if Johnny is the personification of an autumn evening, then the man standing next to him is the tried and true testament that bad things happen after dark.

he's a strange figure, one who veers almost comically into the uncanny valley with his hood pulled over the plain, black ballcap hanging low over his brow. a balaclava covering every inch of his face with the exception of a small, ovaled hole for his eyes. remnants of something ashy smear into the corners, running up the crooked bend of his nose.

he doesn't look like a real man—not with those liquid, haunting eyes—but at the same time, there's something preternaturally human about him. a stereotypical sense of masculinity—just one warped around the edges.

with his worn jeans pulled tight over thick, bulging thighs, and the silver zipper of his hoodie resting at the base of his throat, you could easily think he was just another man in the crowd, but it's off. a glitch. a skip.

like mistaking a coat rack for a man in the dead of night.

eerie.

dangerous.

if the man beside him is playfully carnivorous, a basking lion rolling onto his belly at the zoo, separated by thick glass, then he (Simon, Johnny supplies readily when the silence lingers; Simon Riley), Simon, is what it feels like to be followed home at night.

but—

there's something about fear and desire that are almost inseparable when broken down into a physiological response.

and when he steps up behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body soaking into the drying sweat on your back, you liken the way your heart climbs up your throat to same as it would seeing a dorsal fin cutting above the waves in open water.

desire, you think, and then catching the white-hot burn of the stare, you add, in a thin whisper: fear.

when they sit you down, and begin to spin a story about how they just want a baby—no strings attached—you stay seated in the chair even as an itch in the back of your head starts, nails scraping at your skull.

their reluctance toward traditional methods makes sense when they explain that with their lifestyle, it's impossible—or the Scottish man does; the other one with a marbled skin of thick, ugly scars on his hands just stares, pinning you down with the weight of his gaze—and this arrangement is the only way they'll get the baby they've been hoping for.

and even though the scratching in your head sounds suspiciously like why you and run, you eat the food they bought for you in the fancy restaurant where appetisers start at $30, and a glass of water is priced at $6. volcanic spring water, the waiter explains as he pours it from a marbled glass pitcher.

you haven't eaten a real meal that wasn't microwavable or cup noodles in weeks.

maybe that's why you find yourself thinking why not instead of no.

they're attractive men. it's not the worst situation you could have found yourself in, even if the idea of parenthood—however brief it's supposed to be—has bile clawing up the back of your throat, and the bones housing your trembling heart feeling laden, heavy like iron, and starts to cinch your chest shut each day, squeezing tighter, and tighter, and—

they drop off the first the installment to you the moment your doctor starts to talk about boerhaave syndrome, as if they know the doubts that plague your head when they leave your apartment and the silence starts to mock you.

and that leads you here.

guilt for their situation. desperation over your own. an overarching need to please. it's all a dangerous cocktail that douses over rationality until you're nodding along, accepting their words as gospel until sleeping with them—multiple times—doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

until it happens. until you have Johnny and Simon actively working to knock you up. a marathon of intense sex with the single-minded goal of putting their baby in you.

Johnny drooling all over you as he ruts between your thighs, mindlessly driving himself into a frenzy as he slurres out his desires in an incomprehensible mess of English and Gaelic and animalistic grunts. barely pulling out in time before Simon is pressing your knee down to the mattress, cooing mockingly at the mess his boy made of you. cruelly taking bets as he slides into your sore, aching cunt about who will take first. his or Johnny's? and who do you want, birdie? who's baby do you want first?

fingers always shoving inside to cap the overflow when they exhaust themselves in a liquid-limbed stupor, barely conscious as you tapped out some three, four rounds ago. unable to keep your eyes open any longer as they both came to the same conclusion that cumming inside of you at the same time was the quickest way to knock you up together. ain't he a romantic, birdie?

and it's probably for the best that you passed out before it happened, drooling on Simon's scarred shoulder as he gripped the cheeks of your ass, pulling you wide open as Johnny shuffled forward between his spread legs, eyes riveted to the spot where Simon's cock split you open. the ache you felt the next morning, coming to on a broad chest with fingers stuffed inside of you—shush, shush, just keeping you nice an' plugged, sweetheart—was almost unbearable.

you expected them to clear out after getting what they want, but they stay. tend to you carefully like you're made of fine china.

or—Johnny does. bundles you up in his arms before setting off towards the bath, finally letting you wash the sticky, flaking grime from your skin, some awful mixture of drying cum, spit, and sweat, groaning in your ear as he pulls you to his damp, hairy chest about how sweet you are for them. how they're going to take care of you.

Simon caters to other things. packs your bags as Johnny scrubs thick fingers over your shoulders, pausing to grasp a sore, tender breast in his palm, hefting the weight up as he feverishly mutters about how hot it'll be to watch you feed their baby. an' maybe you'll let him have a little taste, too—

and when you finally emerge from the bath, sorer between the thighs than you were when you woke up, another mess pooling in the gusset of the panties he pulled up your legs, Simon's waiting, eyes riveted to your belly. staring at it with so much hunger, a cold sweat breaks out along the nape of your neck.

in the grand scheme of things, the threesome is the easy part. the hard part comes when they turn the arrangement into a prison, locking the shackles around your wrists when the pregnancy test comes back positive a few weeks later.

they're only doing what's best for their baby, they say, when they move you out of your apartment and into theirs. the cut lease was the only way to do it, Johnny says, shrugging. why make you pay for something you aren't using anymore?

and maybe if your head was thickened with a fog, you'd have questioned the phrasing, but as it stands, pregnancy, even as early as this one, adles you. leaves you a syrupy mess of emotions that they take turns exploiting. aren't you so lonely all by yourself, hen? don' ye want a family?

aren't they good enough for you?

it's less subliminal messaging and more overt coersion. what are you going to do after this? where will you go with your lease cut? and when the funds run dry? what then?

gonna find another couple to knock you up? Simon hisses, mangled hands mauling your belly, pinching and squeezing the flesh as if he could feel the fragile box their happiness is housed inside. should jus' stay with us if that's the case, birdie.

but it's all so sweet, in its own way—

(—sweet like a parasite nesting inside of it's host.

but at least you'll never be lonely.)

they stand by the fact that they're looking out for you. that they care. that they can't do much else but idle and watch your body evolve into something new (an' magnificent, Johnny breathes, kissing this unfamiliar shape you call home) and it grates at them because they're not used to feeling so useless, so can't you just let them do this for you? take care of you in all the ways they see fit? like cutting your lease and giving you a better place to stay. handing in your resignation from that shitty nine to five that wore you down to the bone. culling out the annoyances in your life—the friends and family—who kick up needless fits over your wellbeing, and just stress you out more than you need to be.

they're not good enough for you, is what Simon says when you ask why he blocked them from your phone, Johnny hovering by the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. barring the exits, you'll realise later. but what comes first is fear, is anger, is—

happiness. maybe. or some broken, fragile facsimile of it. a subpar humuliculus masquerading around as if it was realised flesh and bone.

"oh," you say, and think you should be touched by his care, his concern, and so you are. shape this emotion from the sludge that pools at the bottom of your chest, running fingers through the muck to find pieces of gold. and then: "thank you, Simon."

it's sweet. or it could have been if it didn't spiral out of your control when they systematically dismantle your entire life until all you're left with is loose sediment slipping through your fingers. the foundation itself soften clay they shape into the image they've been after with the whole time: you.

(or more specifically, a momma for their baby.)

and when they ask you, at the end of this thin, fraying tether, if you want to be with them—an equal, a mother—and be a mother again for them, there's nothing else you could say except yes.

nothing because they made it so.

[samsno1]

Dream Of Me

Sam Winchester x F!Reader

i was going to do this fic much, much longer, it would have a whole plot and all but i am so exhausted i wasn't feeling it so have this short horny ass one-shot because i was ovulating while writing this lol

Summary: You quite literally got into Sam's head...

Warnings: SMUTish, m. masturbation, use of y/n, descriptions of nudity, *almost* cunnilingus (read it so you will understand lmao), kissing, nipple sucking, marking (?), english is not my first language

You can learn how to change "Y/N" for your actual name here

Read it on AO3

Read Part Two

WC: 2.3k

enjoy!

Sam kissed you deeply, his lips dragging against yours eagerly. His big hands grabbed at your hips, blunt nails digging into your skin through your clothes. His tongue sinfully entered your mouth, exploring the warmth and groaning at your taste.

Your hands wrapped themselves behind his neck, fingers brushing through his long locks, lightly tugging at each lap of his tongue through your lips. He slowly walked you back, your knees hitting the edge of the mattress and Sam gently held your upper back to place you softly over the covers, mouths never leaving each other. His long hair tickled your cheeks, his nose bumped into yours. His desire was almost palpable as his kisses became more and more desperate, his hands clawing at your back as one of his knees supported his weight between your thighs. His long torso angled itself in an arch to keep his assault on your mouth.

When he finally pulls away, a whine escapes your throat, your raw lips begging for more as your eyes watch his flushed face. He panted above you as he straightened up, his arms crossing to grab at the hem of his shirt and pull it off, the collar of the clothing lifting his hair and then making it bounce back in place perfectly, a stupid grin on his face – a sinful, I know you like what you see grin – as he catches your beautiful eyes analyzing every bit of exposed skin.

He places both his hands on each side of your head, his hair framing his face, a little curtain to hide the absolutely hungry look on his eyes.

“Like what you see, pretty girl?” He questions and you nod in affirmation. He dips down again to attack your neck with open mouthed kisses and bites, making you whine and mewl on his ears and your hands reach for his back, your nails digging into the flesh. His hands drag down your front, bumping against your hard nipples and going low enough so that he can drag your shirt up, his obnoxiously long fingers brushing against your hot skin and throwing even more wood in the fire that was in your belly.

He pulls away momentarily and you lift your arms above your head so that he can take the shirt off for you, the clothing blocking the stunning view of an aroused Sam Winchester for a few seconds as it goes through your head. When he finally throws the shirt away on the ground he practically pouts when he sees the bra covering your breasts and sensually – slowly – trails his hands to your back, leaving yet another mind blowing kiss on your lips, humming, fucking humming in delight, just for being able to do this to you.

He unclasps the undergarment, and you feel him smile against your lips as if he was saying finally I can really see you. As he takes yet another article of clothing off of you he really eyes you down – I mean really. He registers every curve, every scar and every single particle of your skin, his lust-blown eyes eating you alive right then and there, your chest going up and down with deep breaths, your abused mouth half open, your hands splayed beside your head – everything.

He takes a single hand to caress over your skin, starting low at your neck and slowly coming down at the valley of your breasts, down your belly until he’s below your belly button then his other hand joins the action, one on each side of you, dragging up your waist and feeling around your ribs until they finally grab at each boob, squeezing. You groan and grab at both his wrists to keep him there, the little stimulation you got better than anything. He hums above you, his head dipping down to leave feather-light kisses over your collarbones.

“So pretty” He murmurs against your skin “So, so beautiful for me Y/N”

You sigh as he massages your breasts, his mouth dragging down to one of your nipples, wrapping around it and hollowing his cheeks, sucking on your skin and circling his tongue around your tit. You arch your back, a low moan rippling through your throat as you roll your hips, trying to find any kind of friction for the ache between your thighs.

“Sam…” You plead, grabbing at his hair to tug. He groans at your action, biting lightly on your nipple and you shriek. He lifts his head up, chuckling lowly, evil even, a smug smirk on his face, his dimples making him look even prettier above you. He lets your breasts go and smashes his mouth to yours again, swallowing your complaints.

His hands hold you at your belt loop and he bumps his crotch against yours and oh my god. You let out a cry, breaking the connection, and hide your head in his shoulder, your mouth kissing below his ear lobe as you whisper to him:

“Please, please, please, do something, Sam” You beg and he hushes you, one of his hands going towards your lower back to hug your naked tummy against his defined body. He squeezes your skin, wanting to mold into you and turn you inside out.

“Shh, beautiful, I’m gonna take care of you” He says, kissing your neck and unbuttoning your tight jeans with one hand. Excitement runs through his veins, his mouth still marking your skin.

His hand finally manages to unzip your pants and he flattens his palm against your lower belly to drag his fingers below the waistband of your panties. He swipes one teasing middle finger between your folds making you buck against his hand and let out a cry of desperation. He brings his finger out, making you groan in complaint until he lifts his head up, grabs your chin and makes you stare at him in the eyes.

