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imninahchan · 3 months

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⌜ 𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑺𝑶𝑺: strangers to lovers, leitora!atriz, a sociedade da neve, leitora tem namorado então traição [gnt não traiam tá pfv], sexo sem proteção [tb não façam isso!], dirty talk, elogios, angst(?). ˚ ☽ ˚. ⋆ ⌝

꒰ 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑨 𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑨 ꒱ para @dejuncullen e o anon que mandou aquela ideia♡

𓍢ִ໋🀦 A PRIMEIRA VEZ QUE VOCÊ O VÊ É NO QUARTO DIA DE PRODUÇÃO ─────

Se lembra bem quando pôs os olhos na figura masculina. A porta do estúdio abre e dois outros dos atores escalados caminham primeiro, sendo seguidos pelo homem de cabelos partidos, trajando o possível figurino de seu personagem. Os outros aceleram os passos, com certeza teriam que trocar de roupa para tirar mais fotos, mas ele demora a acompanhar os demais ao fazer contato visual contigo, sentada no banco do corredor.

Não sorriem, não cumprimentam, talvez perdidos demais no olhar um do outro para conseguir pensar em outra coisa senão marcar na memória os respectivos rostos. Quando o homem desaparece na curva do corredor, você é chamada pela assistente.

Olha pra trás umas duas vezes, esperando que ele fosse, sei lá, voltar para te espiar mais um pouco, porém foi em vão. O engraçado é que, durante todas as fotos que tirou para a preparação de elenco, se apegava à imagem na sua mente. O corpo esguio, as roupas sociais vintage caindo muito bem, o olhar doce, delicado. Não sabe qual personagem ele vai interpretar, mas espera que possa vê-lo de novo.

E o vê, porque o universo parece favorecer os seus desejos. Esbarram-se na pausa dada entre as gravações de um take e outro, no mesmo cenário do aeroporto. Reconhece-o mesmo ao avistá-lo de costas. Não tem coragem de se aproximar, nem sabe que nome chamar, só que não precisa — ele se vira e lembra de ti na hora, dá pra notar só pelo brilho que reluz nos olhos masculinos.

Ei, cumprimenta, retraído. E de um simples cumprimento vocês se encontram conversando do lado de fora do trailer do set de gravação. Primeiro, falam das personagens que estão interpretando; você é um dos familiares dos sobreviventes, e ele é um dos primos Strauch. O nome dele é Esteban, e é argentino. Te arranca boas risadas, por mais tímido que aparente ser. É narcisismo demais pensar que ele se esforça pra contar tantas piadinhas entre as frases só pra te fazer sorrir? Porque essa é a sensação.

Fica tão rendida às risadas genuínas que solta uma expressão totalmente fora do sotaque que ostenta. Não soa como nada que uma pessoa que fala espanhol diria.

Ele aperta o olhar.

— Você não é argentina, é? — pergunta, direto na ferida.

Okay, talvez você tenha mentido um pouquinho no casting. Seu espanhol é magnífico, pode reproduzir sotaques regionais e tudo, além do mais, a exigência era garotas jovens latinas entre vinte e trinta anos que falassem espanhol, e para uma seleção em Buenos Aires, não seria legal arriscar que é do país vizinho cuja língua oficial não está no requerimento.

Você se aproxima, tombando o corpo de leve na direção do mais velho. Shhh, sussurra, é segredo. Esteban sorri, garante que seu segredinho de estado está a salvo com ele somente porque tem vontade de viajar para o Brasil nas próximas férias, e vai ser você quem vai ser a guia dele.

Nem se quisesse, poderia se afastar dele. O argentino é um amor, é só colocar os olhos em ti que vem para cumprimentá-la, para conversar, para estar perto. Quando o elenco se hospeda no hotel para as gravações em Serra Nevada, as noites são regadas a muitas risadas e música no espaço de convivência. Às vezes, ele te acompanha até a porta do seu quarto, te diz para ter bons sonhos e que só serão bons, claro, se você sonhar com ele.

Você ri, boba, não quer admitir para si mesma que o flerte, apesar de tolo, te faz ficar com o coração quentinho. Numa outra vez, te deixa um beijo na testa. Os pelos finos da barba que está deixando crescer arrastam pela sua pele, é uma interação áspera, mas gostosa, faz arrepiar, principalmente porque o rosto alheio fica tão pertinho do seu por aqueles poucos segundos.