When he’s sure you’re looking, he inserts his slick soaked finger into his mouth and sucks on it, pleasurable noises coming out of his throat as he savors your taste on his tongue, his eyes closing in bliss. The sight is beyond unholy, the action making your cunt clench into nothing, your glossy eyes couldn’t look away and Sam was taking advantage of that. Nothing you’ve ever experienced with anyone before made you feel so needy for someone's mouth between your thighs, eating you out with all their want, need, for you, nose deep into your pussy. Sam did that.

He takes his finger out of his mouth with a pop, licking his lips with his tongue and he opens his eyes to look at you and you are, for sure, looking at him, completely hypnotized by his spell. He grins and dips his head close to your ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps all over your body.

“I’m going to eat you out until you’re begging me to stop, until you’re physically unable to take anything anymore” He whispers and bites at your earlobe and jesus fucking christ where did this man get this mouth. You let out a shaky breath at his words, the fantasy making you squeeze your legs together.

“Please, please, please” You beg as Sam starts kissing down your body, open mouthed kisses left and right. His mouth bit and sucked at points he learned made you tingly inside and your hips roll below him. When he gets to the waistband of your pants he hooks two fingers of each hand through it to drag both your underwear and your jeans down your legs. It felt cold for about three seconds until the sight of Sam looking up at your face through his long lashes, eyes filled with lust, burned you from the inside out.

Once you were completely bare under him he left kisses in each of your inner thighs, his calloused hands kneading on the skin. You look down again, his hair brushes your legs, his mouth so close, so, so close that you could feel his breath against your soaked cunt. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you and you felt like the last woman on earth, wondering how this man could be so perfect, inside and outside. He finally starts to approach your folds, his mouth slowly opening to wrap around your clit and…and…

“Sammy wake up!” Sam’s shaken awake by a hand on his arm and takes a deep breath in. He rubs his eyes, trying to adjust to the light that got turned on by whoever disturbed his sleep – his very good and desirable sleep. His blurred vision starts to focus on the figure besides his bed. Dean towers over Sam in his robe, an unfazed look on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand that isn’t holding his arm.

“Dean?” He questions, voice hoarse from sleep, as he sits up on the bed, the covers falling from his chest to pool around his hips, still hiding his legs below it. Dean drops his hand from his upper arm “What time is it?”

“About 10AM” He says “We might’ve found a case, we need your help with research” He affirmed and Sam nodded. Oh my god. You. How was he going to face you? How was he going to be able to concentrate on your explanation of the case to him when he just fantasized about his mouth between your legs eating you – scratch that – almost eating you out? I’m screwed. “Clean up and meet me and Y/N at the library” Dean says finally, snapping him out of his thoughts and giving him a slap on his back, to which Sam groaned in annoyance. He leaves the room soon after, closing the door behind him.

He lets out a shaky breath, his hands supporting his upper body against the mattress. Just now did he notice the blood pulsing between his legs and the way he seemed hotter than usual. He rubbed both hands over his face, get it together, God damn it. He threw his legs off the side of the bed and stood up, making a beeline to the bathroom. He needed a cold shower, an ice bath, drown in the lakes of Alaska, anything to cool his body and his thoughts.

Every time he blinked there you were, his disheveled hair and lust blown pupils looking up at you. It had been some time since he started developing a crush on the huntress, your kind and caring – but at the same time firm and assertive – personality got him hooked pretty quick and your smartness always impressed him. Dean often made fun of you for being sort of a nerd – in his words – but that just made you even more desirable for him. And, of course, you looked incredible. Your killer body and beautiful features made you look amazing even when you were covered in monster guts.

Peeling off his clothes and turning the water to the coldest setting definitely helped. But, his boner was still there. He cursed to himself and hesitantly wrapped a hand around his cock, eyes closing and teeth digging into his lips to hold back any noise. He started rubbing slowly, up and down, visions of you on his head, beneath him, hair messed up by his hands and skin marked by his mouth and teeth. He wondered how your pussy would taste on his tongue, which noises you would make when he finally brought you over that edge just with his mouth. Then with his fingers. Then…

He quickened his movements, his chest going up and down quickly with deep breaths. Sam should feel bad for touching himself to the thought of you, he should feel bad for dreaming of you that way but he just couldn’t. The images of you flashing into his mind were making him feel thoroughly euphoric, his heartbeat could be felt in his ears and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining your cries of pleasure as he pumped into you or the different positions he could put you in. Fucking you against the shower wall or over the map table.

His drenched hair fell besides his face, the cold water running down his head and back as he slightly hunched over. One of his hands supported his weight against the wall while the other grasped tightly at his shaft. He thought about you moaning his name, much like you did in the dream, and how it sounded so sweet yet so arousing. 

His breathing was shallow, his hands were shaking and with a sigh of your name he finally came. He was in bliss, the orgasm hitting him like a truck. He pressed his forearm against the wall in a horizontal position and rested his head over it, his softening dick still in his hand. He opened his eyes, the sound of the water falling to the ground finally being processed by his brain again.

Jesus Christ.

The guilt suddenly hit him and he shook his head, partially in disbelief at what his body and mind made him feel. And do. Even if his body calmed down, his brain still had that dream practically memorized. He sighed, cleaning himself up all over again, the mess he made going down the drain, hiding the evidence. He got out of the shower, toweling his hair and drying his face.

He stood in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection. His cheeks were still flushed but, besides that, nothing could give anything away. He breathed out a chuckle.

“God damn it” He whispered to himself as he proceeded to dry the rest of his body with a different towel than the one he used in his hair, then wrapping that towel around his hips and going back to his room to change into different clothes. Today was going to be a long day.

A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing, feedback makes those writings better. Thank you for reading, Xoxo

Read Part Two

[antiquarianfics]

Making Waves

Bucky gives you a pep talk when life’s beating down on you a little too hard.

a/n: unedited as always. this is also just a comfort fic. just bucky making you feel better. this can be read romantic or platonic. whatever floats your boat.

warnings: sexist themes, profanity

note: I do not own the character Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters.

You do not have permission to copy, repost, or translate my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and/or reblog.

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

“I thought I might find you out here.”

You sigh as you tilt your head up in acknowledgment of your intrusion, unsure if it’s welcome or not. In fact, you’re not sure how you feel about much at the moment. Your mind is swimming in uncertainties and insecurities that you feel a personal obligation to figure out or overcome. Nevertheless, you don’t protest the welcome/unwelcome (pick one, dammit!) company as it sits down next to you, providing a little warmth against the night’s cold to your right.

Your company had found you sitting alone on the beach, right at the shore, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your legs and holding them close, fingers anxiously fiddling with a ring on your finger, and staring at the waves as they crashed against the shore over and over again. The sea, you’d found, is calming. The repetitive nature of the ocean crashing against the shore and retreating back into itself feels honest to you. You may lie to yourself, the world may lie to you, but the sea? The sea will always find a way to reveal to you a hidden treasure you never knew you were looking for.

“That predictable?” You finally ask, responding to your newfound company.

You turn your head and make eye contact with your friend who’d come searching for you. You’re met with concerned eyes the color you’re certain the sea would be if it weren’t dark—the only light coming from the moon reflecting upon the water.

Your friend gives you a look, raising an eyebrow and pursing his lips. He’d found out the beach had become your favorite spot to run off to early on in your friendship, but he also knew you only ran for the beach when something was troubling you.

“You seemed upset,” is all he says.

“Bucky, I…” You trail off, not really sure what you meant to even say to him. What do you even want to say to him? That you’re upset by some media rumors about you? That you got your feelings hurt because a stupid clickbait article claims you’re dating a man you hate? That you feel like a failure as an Avenger, or a hero, or whatever the fuck you’re supposed to be anymore if all your worth to the public is tied up in who they think you have in your bed? You don’t finish your thought and return your gaze to the ocean.

Bucky is silent for a long while, just sitting and watching the waves with you. He is absolutely no stranger to needing to sit and sift through feelings, and he is also no stranger to unwanted media attention messing with his sanity. So, he lets you sit for a minute, but he also knows the longer that anger and frustration cook up inside you, the worse off you’ll be. You taught him that.

“Doll, you’ve gotta talk about it or it’s gonna eat you alive. You know that,” Bucky says softly. Empathetically.

“Bucky,” you whine, tired and still unwilling to talk.

“Okay, don’t talk. I will,” he says, swallowing nervously. He’s obviously out of his comfort zone, and you can’t help but look at him.

You let your eyes rest on your friend once more, and you take in his worried demeanor. His stormy blue eyes are set on the ocean, watching the waves as he gathers his thoughts. You realize, then, that he isn’t comfortable with what he’s doing—he’d much rather be listening to you talk. He’d much rather offer a small piece of advice after you talk, or maybe give you a hug and hope that fixes you. But he cares about you, and he’s trying to do the same thing you’ve done for him countless times: voice your observations about what might be upsetting your friend so that the problem is out and a solution can be found.

“You’re upset,” Bucky starts hesitantly, “because of a gossip piece that’s circulating the internet right now.”

You don’t argue with him, and Bucky takes that as confirmation.

“The gossip piece claims that you’re dating John Walker and dubs you the new “it” couple even though you hate the guy and punched him the face the last time you saw him.”

You laugh humorlessly.

“Then, that video clip from Walker’s interview started circulations where he all but confirms the rumors.”

You clench your fist in annoyance.

“That about right?”

“Yeah, that’s about it,” you say.

“I’d be angry, too,” he says.

“It’s just…” You trail off, closing your eyes tight trying to fight off tears. “It’s just that it doesn’t matter to them that I was an Avenger! It doesn’t matter that I helped defeat Loki, or Ultron, or Thanos. I’ve done so much for this city, and they don’t care. Not because they don’t care that New York was saved by the Avengers, but because the boy heroes are just better. I’m turned into an unwilling superhero eye candy, and, despite all my accomplishments, they can’t bring up my name without attaching it to a man’s. One of the articles doesn’t even mention my name! The article is really just titled ‘Mrs. Captain America?’ Like, really? I want to hit something.”

Bucky frowns, nodding as you rant and waiting patiently for you to finish. When you do, you’re breathing heavily, obviously worked up.

“You’re more than just ‘unwilling superhero eye candy,’” Bucky says, nose scrunching in disgust as he repeats your words. You can’t help it, but you laugh. The words sound so silly coming from his mouth. He smiles.

“You’re right. It’s really messed up that the public isn’t acknowledging all you’ve actually done to protect them, but you know that you’re more than that. That’s what matters. Because as long as you remember who you are, what you stand for, and what you do, then that person and her accomplishments are going to be noticed by the people who need to notice them. Do you know how many little girls probably saw you and Natasha fighting in all those fights and realized they could do that, too? When I was growing up, my sister didn’t have anyone like you to look up to. I wish she had.”

Bucky reaches up and wipes away the tears that are silently streaming down your cheeks. You reach up and haphazardly wipe away what he missed with the back of your hand. You hadn’t realized you were crying.

“Thank you, Buck,” you say. “I needed that.”

“I mean it, Doll.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.

[bellatrixnightshade]

RAFAL in Relation to Other People

Warning: I won't be woobifying Rafal here or really putting him as a victim, so this may offend or bother people who stan him and forgive all his faults. Additionally, this has some toxic stuff here so if that is a trigger then I recommend not going through with it. And if you will go as far as to AGREE with it just because "my blorbo could have possibly said it", then I'm afraid you are missing my point and would rather have you click off.

So we already know how Rafal is as a brother, but how could he act in different familial relationships, like being a lover/spouse or a father?

As a lover/spouse: I'm sorry, but whether Rafal means to or not, he would easily be that toxic person in your life. He always is right (and you are wrong), and he appears to be the type to disregard one's feelings. If he hurts someone, he hardly ever apologizes, but you have to apologize to him. The closest he'll come to is a bullshit excuse. ("It wasn't my intention.") He makes you question yourself and the validity of your opinions, because, again, he is right. You can never get through to him or call him out, because at the end of the day, you are the problem, you are inferior, you have a childish mind, you are too sensitive. He slowly picks away at your self esteem, which was already low when you met him in the first place. (People drawn to him tend to have confidence issues??)

You don't leave him maybe because he doesn't have bad intentions, because he instilled in you codependence and now you don't know what to do without him, or maybe Rafal somewhat regretted hurting you, so you accept that. And ultimately, you trusted him, you believed in him, so, stupid you has to face the consequences. Everything that happened is your fault because you should have seen Rafal wasn't a good person!

Rafal just seems wayy too sheltering and overprotective and he'd take away his lover's ability to make most of their own choices or have their own lives-- slowly but surely, and perhaps, unintentionally.

Not to mention, he is possessive af! Red flag right there.

I hope that any lover of Rafal leaves him and they see their own worth, instead of running back to him. Because to be honest, he seems like a hypocritical, arrogant, and insufferable jerk. (most of the time) Either that or Rafal gets his act together and has some self reflection. He isn't a vampire for crying out loud!

As a father: oh. The father who is very, very, VERY overprotective and sheltering. A helicopter parent, even. He makes you think sometimes, "why do I have this curse of a father??" and sometimes you wish something could happen like a virus doing its job and you are "free." (Please don't actually wish this on your difficult parents unless they are really shitty!) Rafal embarasses his kids but being rather ultrastrict and old-fashioned and they probably don't know much of the world because of him. Everything has to be "educational" (which isn't a bad thing in itself but for the love of whatever please don't overdo it and make it corny) so no video games, etc. Also if Rafal reads an article with research on how veggies can give cancer, your salads will be taken away!

Rafal will also go like, "I'm your only friend. You don't need friends because you have me," and he may break up some friendships you have. Oh also: no boys.

I feel like Rafal fits dad energy more, though even there he would be WAY too much. (Go away Rafal! Go adopt orphans and make their lives miserable instead of bothering other people.) But who knows? Maybe as the years go on he would cool down, or back off when they become adults. Unless they form a codependent relationship with him and he has to be the center of their lives, which is very possible. Let's watch Rafal slowly destroy a home because he's in the way! And of course, instead of giving his children's household space, he defends himself and puts himself in the right. His kids may call Rafal every day in a modern context and totally neglect their family. Or the family is going out? Rafal has to be there too, and his kid says nothing.

If Rafal comes home from work in a bad mood, I'm sure his kids try to run off because if they don't he will find something to criticize and they will get hour long lectures. I also feel like he'd lecture on other occasions and then get mad when his family doesn't care and they want to get back to what THEY have to do??

[titanic-angel]

мιgυel o'нara х ғ!reader

⁎︎✴︎ adronιтιѕ 1 ✴︎⁎︎

ѕynopѕιѕ ➪︎ мιgυel o'нara нaѕ a ѕтrange, claѕѕιғιed reqυeѕт oғ yoυ. нιм, and нιѕ dιgιтal aѕѕιѕтanт, lyla.

warnιngѕ ➪︎ swearing

noтeѕ ➪︎ enιмιeѕ тo coworĸerѕ тo ғrιendѕ тo loverѕ ѕlowвυrn ! ongoιng, υpdaтeѕ вeтween every ғew day

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂▂︎◣︎◥︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

She chose you because of your name.

Lyla was a program, a buzzing core of digits and code, analytics her only language. It was unlike her to go by her heart, because she didn’t have one.

But she wanted one.

The heat of skin, eyes that could look, really look, at someone. The softened hair under her finger tips- printed with a map of grooves and lines that separated her from every other. She wanted the individuality that a human body could give, and that her pixels would never achieve.

Miguel made the mistake of giving Lyla a mind of her own, because now she wanted a body to match.

After pulling a difficult, relentless, and borderline maddening attitude for years, he finally gave into her wishes, under a condition.

Only one engineer.

The creation she asked for, the mockery of humanity, could take forever, even with her limitless knowledge and Miguel’s high tech and steady hands. But despite this, Miguel refused her a team of engineers to conjure a body that would make history. In order to prevent an overlap of his secrets and the real world, Lyla was to choose only one individual who could make her a body, and keep a secret.

An individual, who, had a lovely name.

You’re transcripts were impressive enough, but not recognized; so that when you were to be snuffed, stolen under fluorescent yellow lights, the only memory left would be that of a keycard scanner.

Its ironic, that a senseless A.I made her decision off feeling. But she saw youth in your eyes, a harsh comparison the age and wisdom that spoke in purples under your lashes. It was overwhelming, the amount of life you had ahead of you, a mortality characterized by the dismal way it said goodbye. But Lyla craved it, a madwoman of science and self.

A collection of illusions that was foolish enough to believe it could be anything, something, else.

Hope is a drug.

So, addicted, she said, “her.”

Miguel would pause, eyes roaming the expanse of your face, the smile in your eyes, the taint on your teeth, your tongue, the crevices of you jaw. His clicked, eyes doubtful.

But Lyla’s were resolute.

“I want her.”

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂▂︎◣︎◥︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

Vague.

It was a font that thrived in obfuscated shadows. It was limitless in its unknown, clouded by things that should’ve been said, or instructions never specified.

Your pathetic heart clung to every word that stuck itself to an stark white screen, palpitations thrumming against your tonsils.

Staring back at you, an email from Miguel O’Hara, that read simply, vaguely, Meet at my office at 4:00 PM.

Your distaste for the font had now only grown.

It was impossible to work at Alchemax and not to hear his name praised at least once. Interns, employees from every felid, article after article were relentless in their awe of the man’s work.

But you weren’t stupid.

You were an observer. You knew at least fifty people who would claw him apart, sell their soul to the underworld, sacrifice an eye and ear to sit where he does, most of whom are just as qualified for the position.

That doesn’t exclude you.

It was something you despised about the company, it’s big gestures of gratitude to those with a name- only to turn with a gloved hand to feed the hogs, the greasy and bloodied heart of the operation, messily scraps.

But much like a farm animal, you were trapped in by a pen of promise and chance.

You were a pig with her farmer, believing even under the cleaver that she would see the bigger field on the other side of the fence. That gamble for praise, a trophy and a house to put it in.

But Miguel wasn’t just a pig.

He was the show hog. Big blue bows, pretty golden plaques and a pillow to sleep on.

But at the end of the day, he was fed the same slop, just in a different trough.

Even so, he had it all. He had everything you didn’t.

Well, everything but email etiquette.

So you, frantic in the newness, clung to your bag, heavy with uncertainty. You brought everything you needed- or didn’t. Papers from 2 weeks ago, two years ago, updates and criticisms, research and theories. It all felt so, infuriatingly, unsteady.

You despised your leniency, your willingness to play along. But you blamed Miguel even more. It was embarrassing for you, to run down flights of stairs on a whim. Foolishly you ask yourself who does he think he is, despite knowing the answer.

Given, you had never met the man. He was similar to the newness of the space, a gap, a tear in the pages of Alchemax’s directory, the hazy profile in your inbox a mere pixel of his program. But you could already smell his dismissiveness, his arrogance.

You of course, could’ve made the executive decision, having a mind of your own, to ignore the email (if not out of spite, out of fear).

But maybe the whispers of his name intrigued you. Maybe, you had read the articles written about him offhandedly, jealous, but impressed. Maybe, shamefully, your curiosity was strong than your own resolve, willing to bend and mold into the shape of those 6 words and a time because you wanted to know the why.

His demand, written with so little grace or gratitude, had been met, when your labored breath fanned across the white doors.

You knocked, because you had manners.

When the white door opened, you came to the realization that nothing, not even a high resolution photo, could do his presence justice.

His head nearly touched the door, soft tufts of brown hair falling wildly, exhaustedly, over his ears. High cheekbones at a sharp angle, hollowing out his cheeks in a faint shadowed line. A mouth that looked gentle, despite its creased frown. The valley of his skin was rough and uneven, granular creases of age digging into the space under his nose, his mouth, his eyes.

They were a deep brown; almost red under the overhead lights, wandering above your head, before looking at you with an intensity that made your swallow hard.

The lab coat and dress shirt were flattering around his shoulders, the cotton molding to his massive gate like elastic. They stiffened at the sight of you, breath heavy and pink cheeked, before he released a sharp sigh when his gaze moved to the clock above your head.

4:02

“You’re late.” That wasn’t a lie.

“You we’re vague.” But that wasn’t either.

“I said my office” he said, stepping to the side, gesturing you to walk in (or, to his office to prove his point, either one made your teeth grit).

You followed his arm in. On his wrist, a patch of discoloration- the bruise yellow in contrast to warm brown.

Strange.

You’re eyes began to make sense of your surroundings. White walls, sparse pictures, a desk, two chairs, two computers, stray wires and scraps.

It was similar to a doctors office- suffocating, boring, unsettling.

“You didn’t say why,” you glanced at one of the only framed papers on the wall, a certificate declaring him as the head of research regarding anti-matter.

You hated to admit it, but his name looked good on paper.

“Miguel.”

You heard his tongue click before he sat down at his desk behind you. “Mr. O’Hara is fine.”

You laughed, turning to him with a sneer. “You’re clinically insane if you think I’m going to refer to you by Mr.”

He motioned for the seat in front of him. You stayed where you were. He narrowed his eyes, “it’s proper etiquette.”

You laughed again. For his arrogance, he was funny. “Don’t talk to me about etiquette. You still haven’t debriefed why I walked a marathon to get to your office.”

We’re you being a little harsh? Absolutely. But people like him, demanding, flippant, who liked to play boss; they used employees (who were just as if not more talented than they were) as their pawns. Employees like you.

You has no issue with the label bitter. It accurately describes your attitude towards most of the head-of’s at Alchemax.

Truthfully, the rise and fall of his shoulders and his rugged edges made you nervous.

But you weren’t a piece of meat in his teeth.

You refused to be the shaking fawn. But you knew you’d never be the wolf sitting across from you.

So you became the hunter willing to shoot both.

He sighed, a harsh sound that vibrated your ribs. “Please just…sit down.”

“I’m fine standing, thanks.”

He rubbed his temples, muttering incoherent Spanish under his breath. “Why must you be so difficult?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but then you felt the air spark.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, fingernails digging into your palms, threatening blood. It was paralyzing, the sudden scent of bleach being replaced by, if it counted, the smell of yellow.

“You’re no fun Miguel, that’s why. She is, though.”

In your paralysis, you found the strength (or bravery) to move you head to your left, eyes fuzzy but alert, in an attempt to place a face to the yellow.

When you did, she was grinning.

You stifled a scream, lodged in your throat, scraping at your tongue, heavy. She giggled, turning upside down.

“Hello there.”

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“This is my digital assistant, Lyla,” he sighed, “she likes to make an entrance.”

She blinked.

“Holy fuck.” You whispered.

You had finally (reluctantly) took a seat per earlier request, thighs pressed together and, by anxious habit, picking your stray thumb skin. It was loose off your nail, flimsy under your subconscious fidget.

Currently, it was one of the only forms of control you had over the situation. You couldn’t really process if it should feel comforting, or unsettling.

Miguel’s stale gaze made that decision for you.

You cleared your throat.

“Did you make…her?” Now you just felt stupid. The look they both gave you didn’t help.

“Short answer…yes. I made her. But she-“

“I eventually just started updating myself until I became the gorgeous, stunning lady before you!” She said, grinning at you brightly, expectantly. You nodded, cautious.

“I see. So,” you turned to Miguel, “i think if you’re experiencing issues with…” you paused, looking at the hologram. She glitched, and smiled, “Lyla.”

You nodded, again. “Right, Lyla. I won’t be of much help. I’m an engineer, not an A.I expert, so if you need assistance-“

“But you can help!” Lyla flashed in front of you and, startled, your ripped the skin tag clean off.

Ow.

She stood (floated) on the table in front of you. Suddenly, yellow and orange squares appeared around you, and once the glaze of obscurity was blinked away, you realized they were your files.

Your photo, the research in your bag, and the ones you left at your desk. Hell, as you looked closer you noticed school records, family photos and their records.

It all stared back at you, a clarity that made you feel nauseous.

“Listen, kid,” she paused, her glitching body coming to your nose, finally making your vision break from the screens, “I don’t like being in this form anymore than you do. My beautiful mind deserves more than,” she motioned to herself, “this.”

Your mouth felt dry. If you knew where this was going-

“Two years ago,” a small square came to the center, “you worked on a robot. But not just some science fair, miniature, boring robot.”

Her eyes shimmered, brighter than the rest of her body.

“A robot that looked human.”