Dessa vez, você não quer deixá-lo ir embora tão cedo. Quer dizer, o pessoal ainda está lá embaixo jogando ping-pong, trocando uma ideia, ninguém vai subir pra cá por enquanto. É meio impulsiva, não pode mentir, nem sabe ao certo o que quer de verdade. Esteban sabe, porém.

Segura na lateral do seu rosto, afetuoso. O olhar dele se encontra com o seu, por breve, até que se abaixa para fitar os seus lábios. Parece magnético, aqui, o calor que se instaura no seu corpo, um súbito desejo por algo a pouco de alcançar. Quando ele se inclina, se colocando mais perto.

Mas tem um problema, não tem?

— Esteban. — Se agarra à manga da blusa masculina, o impedindo no meio do caminho. Já estavam até de olhinhos fechados, por um triz de se entregarem à vontade. — Eu tenho namorado.

O argentino ergue-se.

Se pensou que ele fosse afastar de imediato, retrair ou se irritar por ser iludido até o último momento, o que assiste é diferente. Ele se põe confiante na postura, te mirando com o mesmo olhar doce de sempre, calmo, que faz tudo parecer simples ao seu redor.

— Ele veio pra cá? — te pergunta, com a voz baixa. — Veio pra Espanha contigo?

Você abaixa o olhar.

— Não — diz —, ficou no Brasil.

— Sabe... — o tom masculino permanece manso, porém se mostra um pouco mais arrastado, charmoso. — Você vai embora no fim de semana, vai voltar pra ele. Pro Brasil, não é? — Inclina-se mais um vez, retomando a proximidade de antes. — A probabilidade da gente se encontrar de novo, cariño, é muito pequena.

— Ainda não é legal...

— Mas vai ser só uma vez, pra dizer adeus — sopra, num sussurro. — Ninguém precisa saber. Nem ele.

Pô, Esteban, não faz assim... Você mordisca os lábios, inquieta. Não consegue desviar o olhar do dele, por mais que se esforce. É uma mirada tão romântica, de pupilas cheias. Por um segundo, rouba todo o seu bom senso e te faz envolver os braços ao redor do pescoço do homem e trazê-lo para o beijo que o próprio queria te entregar momentos antes.

As mãos do homem vão pro seu quadril, te guiam pelo quarto adentro na busca cega pela cama. Por que tudo que é errado tem um sabor melhor? Porque só da boca dele se separar da sua, pra buscar ar, já é suficiente para te fazer juntar o cenho, tristonha.

O mantém perto, tranca as pernas na cintura masculina. Isso vai ficar aqui, diz para si mesma, não vai contigo embora da Espanha, então vai se esquecer dele. Se aproveitar o agora, o futuro não terá nenhum vestígio.

— Vem — a visão do homem nu sentado na sua cama, a palma da mão batendo suave na própria coxa pra te convidar, é uma tentação direto do inferno —, vem cá, vem.

Você se ajeita sobre ele, a ereção molhada sob ti beirando a entrada do seu corpo. Os dedos dele percorrem o caminho da sua lombar até as omoplatas. A atenção masculina não está no encaixe que está por se realizar, ou em nada que beire o lascivo. Está enfeitiçada na sua face, na leitura da sua expressão de prazer ao se preencher sozinha, na fragrância natural do seu corpo despido.

Toca a sua bochecha com as costas da mão.

— Você é tão linda... — elogia, num suspiro. — Que pena que é do Brasil, e não minha.

Você esconde a face quente na curva do pescoço dele. Para de dizer essas coisas bonitas...

Esteban levanta o seu olhar de novo, prefere te ter o encarando quando os seus movimentos no colo dele se iniciam.

— Perdão — responde, a voz ainda embriagada pelo sentimento —, se você não fosse tão linda, talvez...

A conversa melosa te apetece, o ego vai lá em cima. Os lábios querem permanecer esticados num sorriso tolo, por isso o abraça, se esconde mais uma vez para que não possa oferecer ao argentino a imagem da sua rendição completa.