She scrolled through the article, the one that on release had made you cringe, “given, it was unsuccessful, but it’s detailing, it’s functions, they felt-”

She turned to you, and suddenly all your life disappeared from around your chair, leaving you in the dim light with Lyla’s silhouette.

She glitched, and for a moment you saw the humanity in her yellow. Somewhere, deep within the pixels, she was-.

“Real. I want to be real. And you’re going to help me.”

You paused. “I am?”

She laughed. “Well I hope so!” She threw her arms out, gesturing at the, now gone, files, “you could redeem yourself!”

You’re nose wrinkled. “I don’t need to redeem anything. My work-“

“Was a failure,” you winced, “that article still stains your reputation here at Alchemax, and I’m positive it’s the reason a mind as bright as yours is not higher up here.”

Even if it hurt to hear aloud, the truth always hurts. She was right. That experiment years ago lived and breathed down your neck. Now, you play a desperate game of catch up with the mistake that got a mile ahead of you before you took one step.

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll bite. What do you need me to do.”

“Make me a body.”

You laughed, startled at how simply she put it. “Sorry Lyla- that’s just…well it’s near impossible.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“And I failed, as you so gently pointed out.” You hated how hopeless you sounded when you said it, how you belittled yourself. But once again, the truth hurts.

“But you won’t this time.”

She hovered over your finger tips, smiling gently up at you. “We can help each other. I want a body, and you want a good reputation. If you build this for me…”

“We both win.” You finished.

She grinned. “Exactly.”

You groaned, your head falling to look at your lap. Your thumb still throbbed at the place you picked at your skin, the pinkish flesh stinging in the stale air. You wondered why Lyla wanted this- the fragility and the vulnerability that came with being…alive.

It was fleeting and it was calloused, a worn down tapestry that kept the face of agony and regret painfully clear, even as the rest of its body faded with time and age.

But you supposed, that there was a beauty in it. An untouched phenomenon- life wasn’t permanent, but it was special.

The grass is greener on the other side.

“Alright.”

Lyla laughed, leaping up to your nose.

“So you’ll help?”

“Yes. But what’s the catch.”

Her head tilted.

Your gaze moved to Miguel.

Despite his silence throughout this whole discussion, his analytic stare did not move from your face. It dug into your skin, his silence louder than any roar he could conjure. It’s animosity overwhelmed your skull, making the words that left your clenched throat hoarse and weak.

“What’s the catch.”

His chest rumbled in what you (hoped) believed to be a sigh, shouldered slumping. “You can’t…tell anyone during the process. You’ll be paid, but it’s classified information. No one can know what your doing.”

You almost stood up and left.

There wasn’t any pride, any joy in your work unless there was credit. Of course, scientific and engineering discoveries weren’t fueled by the promise of history, but you were a fool if you believed it wasn’t part of the process.

Michelangelo didn’t paint the Sistine Chapel to have people simply walk under his ceiling.

He wanted them to break their own necks to admire it.

But, a part of you hesitated.

Maybe the slow game was smarter. To become Miguel O’Hara’s colleague, to mold and shape and sculpt under shadows. Until your own masterpiece, much too alive to dust in an old museum, was revealed to an open skies and wonderstruck audience.

You felt guilty, doing this for your own gain rather than the goodness of your heart. But they knew who they hired. They knew it was a consensual abuse of power from both sides.

They knew that status would always taste sweeter than empathy.

You stuck out your hand.

“Deal.”

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parт 2 ⇁︎

[itsgodepi]

If I lose my mind | Ch. 5

Series summary: When you're buried under a mountain of problems and can’t seem to catch a break, it might feel like you need a complete reset. But did it really have to come with a one-way ticket to a new dimension? Surely, a little problem-solving would’ve done the trick. Or, one day you go to sleep as a normal person and the next you wake up as a Formula One driver. You've never been a fan but isn't it like, one of the most exclusive sports? Pairing: CL16, LH44, CS55, DR3 x fem!reader Chapter: Previous | Next Word Count: 3k Also on AO3

Reading your own Wikipedia page is quite a strange experience. Paragraph after paragraph of your life written on the internet for everybody to see, from the day you were born all the way to this very moment. 

You do not know if the fact that none of it is true is for better or worse. 

Some parts are accurate, information about your hometown, date of birth, relatives' names and... that’s about it really. According to this biography, not only have you been the runner-up for a Formula 3 championship, but you are also a Formula 2 champion, which is good you guess, for someone that did not even know those kinds of competitions existed. As of two hours ago, Formula One was the only championship with those kinds of cars you had ever heard about, but there are so many. Too many actually. In a section of your page named ‘junior racing career’ —which is in itself a crazy sentence to read—, it even says something about karting’s championships and an academy thing, concepts you are not sure if you want to understand. 

Oh, and the most important part, you are a Formula 1 driver, a statement endlessly repeated throughout the text. They even claim this to be your second year on the motorsport, ‘not a rookie anymore’ they say, as if yesterday’s race was not the first one you have ever watched from start to finish. 

Still, if being pushed into a Formula One car and a whole Wikipedia page was not enough of a confirmation, you can find a million articles online that certify your participation in the sport. Webs filled with photos of you with the cars, dressed in full gear and with that stupid blue helmet, the situation getting worse and worse with every tap of your finger. 

How is any of this possible? 

The rabbit hole that seems to be your ‘life’ keeps you awake night after night, new information slapping you in the face every two minutes while you try to navigate what appears to be a Formula One driver’s normal schedule. Nick makes sure of that last part at least. 

The first step on that agenda had been to fly out of Austria, a place you cannot comprehend how you had arrived to when you were in Spain just yesterday. It is not like you were having the best time of your life there, finishing the third month of your external internship in a city you thought was already too far away from home, but this change looks a bit excessive. The possibility of being in a completely different country had seemed so absurd at first, when a list called Austrian GP came up as one of the top results in your research, and yet with a simple look to the navigation app, your worst nightmare had been confirmed. From your trip to the airport, to the arrival to another country, France, and to a new hotel, Nick walking you through every step of the process and only leaving you alone once you are back in the hotel room. 

The next few days follow a similar dynamic, mornings spent trailing behind Nick without a clue of what happens around you and long nights glued to the phone, the date for the next GP —or whatever they call it— getting closer and closer.  

You are not ready to repeat last Sunday’s events, an engine failure had saved you from the inevitable end, but you might not be so lucky next time. There is no way you are stepping into that car again, that is for sure, and even less so when you have not figured out what brought you here in the first place.  

Although you had drowned yourself in information about your supposed life the first nights in France, the need to discover what was happening to you had quickly managed to overpower that curiosity. From the moment Nick knocks on your door early on the morning to the hours you lay awake on bed looking for anything that could explain this madness, you spend every second of the day looking for an explanation.  

A kidnapping had been the most credible theory from day one, the way you had woken up to all those screams and the men surrounding you, how Nick had come into your hotel room that morning and pushed you to drive with no regard for your safety. It made sense. However, the articles posted all over the internet told a very different story. There is too much information about you, some posts even dating back to when you were a child, photos and videos that cannot be simply edited and uploaded to make you believe you have gone crazy. You have driven a Formula One car on an official race, for crying out loud, that is not something anybody can orchestrate. 

To be honest, the whole Formula One thing had knocked down quite a few of your guesses. What could someone gain from making you, a nobody, believe they are a motorsport driver?   

In fact, the only theory that could easily explain everything that had happened to you in the past few days is that: none of this is real. A dream. You can vividly remember dozing off on your bed, that sensation of falling down and then suddenly waking up in that unfamiliar place. It could be the reason why you had blacked out when the car exited the garage, why everyone knew you, and could also explain the existence of all those false stories on the internet.  

You had made all of this up. 

That had indeed been one of your first assumptions, or at least had been an easy way for your mind to let go of all the worries in such an unnerving situation. If this was not real, there was nothing to stress about, no danger in sight. Your alarm will go off any moment now and you will be one day closer to ending this internship and going back home. Tomorrow will be a new day. 

Despite this, as time goes by, it becomes harder and harder to hold onto this happy thought. 

Stepping foot into the new track is a breaking point. It is Friday, five days have gone by and nothing has changed, the countdown to the next race weighting down on your mind as you walk through what Nick had called the paddock. It is that strange street again, the one lined by those colorful buildings but in a completely different country —another clue that this was indeed not real, you were clearly lacking imagination to be recycling sceneries like this. 

They had brough you here yesterday as well, for a tour around the track that had set your nerves alight. Thankfully, you had done nothing but wander around the circuit for a while, be surrounded by a couple cameras, have a meeting with the engineers and go back to the hotel for another sleepless night.  

Maybe you should sleep more —which sounds quite contradictory when you are supposedly already dreaming— because, when the events of last Sunday start repeating themselves, you do not even have the strength to push back. Nick manages once again to lure you into the white building and prepare you for what he calls practice, but the reality is that just the sight of that Formula One car on the garage makes you heart drop to the pit of your stomach. 

“Don’t worry about times,” a man who has been following you all day says “Let’s see if everything feels good first and we’ll talk things over for FP2”.  

A lot of changes had been made to the car since Austria, that is what all the meetings had been about. You had silently sat down through all of them, nodding along to the engineers’ words as if you understood any of it. 

Now that you are seated in the car, blue helmet and jumpsuit on, you can only wish that whatever broke the car in Austria has not been fixed. That the engine won’t even start, and you will have to retire again. It is hard enough to listen to the rest of the cars exiting their own garages, their engines revving like they might explode.  

How they have managed to put you on the spot yet again, that you do not understand. And it is not only a one-time thing, but they easily make you jump in the car later the day for a second practice. 

When you are finally helped out of the car the second time, body uncontrollably trembling and a static sound filling your ears, you feel an unusual sense of calmness. The whole ride had felt like such a clear sign that none of this is real, it can’t be. Both practices had gone by in the blink of an eye, just like it had happened in Austria, a fade to black and you are back where you started. You do not even remember seeing other cars on the road or how you got back to the garage. Nothing. The only proof that you had driven around for hours being the fatigue consuming your body, something that backs the dreaming theory up so perfectly. 

They say you have done great though, so that is something.  

Nevertheless, it feels nice to be back on normal clothes, like there is less of a target on your back for the cameras and other strangers, but it is still difficult to keep a low profile when you are walking through the paddock with the team’s merchandising. Nick is guiding you out to the last meeting of the day, after you have fulfilled all the media duties and team reunions that have kept you on the track since your arrival this morning. He says this driver’s briefing thing should not last long, that it is quite late already, and they are probably thinking more about going back home than anything.  

The meeting is on another building, one you had not even noticed in your two days here, Nick leading you inside and up some stairs until you find the meeting room. When he opens the door, you realize there is already people seated inside, the sound of their mixed talks now filling the long corridor. You recognize some of them, not from the team meetings but from Austria, other drivers.  

The room is furnished as a classroom, a projector on the right wall and the rest of the space filled with rows of chairs. There are not many people in it yet, Nick had said it would be better to get there early before people start crowding the entrance and now you understood why. Your gaze instantly zeroes in on Lewis, a tiny smile pulling at your lips while Nick guides you to some seats, deciding to leave your things with him and go say hello. You have not seen him since Austria, after you had spent the entire pre-race ceremony talking to him, and now that you have kind of ruled out the possibility that he is a kidnapper, you have realized that maybe he was just being nice. 

Yet, before you can take more than two steps away from Nick, you feel someone pulling at your hand. You come to a sudden stop, looking back to see a man seated in the row in front of you and Nick’s seat regarding you with a huge grin on his lips. He has dark hair and big brown eyes that seem to be staring into your soul. 

“Oh c’mon, you’re not even going to say hello because I didn’t get you cookies last week?” the man chuckles, tilting his head as he looks up at you like he cannot believe what you were about to do “Isn’t that too much?” 

Even though his tone is light and jokey, you cannot help but frown at him. Why would you greet him when you don’t know him in the first place? And why is he holding your hand? 

Instead of letting go when you stand there in silence, too stunned to react to his words, he decides to pull you down into the seat next to his “Didn’t Charles get you some? You are being greedy at this point” he jokes once you are seated, not a word leaving your lips. 

Oh, Charles, you remember him from Austria as well. Actually, he was wearing the same exact red shirt as this man, a detail that the abrupt start of the conversation had left you blind to. The Ferrari logo in both his chest and cap are even more of a telltale of who he must be. Charles’ teammate. 

“They were nice...” you respond, crossing your legs and relaxing back on the chair now that you have gathered your bearings. It is true, you had been munching on those cookies throughout the race after your disqualification, Nick bringing them over to you as a treat to distract you. 

The man shakes his head in disbelief, smile widening as he assures you “I'll get you a full basket next time, don’t worry” 

The promise genuinely makes you smile, he seems nice. 

“How’s the car doing?” the man queries, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks around 

You can almost feel the media training kicking in, pre-made phrases hanging off the tip of your tongue, they have been putting a microphone in your face and asking you about it all morning. Nonetheless, you manage to push it all down, it finally feels like you are having a normal conversation after this stressful week, you are not about to parrot the engineers' words for the millionth time “Well, it hasn’t caught fire yet...”  

The man seems to like that answer, letting out a giggle and a “That’s an improvement” while he nods in understanding. There is a moment of silence that follows, his eyes set on your face as if he was waiting for something that does not come. Is he expecting a more in-depth response or something? Yet, before you can decide on what to do, he finally wills himself to say what he has been thinking ever since you entered the room “So... are you feeling better?”  

The question catches you off guard at first, the conversation taking a more serious turn than you had expected —or wanted. Should you say you are great, just to shut down the topic entirely? The room is filling up with people by the second and it is not like you are about to open your heart to a total stranger. Or are you supposed to give the same response Nick had made you repeat over and over again in front of the journalists? ‘I’m perfectly fine now, it was pure exhaustion’. 

“I’m-” you start saying, mind not really having decided on what lie to tell, when someone pats your head. 

You rise your head to look behind you, both to see who it is and to get away from their touch —what is with this people taking such liberties?—, the man by your side doing the same. Standing tall behind your row of chairs is none other than the man you have spent day and nights thinking about: Daniel. 

“Ready for the two hours briefing?” he sighs with a raised eyebrow, his hand traveling down to your shoulder when you turn your body around to talk to him. This is the first time you have seen the man out of that bright orange jumpsuit, now sporting a shirt of the same color instead, logos drawn all over it. He is still wearing that matching cap though. 

“So dramatic...” the man seated by your side snickers, the previous chat seemingly forgotten “We should do a twenty-four-hour briefing just for you” 

“Mate,” Daniel says with a half-smile, pointing at you with a tilt of his head “she wasn’t here last year” 

That must mean something you do not understand because it is all the man in red needs to groan out loud, his face falling in defeat at the prospect of having to sit through such a long meeting. On the other hand, you can only sit there with your eyebrows furrowed, Nick had assured you would be out of here in no time. And of course you were not here last year, or ever, you have not- but your inner monologue gets suddenly interrupted by the one phrase you have been telling yourself all day: none of this is real, you’re dreaming. 

“What? No, she was driving here last year” another voice joins the conversation, his statement sharp and direct. You lean your body forward to see who it is, he has taken a seat on the other side of the man in red and his body is blocking the stranger’s face, eyes widening when you recognize him. Charles. 

“It was still Mazepin in France, he almost crashed into Kimi remember?” Daniel corrects him with a side grin “She started after the break in... was it Silverstone?” 

Daniel looks at you for confirmation on this one, the other two men also lowering their gaze to yours, waiting. You are so overwhelmed though, it feels so strange, the fact that they are talking so categorically about things that have not ever happened. What is Mazepin? Kimi? And Silverstone? What break? The pressure of the situation getting to you in the worst possible moment. 

So you end up doing what you do best, nod along to whatever the other person says even though you do not understand anything. That is what you have done to the engineers, to the media, to Nick and now to these three men before the start of a briefing that you won’t understand a word of either.  

Afterall, none of this matter, this is only a dream, right? 

Next Chapter

___

Author's note: Thanks a lot for all the hearts, comments and everything! I'm so happy you're liking the fic

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd @drezzerk33 @leclercdream @homie0sapien @minkyungseokie @carlossainzwho @rewmuslupin

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Them with a reader that tries to be Santa Claus

alternatively: Them with a reader that dresses up to hand out gifts

characters: Charlotte / Clorinde / Furina / Navia x gn!reader (separate)

warnings: none, just fluff

a/n: Soon is christmas eve, aka the day I celebrate christmas on, so Merry Christmas everyone! And Happy Holidays/a nice weekend to those of you that don't celebrate! I hope you all have a great time!

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Charlotte

The moment Charlotte first heard about the series of break-ins happening all over Fontaine, she set her mind on investigating them and writing a piece on them once she found the culprit. It wasn't every day that such an interesting case revealed itself after all, and letting it go to waste was the exact opposite of what a self-respecting journalist would do.

All of which was to say that meet-ups between you and Charlotte became rarer as her entire focus shifted towards her new project. So when you finally got the chance to meet, you wanted to make the most of it, getting each other up to speed on what you had been doing these past few days as quickly as possible before moving on to different topics.

“Now that I remember! I saw this really funny red and white coat and hat at that store recently, so I–” you were in the process of rambling while bending downwards and trying to fish the aforementioned hat out of your bag, when Charlotte suddenly interrupted you, her eyes wide open as she seemingly just remembered something.

“That reminds me of something! Have you heard of the recent break-ins all around the city? I’m currently investigating them, I’m sure it will make for a fantastic article, maybe even one of my best.” She asked, causing your head to tilt slightly as you stared at her in confusion, trying to recollect whether you’ve heard of them or not.

“Break-ins? Sorry Charlotte, this is the first I’ve heard of it. What made you remember it all of a sudden, though?” You returned the question, still bent down as you looked up at her.

“Apparently the perpetrator was seen wearing a red and white coat by eye-witnesses. It didn't seem like they wanted to remain hidden at all, especially since they left behind items each and every time, spanning from children’s toys to pieces of clothing… Oh! Maybe they are trying to threaten their victims!?”

The moment you heard Charlotte’s description, you froze, staring at her with increasingly wider eyes while slowly returning to your original position, putting the red hat back onto the bottom of your bag while shifting its contents around until it was covered by another item.

“Oh! Sorry for interrupting you, I just really wanted to tell you about it before I forgot, so I kinda ran my mouth. What were you saying about the hat and coat you saw while shopping?” Charlotte shifted her attention back to you, her usual big smile on her lips as she apologized, causing your face to nearly start blushing.

“O-oh yeah… I thought about how weird they looked. Like, who in their right mind would buy something that stupid looking? Right?” You nervously laughed it off before quickly changing the topic.

Maybe– just maybe –today wasn’t the day to tell Charlotte about your brilliant idea to surprise people with gifts.

Clorinde

It was fair to say that if someone had asked Clorinde how she imagined her evening to go, “having to convince the guardes to release you after they had to fish your half-conscious and yet still screaming body out of some families chimney after you got stuck in it upside-down” definitely wasn’t going to be her predicted response. And yet here you were anyway. Having to explain the whole situation to a pair of justifiably disturbed parents and their child was exhausting enough, but having to do the same to Fontaine’s police force was a completely different story.

“Miss Clorinde, you want to tell me that the subject attempted to climb down someone’s chimney to… deliver them a present? I know the two of you are close, but are you absolutely sure that your perception of them might not be skewed by your relationship? Having to confront the fact that a friend or partner might not be as kind or innocent as thought can be a difficult process.” The guard asked her once again, a compassionate look on his face, only for Clorinde to shake her head resolutely.

“I’m absolutely sure of it. They may do questionable things from time to time, but there’s no doubt in my mind their intentions were well-meaning.” She responded, causing the guard to let out a deep sigh before putting his signature on the piece of paper in front of him.

“If that’s the case, you can pick them up over there… just please make sure to tell them not to do anything like it again. When it happens once, it could be a misunderstanding… if it happens twice, there’s no excuse.”

-

When the two of you finally left the building, you were holding on to Clorinde tightly, tears rolling down your face as your whole body trembled.

“I’m never doing it again. I thought I was going to die there! Can you imagine how scary it is to be stuck in such a tight place? I couldn’t even move my arms!” You finally managed to form a few coherent sentences, taking deep breaths every once and again as you didn’t seem to calm down until Clorinde reluctantly put one of her arms around you.

…There was nothing wrong with showing weakness, but could the two of you please go home please?

“Why are chimneys so small in the first place?” You eventually asked, not specifically aimed at Clorinde, rather any chimney Archon that might be eavesdropping on your conversation, causing her to let out a small sigh she didn’t realize she had held in before starting to move.

“Let’s get you home first before we discuss architectural matters.”

Furina

If you had asked her on any other day, Furina would have shot down your idea in an instant. The mental image of the former Hydro Archon donning a red hat, coat and fake white beard before handing out small presents to the residents of Fontaine passing by on the street being horrible enough to make her visibly cringe. And yet, when you asked in what was a conversation littered with jests, she jokingly accepted, thinking nothing more of it and quickly forgetting your proposal… that was until she opened her door on one winter day, only to find you standing there, dressed in the same outfit you had described all this time ago, with a second one in your bag.

While you seemed to have the time of your life, talking with a child and their parent in as deep of a voice as you could muster before showing them a big smile, letting out the same laugh she had at one point found amusing before quickly growing sick of it and handing them a small toy, the same could not be said for Furina. 

Sure, she did her best to imitate your cheerful act, her career as an actress making her performance perfect enough that Furina was sure no one was able to tell it was just a charade, but saying she was having a blast would be far from the truth…

“And? Is it as bad as you thought it was going to be?” You asked her in what was barely more than a whisper, making sure nobody around you would be able to hear your voice.

“This is embarrassing. I cannot believe I actually agreed to this. Aren’t you scared someone will find out who you are?” Furina responded in kind, only for you to let out your deep laugh once again, nearly causing her to cringe then and there. 

“Anyone looking for Furina would look for someone clearly just acting. So throw your worries out the window and just embrace the ridiculousness and you won't have to worry about a thing”, you explained, before giving her an amused smile. “Try it.”

“Try what–” Furina asked you in a confused manner, only for it to click the moment the words left her mouth, “--No. I’m not doing the laugh.”

“I promise you’ll start to enjoy this whole thing if you just do it.”

“I–... I cannot believe I’m actually starting to consider it.” Furina cut herself off with a sigh, before once again opening her mouth and finally following your advice. Letting out as deep of a laugh as possible while approaching the next parent and child she saw, only to receive a smile from you in response.

“Ho Ho Ho! What’s your name? Let me take a look at my list to see if you were a good child this year.”

Navia

Handing out gifts was one thing both you and Navia appreciated. No matter how much money you had, seeing someone’s eyes light up when they received a present was enough to turn even a middling day into a good one. And if there was one demographic besides your loved ones that felt great to give gifts to, it were children, so when you pitched your idea of dressing up and delivering presents to Navia, she was quick to take you up on it.

Having the outfits designed and made, as well as putting enough money to the side to buy enough toys to hand out to a all children of Poisson and Fleuve Cendre as well as a few of Fontaine’s overground took quite a bit of time, but once it was finally done, you and a few of your colleagues were ready to head out.

As Navia sat in her office, nervously glancing at her clock every now and then while waiting for you to return, she couldn’t help but start to worry. Making a few rounds in the Fleuve Cendre shouldn’t take that long. Sure, the canalisation could be a bit disorienting from time to time, but you had been down there often enough to know its layout like the back of your hand. Maybe you just made a quick stop somewhere along your way? No, you wouldn't be two hours late if you did… or maybe you ran into trouble?

Just as Navia was about to start imagining horror scenarios however, a knock on her door interrupted her thoughts, and when you waltzed into her office with an apologetic smile, she let out a sigh of relief.

“Where’s your costume?” Navia’s attention shifted to your clothes once she finally calmed down, only to find the red coat and hat missing. With a slightly embarrassed smile you signaled to the bag in your hand, previously full of toys, now containing nothing but your outfit. 

“A few kids asked me to play tag… and I kind of– Heh, tripped and into the water.” You nervously explained as Navia observed the clothes in your bag. “The parents of the child didn’t let me leave before I washed up and they could clean my costume, saying it would be wrong after everything the Spina did to help them… so that’s why I was late.”

“When I took a walk around Poisson I saw a lot of smiling children today. I’m sure your idea brightened many days, so thank you. Welcome home.”

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Mr. Gaiman!