As mãos dele apertam as suas coxas, firmes, feito quisesse descontar ali todo o prazer exorbitante que sente. O nariz alongado, reto, é esfregado pela sua clavícula. Os seus dedos detém algumas mechas douradinhas do cabelo alheio. Tudo flui devagarinho, quase que totalmente silencioso senão pelo som molhado dos corpos em conexão. Esteban teme que, quanto mais dialogar contigo, quanto mais ouvir o som da sua voz, mais será assombrado pelos incontáveis anos que passarão separados. Não quer que a consciência pese, nem que o corpo derrame cedo só pra prolongar o que vive nesse instante.

As suas gravações já se encerraram, você se vai, e ele deseja deixar, pelo menos, um pouquinho de si dentro de ti. Inunda o seu interior ao atingirem o êxtase, não liga pra sensação extra escorregadia, pras gotinhas que parecem escorrer pra virilha. Não quer te abandonar, e você vai se sentir tão, mas tão vazia sem ele — metafórica e fisicamente.

O xinga mentalmente por ter um sorriso tão apaixonante, e esse olhar de garoto fisgado pelo cupido. Seria mais fácil, menos melancólico, se o sexo tivesse sido devasso, indecente, e não amoroso, sedutor, como se deu.

Ele ofega, igual que tu, mas recupera o fôlego primeiro.

— Te quero de novo, cariño — fala. — Deixa eu te ter de novo, hm? Eu por cima agora. — Não tem dificuldade para inverter as posições, te colocando com as costas no colchão. Pega numa das suas coxas, suspendendo para facilitar o encaixe do ângulo. — Prometo que é a última, e eu vou embora.

Você sorri.

— Não precisa ir agora.

— É, né? — Sorri junto. — Posso te ter de novo, e de novo... — Tira os olhos dos seus só por um segundinho, mirando a ereção na própria mão, ao se pôr no meio das suas pernas mais uma vez. — Quantas vezes eu quiser?

— Depende de quantas vezes você for querer... — faz charme.

— Porra, se eu pudesse escolher, eu queria você pra sempre, linda.

E você se derrete toda, feito uma adolescente apaixonada que nunca ouviu coisa parecida. É nessa poesia carnal que você se deixa encher novamente, menos consciente se seus gemidos sobressaem o som dos corpos em choque. Só por hoje, é isso. Enquanto todos estiverem ocupados lá embaixo, ninguém precisa saber o que acontece aqui em cima.

#imninahchan #esteban kukuriczka x reader #esteban kukuriczka smut #esteban kukuriczka fanfic #esteban kukuriczka fic #esteban kukuriczka #la sociedad de la nieve #a sociedade da neve #the society of the snow

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redd956 · 4 months

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any thoughts about world building medical systems?

Oooo, Medical worldbuilding can be tough, especially in the styles of hard worldbuilding

Think checks, balances, and rules when worldbuilding medical systems and features

Here's some categories you can mess around with, or some good places to start.

Hospitals

Knowing where people go when they're injured or sick can be super important, especially if a story takes place in a hospital a lot.

How available of these medical location?

Are there many different types? (Hospitals vs. Clinics)

What warrants going to the hospital?

What are conditions like here?

How do people get to the hospital?

You can even play with the appearance and layout, especially with fantasy components like magic and technology.

Law

Oh local ethics...

Deciding what are the medical ethics can do wonders on the worldbuilding and what being in recovery looks like.

What are doctors allowed to do?

Do they have a form of HIPPA?

What does medical consent look like?

What is done when someone croaks it?

Think also about how any other form of the world's first responders tie into this

Healing Magic

Healing magic, a worldbuilder's life saver and bane. Healing magic is tough to deal with because its existence completely reconstructs a world in how we see it.

There's the limitation to the healers, the limitation to the magic, and the limitation as to what it can do.

More importantly though, what it can't

How prevalent is healing magic?

How many people have it?

Is there enough people with healing magic to regularly run hospitals? If not are there specialty hospitals where you can find them? Are they so rare that it's nearly impossible to seek their aid?

Potions & Alternative Medicine

Medical also means medicine. We as humans have always had a version of medicine since the dawn of our time.

Think about what medicine are available and how technology/magic affect them.

Are potions added in? What does alternative medicine look like in this world?

Technology

When creating a world high in technology or magic that means technology and magic will find its way in every nook and cranny of life, and that includes medical too

How does technology and/or magic change common injuries, the extent at which one's life can be saved, or the kind of unique injuries magic and technology can cook up?

How do these unique injuries keep up with the world unique medical practices?

What this world has to offer?

Magic, technology, fantasy biomes, fantasy creatures, dimensional travel, diverse species... And more

How do these change the look of people arriving at the hospital?

Here's some examples of medical worldbuilding brought to my Worldbuilding Project: SOA

CW: Blood

Chromatic magic comes in a variety of ways, but the most common way we see it is the damage magic variant. What is life when four year old Jason discovers he shoot magic at the power of automatic rifles out of his fingertips?

It's all fun and games until people cast with lingering intentions. You know a lingering damage magic injury as soon as you see it. Saw a man once stumble into the ER, a bright red glowing wedge etched deep into his thigh. As it continued to pulse with magic it was as if the caster had hit him all over again, and the magic was slowly eating into his muscle.

Blood was everywhere. You could hear it singing into him. It'll keep going until its no longer got a target to cut through or finally it wears off. Unfortunately there's not much you can do. Chromatic healing magic can't uncast a spell.

We just have to wait for the lingering effect to fade away. All us healers can do is give away painkillers like candy, and get to work after it wears off. By Areth I hate damage magic.

#worldbuilding #world building #healing magic #worldbuilding medical

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aquillis-main · 4 months

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the reason sally got so much like is bc ben hurst actually cared for her and loved her as a character, unlike amy who was started off as a joke character and wasn't that deep no matter how much her inexperienced-with-romance fanbase pretends it is. u can tell just by reading archie vs sega's abyssmal treatment of amy over the years that sally was treated as an actual member of the cast and respected, unlike amy who was constantly sidelined and given poor characterization outside of a tired gag. st/soj are mediocre writers who rely on fans and even soa to clean up their mistakes

Last I checked, Amy was given a full story in SA1 where she got to save a little bird and find their family without Sonic's assistance, and both that game and SA2 showed that she does have the ability to make people change their minds and free them from being brainwashed. On top of this, Amy also led her own team to help Cream and Big find Chocola and Froggy respectfully, actually committed to her idea of becoming someone Sonic would look to for help, helped lead the Resistance along with Knuckles in Forces, and has generally lent herself to being the heart of the whole Sonic cast. All this was done by SoJ, without plans by SoA involved.

Yeah, you're full of shit, anon.

#aquillis answers #shady guy #sonic the hedgehog #amy rose

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garbinge · 9 months

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Misdirection

Happy Lowman & Daughter OC Scarlett Lowman

From these August Prompts: Misdirection A/N: Forgot to post yesterday, so here's yesterday's August fic!

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: Angsty. Mentions of hospitalization, hurt, broken arm, worry, etc.

SOA Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics

“Scar.” Happy’s voice rarely sounded worried, unsure, or defeated but right now it was a mix of all 3.

“What’s wrong?” She knew to ask immediately.

“It’s Lex. She got hurt at the clubhouse.” Now that was a typical Happy response, little information, but just enough detail to have Scarlett’s heart drop to her stomach.

“What happened? Where is she?” Scarlett was grabbing her keys, eager to get wherever her daughter was.

“We’re at St. Thomas, Tara’s got her, she’s checking her out.” Happy said that as if that was going to solve everything, like that would make his daughter's anxiety completely disappear.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Dad.” She was now leaving in the middle of her shift at work, no notice, just calling out to one of her server friends that she needed her to cover her tables.

Scar was going to stay on the phone, pressure Happy for more information but she knew it’d be a waste and just get her worked up more so she hung up. She began speeding down the Charming roads on her way to St. Thomas, cutting through backroads and shortcuts, anything to cut down on the ETA. She didn’t bother parking, she handed the keys to valet and knew she’d make Happy pay for it.

Before she could make it to the front desk she ran into Jax, literally.

“Oh shit, my bad, Scar.” Jax steadied her.

“Where’s my kid, Jax?” Her hands practically threw Jax’s off of hers.

“Woah, relax, she’s up in pediatrics, Tara’s checkin’ her out.” Jax spoke like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wouldn’t rip down walls and bulldoze over people for his kids.