I hope you're happy and well.

A part of me hopes this ask gets lost, while another really strongly hopes you answer (not a good beginning, but fuck it).

Okay, so here goes *deep breaths*

My parents have some connections in the publishing industry (they know publishers, dad is an author, etc), and they want me to give them something, anything, that they will then get published. Because I write relatively frequently, stories, poems, research articles, and they know it, they keep telling me to create a book out of my written stuff. But I honestly don't want to, primary reason being that I really don't want to get published because of contacts and stuff. My first book was published that way, and while it holds a special place in my heart, I still feel it shouldn't have been published (some stuff is practice, and some maybe needs the right time - is what I feel). I want to do this on my own, and even if I fail, I'm good with it; but I don't want to get published like this, even if it's for initial books that might help me career-wise. But the parents say that time is running out (I'm 22 btw, and sometimes I do get scared that it's really running out), why not use opportunities when they're coming to you on a plate, doesn't matter if the quality is bad, nobody really reads, only the CV is read, etc. And while the idealistic part of me is strongly against it, another more sensitive part of me really gets affected and scared and just...fucked. When I decline, the parents get angry, say I'm stupid, idealistic, don't know what's good for me; and I get sad seeing them disappointed.

Could you please give some advice on this? Should I give in? Should I keep walking the idealistic path and keep trying on my own? I absolutely love the act of writing itself, and honestly, a lot of the time, finishing a piece of work and polishing it is usually enough for me. I can wait for however long, to first find a proper place(s) and then send it, and even then, rejection won't hurt. I'm already working on some stuff, short story collection, etc. but these talks (lectures and scoldings rather) really scare me. Am I doing the right thing, going against them, at least as far as my own writing is concerned (coz I'm usually pretty passive)?

Thanks for reading so much of my crap, and sorry if your time was wasted. It's perfectly fine if you don't answer.

PS really really love your works, and The Sandman (along with Discworld & Good Omens) honestly really saved my life in one of the darker parts - so thank you for that.

Hope you're happy!

Time is not running out. Don’t let anyone rush you. Write a book you are happy with first, and then see if you can get it published.

[bradshawshawaiianshirt]

Stuck on the Past | Part 7

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Ex-girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You never thought you'd see Bradley Bradshaw again, especially the way things ended between the two of you. So what happens when he's suddenly back for a special mission and is determined to win you back too?

Warnings: Angst (ish), adult language, drinking

Length: 1.5k

Stuck on the Past masterlist

Bradley felt like he'd been to hell and back.

First, finding out about your article, which he refused to speak to anyone about, even Nat. Really, he just felt completely stupid for believing you'd give him another chance. He shouldn't have thrown things away all those years go, that was his big mistake, and this was his karma, he was sure.

Second, the mission itself. After that night at the Hard Deck, he'd thrown himself into training, working out hard at the gym, and keeping completely concentrated on his flying and Top Gun. He'd ended up getting picked to fly the mission as Mav's wingman, which even he couldn't believe, considering their rocky past.

And after all that, after completing the mission successfully, here he was, about to get shot down by an enemy plane whilst risking his life to save Maverick, who was currently trying to fly the oldest fucking plane he'd ever seen.

God, he'd gone back to save Mav, of all people.

He'd truly been to hell and back.

They'd ran out of flares and ammo and he couldn't eject (because again, oldest fucking plane he'd ever seen). Bradley squeezed his eyes shut. He wouldn't particularly call himself a religious man, but damn, if he wasn't praying for a miracle right now.

His thoughts began to race and images flashed through his mind. The few memories he had of his dad, which weren't very many, along with memories of his mum and his childhood. Her dropping him off at school, cooking him dinner, telling him stories so he could fall asleep, almost all of them being about his dad.

Then suddenly there was you. You, giggling away at some stupid joke he'd told; dancing together in front of your couch; lying on the beach, looking beautiful as ever.

Then you were younger, you both were. He remembered the day he first saw you, how red your cheeks had turned when he'd asked your name. The two of you speeding along in his bronco in the early hours of the morning, singing your favourite songs at the top of your lungs while he'd glanced at you in awe, wondering how he ever got so lucky, wondering if this was what it felt like for his dad, when he'd met and fell in love with his mum. Those late nights at your place, when you were meant to be studying, but instead you'd lie awake together, talking about the future, how many dogs you'd have, where you'd get married, when you'd have kids.

The truth was, Bradley knew you weren't a bad person, because he knew you. It had been years, but he knew you. Your ways, how you thought, none of that had changed. He knew you weren't trying to get back at him with the article. He just couldn't understand why you hadn't told him, or maybe he could, and he really was running away.

Bradley opened his eyes, bracing himself as the enemy aircraft lined up behind them, ready to fire. He wondered how you would take the news of his death, if you'd even find out.

His morbid thoughts were cut short with a loud bang.

He quickly turned to see the explosion, and out of the ashes came another plane.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your saviour speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts, return your tray tables to their locked and upright positions and prepare for landing."

Fucking Hangman, for once he was grateful.

He let out a laugh as Hangman flew beside them, "Hey Hangman, you look good."

"I am good, Rooster, I'm very good."

When they'd managed to land the ancient plane, the celebrations were deafening. Bradley felt his heart beating out of his chest as he hugged Nat and Bob, his eyes scanning over the crowd. He felt silly searching for you, of course, he knew you wouldn't be here, you didn't have clearance since it was a classified mission, but like the ending of some sappy rom-com, he hoped you would be anyway.

He turned to see Hangman, who held out his hand, which Bradley gladly shook, "Chalked yourself another kill?"

"That makes two."

"Mav has five, makes him an ace." Nat laughed as the two men looked on one another with respect for the first time.

Hangman grinned, "For the record," he said, "Im sorry.. about your girl."

Bradley forced a smile, "You're good, she's not my girl."

Hangman gave him a curt nod and a pat on the back, as Bob chimed in, "She could be." both men turned to him in confusion, "You didn't hear this from me but, uh, she didn't write the article."

Hangman frowned, "She didn't?"

Bob shook his head, "No. April told me." he grinned sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders, "We've been messaging."

Hangman laughed, slapping Bob's shoulder, "That's my boy!"

The group laughed, but Bradley couldn't comprehend it, "She really didn't write it?" he muttered to Bob.

Bob shook his head, "April said she couldn't, that's all I know."

As the celebrations continued around him, Bradley only had one thing on his mind.

How soon could he get back to see you.

-

"I can't believe this!" April shrieked, pacing in front of you as you sat on the couch. It was safe to say you didn't look or feel your best right now, wearing an old oversized t-shirt and leggings and wrapped in a big crochet blanket your mum had made for you when she went through her crocheting phase a few years ago. You hadn't actually left your apartment in days. This was a new low for you.

You sighed, wrapping the blanket around you tighter, "I mean, technically he has every right to fire me, I refused to do the assignment. I'm basically refusing to work." You shrugged.

April froze in front of you, "He was asking something that's basically impossible! He wanted you to write about classified military info! It's classified for a reason!" her voice was high pitched and shrill and her hands were waving erratically through the air.

"April. It's fine." you chuckled and tugged on her arm, she plopped down next to you, her head fell onto your shoulder as you continued, "I've been offered something else... and I took it."

"What?"

"In Washington." you sighed, "I've been in San Diego for such a long time. I have to... No, I need to move on. It's time."

April lifted her head and smiled at you sadly, "Well," she said, sniffling, "then you better figure out where all the best bars are because when I come to visit, I can promise you we'll be getting blackout drunk!"

You giggled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "Good. There's no one else I'd rather get blackout drunk with than you, no matter what state I'm in."

You both giggled, a nostalgic feeling hung in the air as April stood up, quickly wiping some stray tears from her eyes, "Right, come on then, get up. Your place is a pig stye, and if you're gonna be moving then I'm gonna be the one to help you pack. A lot of shits gone down in this apartment. It needs a cleanse."

You laughed and stood up too, both of you spent the next few days cleaning and packing all the things you'd need into cardboard boxes. You were sure this was what you needed, a fresh start, somewhere new, with no handsome aviators around to turn your life upside down.

When everything was packed a few days later, you could barely recognise the place. You hadn't put it up for sale, since April said she could help you with that after you'd left. It was a bittersweet feeling, and you knew you'd miss San Diego.

April walked into the living room, placing a box down on the floor, "I think we've got everything sorted." she said, gazing around the room, then to you, "Real talk, are you sure this is what you want to do? I'm sure there's jobs here that you'd love-"

"Yes." you said, "I'm sure."

April sighed, "When's your flight again?"

"Tomorrow morning."

She nodded slowly, "So, there's no way I'm dragging you to a bar tonight, huh?"

You smile and shake your head, walking over to her and wrapping your arms around her. She hugged you back instantly, before pulling away, sniffling and wiping her eyes, "Okay, I have to go before I totally lose it." she smiled, "Call me when you get to the airport, okay?"

You nod as you follow her towards the door, she quickly gave you another hug, before leaving. You sigh and lean your back against the door, a million thoughts racing through your mind. Should you tell Bradley? Send him a message? Then again, you knew he wouldn't want to talk to you.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock at your door. You smile, assuming April must have forgotten something, but when you turned to open it, there was Bradley.

"We need to talk."

[falconfate]

Hello ranger’s apprentice fandom can we talk real quick about the stupidest thing Flanagan ever wrote

It’s about the bows. Yanno, the rangers’ Iconique™️ main weapon. That one. You know the one.

Flanagan. Flanagan why are your rangers using longbows.

“uh well recurve arrows drop faster” BUT DO THEY. FLANAGAN. DO THEY.

the answer is no they don’t. Compared to a MODERN, COMPOUND (aka cheating) bow, yes, but compared to a longbow? Y’know, what the rangers use in canon? Yeah no a recurve actually has a FLATTER trajectory. It drops LATER.

This from an article comparing the two:

“Both a longbow and a recurve bow, when equipped with the right arrow and broadhead combination, are capable of taking down big game animals. Afterall, hunters have been doing it for centuries with both types of bows.

However, generally speaking and all things equal, a recurve bow will offer more arrow speed, creating a flatter flight trajectory and retain more kinetic energy at impact.

The archers draw length, along with the weight of the arrow also affect speed and kinetic energy. However, the curved design of the limbs on a recurve adds to its output of force.”

It doesn’t actually mention ANY distance in range! And this is from a resource for bow hunting, which, presumably, WOULD CARE ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING!

Okay so that’s just. That’s just the first thing.

The MAIN thing is that even accounting for “hur dur recurves drop faster” LONGBOWS ARE STILL THE STUPID OPTION.

Longbows, particularly and especially ENGLISH longbows, are—as their name suggests—very long. English longbows in particular are often as tall or taller than their wielder even while strung, but especially when unstrung. An unstrung longbow is a very long and expensive stick, one that will GLADLY entangle itself in nearby trees, other people’s clothes, and any doorway you’re passing through.

And yes, there are shorter longbows, but at that point if you’re shortening your longbow, just get a goddamn recurve. And Flanagan makes a point to compare his rangers’ bows to the Very Long English Longbow.

Oh, do you know how the Very Long English Longbow was mostly historically militarily used? BY ON-FOOT ARCHER UNITS. Do you know what they’re TERRIBLE for? MOUNTED ARCHERY.

Trust me. Go look up right now “mounted archery longbow.” You’ll find MAYBE one or two pictures of some guy on a horse struggling with a big stick; mostly you will actually see either mounted archers with RECURVES, or comparisons of Roman longbow archers to Mongolian horse archers (which are neat, can’t lie, I love comparing archery styles like that).

Anyway. Why are longbows terrible for mounted archery? Because they’re so damn long. Think about it: imagine you’re on a horse. You’re straddling a beast that can think for itself and moves at your command, but ultimately independently of you; if you’re both well-trained enough, you’re barely paying attention to your horse except to give it commands. And you have a bow in your hands. If your target is close enough to you that you know, from years of shooting experience, you will need to actually angle your bow down to hit it because of your equine height advantage, guess what? If you have a longbow, YOU CAN’T! YOUR HORSE IS IN THE WAY BECAUSE YOUR BOW IS TOO LONG! Worse, it’s probably going to get in the general area of your horse’s shoulder or legs, aka moving parts, which WILL injure your horse AND your bow and leave you fresh out of both a getaway vehicle and a ranged weapon. It’s stupid. Don’t do it.

A recurve, on the other hand, is short. It was literally made for horse archers. You have SO much range of motion with a recurve on horseback; and if you’re REALLY good, you know how to give yourself even more, with techniques like Jamarkee, a Turkish technique where you LITERALLY CAN AIM BACKWARDS.

For your viewing enjoyment, Serena Lynn of Texas demonstrating Jamarkee:

Yes, that’s real! This type of draw style is INCREDIBLY versatile: you can shoot backwards on horseback, straight down from a parapet or sally port without exposing yourself as a target, or from low to the ground to keep stealthy without banging your bow against the ground. And, while I’m sure you could attempt it with a longbow, I wouldn’t recommend it: a recurve’s smaller size makes it far more maneuverable up and over your head to actually get it into position for a Jamarkee shot.

A recurve just makes so much more SENSE. It’s not a baby bow! It’s not the longbow’s lesser cousin! It’s a COMPLETELY different instrument made to be used in a completely different context! For the rangers of Araluen, who put soooo much stock in being stealthy and their strong bonds with their horses, a recurve is the perfect fit! It’s small and easily transportable, it’s more maneuverable in combat and especially on horseback, it offers more power than a longbow of the same draw weight—really, truly, the only advantage in this case that a longbow has over the recurve is that longbows are quicker and easier to make. But we KNOW the rangers don’t care about that, their KNIVES use a forging technique (folding) that takes several times as long as standard Araluen forging practices at the time!

Okay.

Okay I think I’m done. For now.

[deliverusfromevillll]

Formerly Yours [Adam/F!Reader] [01]

❝ Wow babe, you really make it sound like you care about me. ❞

warnings ⨾ angst, miscommunication, eating disorders, self neglect, swearing, pinning, no beta we die like adam

terms ⨾ ❝ Powers ❞ In biblical terms, those who assist in governing the natural order.

notes  ⨾ I intend on making this a long series, as I've been hyperfixated on this character for a stupid long time and have created an OC and commissioned artwork of future scenes. If you would like to be part of the process ( as I am currently looking for beta readers ) and/or generally would like to see WIPs feel free to join my discord ( NgT88bybyY ).

[01] [02] [03] [04]

As always minors DNI.| 3.8K words

"FUCK!"

[F/n] recoils, frantically waving and flicking her hand as a burst of steam emerged from the box at her desk. She blows cool air on her exposed fingers, sighing as she tore off the damaged glove.

Despite the shock of energy, she quickly ignores her own pain as her project seemed to have been a success.

The translucent cube radiated a bright yellow at every edge, keeping a clear see-through surface otherwise. Her heart raced, eyebrows raised, as she ogled it further.

Reaching for it confidently, she plucks it, watching the yellow edges reverberate at her touch.

Awe-struck by her success, her features immediately shift into a smirk.

Sera would be pleased.

She sets it back down on her workbench, scooting her chair back. [F/n] opens a drawer, fishing for a new glove among the unorganized mess.

It takes a second but she gets it, fanning out the article before replacing it over her hand. Turning back towards the cube, she cups it under her palms.

She sits up straight, inhaling deeply, eyes flutter shut as she did her best to concentrate. Her celestial magic resonated with the cube, steadily shifting from the gold color to a cool silver.

The next step was extremely precise, she must focus.

"[F/N]—!"

[F/n] jolts, knees hitting the desk. The cube jutted a few increments away, returning to the gold color it was before.

"—My favorite person! Man you're great, so fucking great I know you can quit whatever the fuck you're doing and fix my guitar string right now!"

The panic on her expression grew as she looked over the box, groaning audibly as she rotated to glare at Adam.

"Adam how many times have I told you not to come in my lab immediately screaming my name?!"

"Oh come on Karen, you know I'm the only exciting thing going on in your life. You can stop pretending like you hate me now."

Adam huffs and crosses his arms, looking away aimlessly. His eyes dart back to her then away again after realizing she was staring at him completely unconvinced.

[F/n] sighed.

Getting up, she waves Adam over as she moves towards the open space next to her. Adam grins, offering her his guitar as she mounts it horizontally on a latch installed specifically for his guitar.

"How the fuck did you even break it this time?"

She asks, opening another unsorted drawer and pulling out a box of guitar strings.

"Uhh, well, while you were busy declining my invitations and being a huge lame nerd: I just came back from my kick-ass gig at a party. I went in too hard, y'know what I mean?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

[F/n] absentmindedly lets out an uninterested, "uh huh," at his innuendo.

Adam rolls his eyes, losing interest at her dismissal. He wanders.

She takes a small golden string, weaving it around her fingertips as the broken strings on the guitar reach for the thread. Bringing her hand closer to the guitar, she allows the threads to connect and renew itself using her magic.

Smiling she strums it gently satisfied.

"Alright Adam it's— Adam?" She turns to look where he originally stood, worried when he was no longer there.

"Man what the fuck is this?" He points at the cube, finger dangerously close.

[F/n]'s eyes widen. "DON'T—!" Her wings flutter in panic as she rushed towards him.

Though it was too late. Adam poked the object: It lashed at him in response, absorbing him into the cube in the blink of an eye.

It had shrunken him as well, entrapping him through its see-through walls. Adam pounds at the clear walls, the force reverberating as if it were fluid.

He was shouting. However unable to be heard.

[F/n] groans even louder, face palming as she walks over to pick up the cube. Her brows furrowed, bringing him to eye level.

"You're such a fucking idiot!"

Adam covers his ears at her shouting, sending her the bird in return. He resumes shouting and it translates similarly to the squeak of a mouse. Bringing her ear closer [F/n] could make out two words; "warned" and "me."

Setting him back down in the table [F/n] plants her face into her palms. She's not sure whether she should prepare dying a second time or what, but an epiphany comes to her.

"No, hold on, maybe this can be a good thing."

Adam rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

"I wasn't anticipating something like this so I don't know how to break you out just yet. After I figure it out we wont have to worry about something stupid like this again."

She could feel the hairs on her neck stand, swiping off a bead of sweat as she nervously reinspects their current predicament.

There was no telling how long it could take to bust him out.

The cube's golden color was replaced with a wine red.

"At least it works."

[F/n] laughs nervously to herself.

Adam walks up the the wall, seemingly charging up his swing as his knuckles crash into the barrier. He quickly loses the grip on his fist, shaking off the pain. His other hand comes to soothe his knuckles.

"Oh, your magic is completely snuffed in this thing."

He groaned, though the sound was once again absorbed.

"This is supposed to be a prototype to capture powerful entities but in its current state I'm the only one who can really touch it; since, well, it's made with my magic." Adam looks up at her with a raised brow.

"...I really have to be ready to present later."

[F/n] kicks herself away from the workbench on her rolling chair, shifting through a few test tubes: plucking one.

"You're so fucking annoying, y'know?"

Scooting back towards Adam, she tilts the vile over him slowly.

The silver fluid shimmered through the glass, gleaming further at the angle it was leaning towards. A small drop falls, landing on top of the box. It get absorbed quickly. The red hue pulsated as it was overridden by the familiar golden color from before.

"This is good..." She mutters.

Adam however kept his displeased expression.

[F/n] swipes another bead of sweat from her forehead as she remounts the test tube on a nearby stand. Cupping around the cube, Adam finally breaks his scowl as he nervously looks up at her and mouths something unintelligable.

"Don't worry, this was the next step before you came and touched things you shouldn't."

It took hours. Hours of incremental progress with no solution in sight.

Adam was still entrapped, [F/n] blinking completely blearily as the overuse of her own abilities finally began crawling up on her.

Strands of [h/c] hair stuck out in random spots.

In the timeframe however, the muffling of his voice became weaker and weaker. "You look like shit." Was something Adam would say often after each failed test.

They had also discovered she was able to teleport items into the block: after accidentally transporting her coat while her connection to the cube was still fresh.

She was able to replicate this using his guitar so he at least had some form of entertainment.

Busy mixing a new concoction, her stomach growled. Adam shifted from his seat against the wall, flapping his wings to help himself quickly stand.

"When are we gonna eat."

"After I get you out."

"But you're hungry, I'm hungry: you feel like shit, I feel like shit— c'mon babe don't fuckin' be difficult."

[F/n] groans, placing down the objects in her hands as she stood up. Alright, one quick meal break, that's it: this asshole wouldn't keep his mouth shut otherwise.

Adam grins as she gently grabbed his container and headed out of her lab. Completely ignoring the stairs under her feet as she flew up and through the open door.

She sets him on the counter nearby her fridge.

Opening the freezer, she yanked out a frozen pizza, setting it beside him. [F/n] begins preheating her oven.

"Oh hell yeah. How'd you know I was in the mood for pizza babe?"

"It's the only thing I have in my fridge."

Adam quirked a brow.

"Only pizza?"

"Only pizza."

There was a pregnant pause.

The sounds of the pizza unboxing and quiet shuffling filled the air for the next several seconds while she placed it on a pan. He was deliberating his next few words.

"You don't cook— or order anything even?"

"I don't have time for it." [F/n] sighed. "My research is more important."

Adam could hardly tell because of her robes, but upon really staring at her he did notice she was becoming thinner than usual. There were dark bags underneath her pearly yellow irises and he'd even notice her slow blinks.

He frowned.

"So what do you eat when you work?"

Now it was her turn to stutter, dropping the pizza into the hot oven a littler harsher than intended. The pan clattered but rested nonetheless.

[F/n] shuts the oven closed as she takes a seat next to the counter.

"I... I don't." She sighed again.

Adam hated that answer.

He secretly assumed so, but pushed in hopes of hearing a different response. It made him feel terrible.

Though he would visit her often he never noticed anything askew. Not until he was forced to just sit and watch. After this he swore he'd double his visits either with grub in hand or to drag her out the lab.

He knew he could talk Sera into forcing her to take a break, maybe then it would incentivize her to be more receptive to his visits.

He failed to understand why she was always breathing down her neck, but when he'd ask he would always be met with a nonanswer. 

Adam stood up and walked towards the closest edge to her.

"I need to get you out the of the lab more often, doing this shit all day fucking sucks." Adam stated.

[F/n] cocked her head at him, running a hand through her messy [h/c] hair.

"That'd only set me back on my work."

"Well fuck— then I can drop by and help out or something."

She tried to stifle a laugh. Her attempt didn't go unnoticed. "You serious? Your definition of helping out is messing with all my shit, what makes you think I'd want your help?"

She quirked, picking up the box and brought him to eye level. "Yeah, I'm..."

Adam's stoic expression became sullen in a way he appeared nearly defeated.

It was so odd to see someone with such a huge ego begin to crumble at the idea of rejection.

Adam was someone who can easily fill his schedule, it's not like he needed [F/n] to keep him occupied neither her approval, so: "why did it matter?"

He had Lute in his corner, his band, groupies, friends. Was this pity? It had to be, or maybe some sort of leftover obligation he'd mustered up in his head since she had previously held the title as his best friend: or in his terms his number one bitch.

Times change everywhere, heaven included, there was just no room for leisurely things anymore. 

"I'm... Glad? I'm glad! For, uhh, the offer. Maybe we can after I get done with this you can h—."

It was as if a firework went off in his head. "Fuck yeah! I knew you couldn't say no to me bitch!" He strummed his guitar in excitement.

[F/n] cracked into a smile. She watched in amusement as he strummed a quick verse: immediately perking and repeating the verse.

"You just gave me the best idea for a new song!"

His guitar sings the tune he played beautifully. Adam flaps his wings, kiting around what little space he had in rhythm to his own music methodically.

Her golden irises stare at him almost in awe. He looked akin to one of those wind-up music boxes.

It was cute.

He was cute.

Then it dawned on her. This wasn't a visual she should have, nor a thought she should imagine. Adam wasn't even supposed to be encased in her snare in the first place.

[F/n] sets him down carefully in embarrassment.

Her thoughts interrupted as the oven chimed in, and she shifted to pull it open. With the wave of her fingers, the pan floats out of the oven and sits on top of the stove.

She wills a pizza cutter, manifesting it out of thin air. It radiates a gentle yellow, rolling over the pizza and cutting it into equal slices.

"Guitar sol— OW! FUCK!"

[F/n] flinched, pizza cutter rolling over incorrectly as her magic stuttered. She turns around, blinking.