“Don’t tell me to fuckin’ relax, Jax. What the fuck happened?”

“She climbed on top of the playset, jumped down, fucked her arm up. Pretty gnarly jump for a kid her age.” Jax was smiling again like this wasn’t the most serious situation to Scarlett.

“You saw her?” The rage was about to be pouring out of Scarlett.

“Yea a group of us were by the garage, when it happened.” Jax was so oblivious to what was happening.

“None of you said anything? Told the fuckin’ kid to– I don’t know– maybe not do that? Jesus, are you all so far up your own asses? Do you not get what the fuck could of happened, or did happen, I don’t even know because no one is telling me anything!”

“Hey,” Jax held up his hands and stepped back. “We all called out, Happy was right there telling her not to do it but she didn’t listen, must be a Lowman family trait.” Jax’s eyebrows raised as he referred to Scarlett. “If it was super serious I wouldn’t be here bullshitting with you, I would be up there with everyone else waiting for you. So don’t misdirect your anger on me.”

“Get out of my way.” Scarlett was pushing past Jax.

As Scarlett entered the pediatric wing she saw Gemma, Bobby, Tig, and Happy.

“What room is she in?” Scarlett wasn’t in the mood to have another ‘bullshitthing’ conversation with anyone.

“201.” Gemma was immediate to answer, understanding what Scar was going through, mother to mother.

Scarlett was moving quick past the waiting room and down the hall in search of the room so she could find relief or some sort of answers. She stopped in her tracks when she saw her daughter with a bandage wrapped around her arm, her face was stained with tears but currently her face was all smiles. There were so many things floating in Scarlett’s head right now as she stared through the window of the room Lex was in. Her baby was okay, she was hurt, but she was there smiling and okay. But that guilt was still eating her alive.

“Hey, she’s alright.” Tara’s voice alerted her to turn around and face the doctor. “Her arm is broken, we’d describe it as an acute fracture, she’ll wear a cast for a month and then a split, but it’ll fully recover, no surgery needed.”

Scar let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, can I go in and see her?” She was turning her head and already starting to go into the room.

“We still need a couple more x-rays just so we can see progress as time passes with the cast and splint.” Tara explained hoping that Scarlett would get it.

“Alright, I’ll wait out with the club, you’ll find me when I can see her?” Scarlett sounded eager.

“Right away.” Tara smiled and touched the side of Scarlett’s arm before moving into Lex’s room.

Scar knew standing there and watching from afar would be tortuous so she quickly moved back to the waiting room. For a few moments she stood back, looking at everyone in the room but specifically her father. Happy was nervously standing against the wall where the waiting room began to open up. Nervous was a feature that Happy didn’t show very often. To be fair, he wasn’t showing it too much, but Scarlett clocked it right away. The stoic face had more of a frown to it, and his leg was lightly tapping up and down, he had his eyes focused on one spot on the floor, he was fixated on it probably thinking about all the potential possibilities, all the things that could have happened mixed with the anger that there was nothing to do, no one to blame, no one to fight to get payback unless he was going to punch the play set to pieces.

Scarlett knew exactly what he was thinking because when she broke her arm when she was just slightly older than Lex, Happy went and threatened the parent of the kid who pushed her off the gym stage. It took 30 minutes of her begging for him not to threaten the child themselves before she negotiated him down to ‘talking’ to the parents. She should have known better, even at that age.

“She’s gonna be fine.” Scar reached her hand up and touched Happy’s shoulder.

His gaze immediately broke and turned to his daughter. “Can we see her?”

“Not yet. Tara’s doing more x-rays, progress shots. She’ll be in a cast for a bit.” Scar’s hand was still resting on her father’s shoulders. “You’re not mad. I thought you’d be mad.” Happy said now standing up straight and staring down at her.

“I was mad. You’re lucky I ran into Jax down the hall first, I yelled at him and now I feel better.” She smiled.

“I told her not to jump.” Happy still had his stoic face on.

“What can I say, she gets her listening skills from you.” She pushed her hand against his shoulder before letting him go.

“She gets that daredevil spirit from you.” Happy turned a smirk now.