"Uhh?"

Adam stood before her, ripping his mask and glove off to pop his finger in his mouth. No longer in the confinement of the cube, he looks up at her before realizing he was now free.

"What the hell happened?" [F/n] asked in clear confusing.

Adam muffled. "I fuckin' cut myself rocking out too hard." He takes his finger out of his mouth, a small dribble of golden ichor coats his finger.

Glancing between him and the box that was now a cool silver. That's all it took. The blood of an angel. He was free.

[F/n] sighed, he really did help solve it after all. She chuckled in disbelief. Adam immediately shot her a look before reminding her of his injury.

"Uhh hello? Still fucking bleeding here." He takes the seat she was on earlier.

"Hold on."

Adam watches her disappear into another room for a minute, reemerging with a medical kit in hand. She sets it next to him, unzipping the material before pulling out some of the contents.

A bandage, cotton balls, and a black bottle with "Hydrogen Peroxide" in large white letters.

"Is the peroxide really necessary? I-I mean it's a small cut!" Adam huffed, looking worried as his eyes met hers.

[F/n] sits down beside him, extending her wing to blanket him comfortingly while she dabbled a cotton ball into the liquid. "Lord knows how much sinner remnants or mystery fluids are still on your guitar, when's the last time you properly cleaned it?" 

His feathers brushed against her own causing him to shiver internally. It was like a spark shot through his spine. Adam relaxed for a moment against her warmth.

"Uhh, like, a week? I dunno."

She mumbled. "That can get infected. I'm not risking that."

"Wow babe, you really make it sound like you care about me." Adam grinned.

"It's cause I do."

His grin shrunk slightly, taken aback at how she admitted it so easily.

Despite all the years together where their friendship mainly consisted of him either teasing or irritating her, he fully expected to hear a "no" or anything of the sort.

Adam felt chest tighten.

Then he hissed.

The cotton gently being pressed against his open cut made the pain worse tenfold. No pain compared to that of rubbing alcohol.

He didn't even notice her taking his hand among his thoughts. Though still in pain, he could feel her small hands cup his large one.

"Who knew a bit of angel blood was all this thing fucking needed? Man I feel so stupid now." [F/n] mutters mostly to herself, but Adam still heard through coping with own pain.

"Y-Yeah, you're welcome." Adam forced a grin.

She had removed her lab gloves during the process. He was able to feel her skin on his, the first thought he had being how soft her skin felt. Her hands were so much smaller compared to his own.

Her touch was so gentle.

Even when she was wrapping the bandage around his finger she treated him so carefully as if he were some delicate thing. It felt so nurturing. Loving almost. It made him smile.

"There, better?"

Adam looks at the bandage that had yellow star prints among space. Of course she'd own this over regular skin-toned bandages. He smiled, quietly chuckling.

"Yeah. Thanks babe."

[F/n] smiles, clearing her throat as she teleported the pizza before them. She picks up a slice, taking a small bite to answer her growling stomach.

"Man this isn't so bad."

Adam does the same, taking a chunk into his mouth.

He chews for a moment before tensing, side-eyeing her to watch as she pulled it back to her mouth for another bite. His hand reaches out to stop her arm from bringing the damned thing close enough to her lips.

He spits the chunk out of his mouth.

"Are you fucking insane? This tastes like shit!" He corrected. "You can taste how aged this garbage is! How long did you keep this for?"

Adam stands, placing the slice back on the pan before turning towards her fridge. He yanks it open.

His eyes are met with nothing more than a few bottles of water, most of them were open and at various levels. Opening the freezer wasn't any better. There sat but a single pint of french vanilla ice cream.

"I told you." [F/n] shrugs.

He turns to [F/n].

"I'm ordering us some real food."

"Seriously though, but I'm telling ya, the look on her stupid fucking face when I told her the extermination date was cut to six months was everything!" Adam laughed in between bites. 

"And —oh fuck— get this: she tried to imply they don't deserve death— that they could ascend and cross those pearly gates! HAHA! Can you believe it?" 

He extended a wing out, coiling around her like a large blanket as he nudged her closer to him on the couch. The tv playing in the background filled the silence in between pauses. 

"It's so hilariously pathetic!"

[F/n] nodded along with him, nervously laughing.

She hid the straight line on her lips.

"See? Better right?" Adam grins as he bit into the meat-lover styled pizza. [F/n] nods in content as she popped the final bite of her slice into her mouth. She hummed in delight. 

She was accustomed to mainly eating frozen foods, eating was mostly an afterthought, especially as of recent, so admittedly there were days she either completely forgot or was too spent to even bother.

There was something really endearing about the idea Adam would still go out of his way to do this, considering he could've literally just left after he was freed.

[F/n] sinks into his wing, feeling her feathers ruffle against his. He was warm, very, very warm. She felt slightly guilty accepting his comfort.

"I'm surprised you didn't immediately bounce after you got out." [F/n] admits. 

Adam side-eyes her before turning to face her. "Why would I? I'm exhausted and starving."

She rolled her eyes, lightly elbowing him. Adam glances towards the open box then back at his piece. "I mean shit, did you even eat more than a slice?"

"I don't see how this matters?"

"Yeah how about you let me decide what I wanna fucking worry about or not nerdy-tits, got it? Thanks now open up." 

Adam hovers his already bitten piece before her lips, giving her an encouraging nudge as she blushed. She paused in embarrassment. [F/n] huffed, swallowing her pride with a bite of his slice.

"His lips were on it..." She thinks to herself, watching the satisfied smile on his expression grow before being hidden as he takes his last bite, tossing the crust back onto the box among the other uneaten slices.

"Was that so hard?" He asks with a mouthful.

"Y'know, sugar-tits, you seriously don't have to be locked in your lab all day. You're too hot for shit like that."

"So you want me to leave my work for what— to be your fucking mindless groupie instead?"

They both look at each other. [F/n] more shocked than anything as the words just left her tongue with no prior thought. Her response came off harsher than intended. 

Was that really how she felt?

She knew Adam was popular among women, he was the first man after all, self proclaimed "dick master" before all. It never bothered her before, well, not the the extent where she outwardly lashed at him. 

Even if she did feel as though he replaced her, she never faulted him for it no matter how it pained her.

[F/n] never wanted to acknowledge the emotion because it would only materialize further, and realizing she did exactly that annoyed her.

He was nice to her, cared and fed her, this seemed unnecessarily hostile and out of left field. 

"Sorry." She sighed, rubbing her eyes. 

That's what it was, exhaustion. 

After leaving the lab she didn't notice it until she properly sat down but she has been feeling the weight of her work this entire time. The stress of it, and the labor. All this among Adam coming in readily available to create a larger mess.

"Geez babe, didn't take you for the jealous type."

"I am not jealous, just tired."

"Lying is a sin y'know."

"I'm not LYING!"

She'd gotten up, leaving the warmth of his wings. [F/n] walked over to the sliding door connected to the room, nearly ripping it open. She had sucked in an exasperated breath.

Enough of this nonsense. 

Her brows knit together. "You need to leave, now." She muttered loud enough for him to hear, head pointed over her shoulder to look at him.

"What? Why? Because I teased you?!"

[F/n] rolls her eyes. "I need to keep working without you barreling into my lab preferably this time."

Adam shot up, shoving his mask on as he'd stomp over at her. He'd wave both his hands outwards, face wrinkling in frustration. "What's got you on your period? You were never like this in the past!"

There was that word. The past. She hated it.

This was childish, a thing of history, not the person who she was now.

Her job was important, far too important. It angered her she'd allow herself to be lured out like this. Heaven's work was more urgent than whatever residual sentiment existed between them. 

"I said get the fuck out!"

[F/n] had shoved him to the other side of the wall, despite his protests.

The clear door rattled as it closed in the middle of them, locking itself with magic.

Adam stares at her through the glass, eyes wide and with some level of shock or anger, or perhaps even both, but she couldn't decipher all that well and honestly didn't want to.

[F/n] holds his stare looking distant. Her lips creased.

It's difficult to do this, but this was faster than dragging it out. She could only hope one day he'd come to appreciate or gain some level of understanding why this turned out the way it did. 

For now, no matter her feelings, this was easier than explaining.

[leliwardens]

so a second article has hit the da fandom and i'm in the part of the "this is genuinely so disappointing i'm considering not actually preordering/playing on release". i'm sure i'll come to terms with it and still get it but this really has been such a blow to my sheer enthusiasm that is like...incredible really for me as a fan invested in this franchise for over a decade to put me (and others) so low lmao

(under a cut bc it got stupidly long, a cookie if you read all of it)

one of the big "reasons" i've seen parroted by the fandom and the justification from the devs is (paraphrasing) you're in the north and all of these major decisions are in the south, which is frankly, stupid? sure, the choices of the divine wouldn't matter too much (if the circles are disbanded or not, for example) but the divine choice itself, should matter? the throne of ferelden? orlais??? these are major characters!

whoever is the sitting ruler of ferelden, regardless of the choice, has obv, lived through a blight not 20 some odd years prior. so one could imagine they would be invested in this, you know, double blight is going on and would like to help or help for their country? given the fact one of the last of the two archdemon prisons is canonly within ferelden!! marketing has also started the blight has spread across thedas, so one would think the current world leaders would be supporting or at least looking to the group seemingly working on stopping the blight. but i guess not since it's not a choice.

even setting aside the lore and plot significance of the majority of choices, even if it truly did not matter, you can say the exact same for choices within dai itself, however the devs knew the desire to have that impact + fan service, even minor, still superseded lore and plot significance. the hof letter and mentions by their romance partner is clearly fan service (since tbh i doubt leliana or morrigan would willingly talk about their partner themselves) but it was also telling you, the player, where your mc was. another example is there is no impact who the sitting king of orzammar is, but the game still mentions in a codex the consequences of that choice, even if the anvil was kept or not in ambient dialogue.

these and many more mattered, not in a world shaping way, but to tell you, the player, yes you played in this world and here's the acknowledgement of it, thank you. i didn't need to decide the fate of the world to enjoy leliana talking about my warden or varric supporting templars because my hawke did, because it still felt like i mattered, that yes this is a world i changed, even in a small way, that i lived in it.

and they removed all of that.

like, hell it was even a good way to "check-in" in choices and characters without dedicating entire plot beats to them! the epilogue for a non-divine!romanced leliana heavily implies she and the warden are still doing their own things but meeting up when hey can. that aside the cure? the fucking cure??? did they find it? did they share it with the other wardens? was it suppressed? the other members of the inquisition were invested in stopping solas, what about them? since you are literally going to their turf, is dorian, josephine, isabela, and even bull okay? is zevran or fenris going to be ignored? fenris had a whole comic about him!

the only way i can take this is being told to no longer be invested in previous material, even material leading up to this game. even if i know that's not really the truth, it really feels that way.

i don't even like the excuse for getting newbies into the series, because, well, dai did that fine WITH returning characters and overall plots lol? there's a loss of some context and dai itself had writing flaws with this method, but it did show you could have both returning and new players work fine, and not alienate said new players despite it being the 3rd game.

speaking of dai, why bother making the choices so endgame linear if they wouldn't of even mattered? why no matter your choice of divine, another group rises up to oppose her? why have the grey wardens going quiet and possibly on the brink of civil war, exiled or no? i had assumed at the time the bottlenecking was future proofing to create less variables, and i guess i was wrong since there are no more variables lol!

i'm genuinely not sure what they truly thought would be the reaction, given they are still trying to pull returning players via the marketing? like. varric, harding, morrigan returning, the focus on the grey wardens as a group (and likely why davrin gets such a spotlight) are all indications for returning players. fuck even solas, no matter what you feel about him, is a returning npc! to resolve his plot!!!

i never truly believed we would see big huge cameos, i did expect the divine, those who live in the north, but otherwise simple codex entries or letters if anything.

but to have.......nothing? be left with nothing? burns.

i do mean this completely honestly: what is the point of investing myself, my time, my money, hell even just interest in this series anymore? without the impact of previous games (or a better lore reason, such as a longer timeskip than 5 fucking years since the last dlc) then this is your run of the mill rpg with better writing than most, but that's all it'd really have. i didn't fully play or get into the series because of the decisions carrying over, but it sure as fuck kept me and others coming back. if this is the norm going forward past da4 then well, might as well pick any other rpg series.