“And I wonder where I got that from.” Her eyes rolled and she turned to the other people who had begun approaching. Bobby, Tig, and Gemma. “She’s alright, gonna have a cast, that she’s probably going to ask all of you to sign, so please no inappropriate shit. Or cursing. Or SOA colors or markers please.” Her eyes moved to Tig specifically. “Why are you lookin' at me?” “Because when she asked you to sign her field trip form you signed it with the anarchy A.” Scarlett crossed her arms. Everyone turned to look at Tig as if to ask that was seriously what he did.

“It makes the A in trager look better, what can I say.” He shrugged.

Before anyone could answer, a little voice was getting louder from down the hall.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Scarlett turned around and squatted to be eye level with her little girl. “Hey baby!”

“Look I broke my arm!” She was grinning from ear to ear despite the tears being stained on her face. It was such a Lowman thing to do. “Its pretty cool, right?”

Scarlett was going to answer, but it truthfully wasn’t the right time to reprimand her, she had been through enough and she’d talk to her at home about listening and making better decisions. “The coolest, but I’m just glad you’re okay. I was scared.”

“So was Pops.” Lex pointed to Happy. “Pops, look at my cast! They let me draw on it and look I did a smiley like the tattoos you and the one mom has!” She raised her arm to Happy.

The silence between everyone was very prominent, the tension rose. Some eyes looked over at eachother, some looked at Scarlett to guage her response, guage Happy’s. Tig was the first one to speak with humor in his voice, a shrug falling off his shoulders and the sentence he spoke earned him a look from everyone.

“Well at least it wasn’t one of us that did something inappropriate.”

#SOA #Sons of anarchy #SOA fanfic #SOA fanfiction #Happy Lowman #Happy Lowman x OC #Happy Lowman & OC #Happy Lowman Fanfic #Jax Teller #Tig Trager

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skaruresonic · 4 months

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Everytime I catch a glimpse of discussion within the Sonic fandom I feel like I'm going insane.

Speaking purely from my own experience, not too long ago practically every Sonic fan firmly believed that Sonic was an unfeeling hard boiled soldier/action man/dude bro who had zero concern for anything other than his personal amusement. Back then Sonic was "supposed to be" an unthinking action drone that only blows stuff up and runs around doing poses. And if you ever dared to imply that he'd do something sappy, than you would get labeled as a baby who can't handle "hardcore material" or something.

Flash forward to now and it seems like majority is convinced Sonic is a fluffy soft boy who would never hurt a fly and he sincerely prays every night that everyone gets a happy ending. including the people who've done nothing but cause pain. Also he's extremely emotional over everything and hurting on the inside or something. And if you think he should snap back at his enemies you're just an edgelord who doesn't understand anything.

What happened??? How did we go from one extreme to the other??? Why is it so hard for sonic fans to see the characters for what they are instead of making up nonsense???

And if you think he should snap back at his enemies you're just an edgelord who doesn't understand anything.

"So you want Sonic to murder his enemies in cold blood?"

"Where the hell did you get that from? I said Sonic doesn't care about Eggman's welfare and that his attitude seems to be 'if he dies, he dies.' Where did you get 'I want Punisher!Sonic' out of that lol"

Fandoms be fandoming. I personally saw a forum thread back in the day likening Modern Sonic to a soulless vehicle designed to get you from Point A to Point B, in contrast to Classic Sonic who had more "soul." There are always going to be people who think the new shift in direction is soulless, whatever that means.

The irony is, the reason the Adventure games were as comparatively dark as they were (YMMV on that, obviously) was because ST didn't like how cute and Mickey Mouse-ish Classic Sonic was becoming in the late '90s; they wanted to reintroduce, or rather retain, the rough-edged, "bad boy" side of his personality. Hence why they had Maekawa write for those games.

Cultural differences exacerbate these... well... differences in how we perceive Sonic as well. What the West sees as a "bad boy" and what Japan sees as a "bad boy" can be based on very divergent concepts. Kanemaru!Sonic's tendency to sprinkle Engrish sounds silly to Anglophones, for example, but in Japan it's a sign of his worldliness and his overall coolness.

Likewise, SoA!Sonic tends to use harsher language than SoJ!Sonic might use, such as saying strawberry shortcake "sucks" in a Twitter Takeover.

While I can't vouch for how Japanese Sonic fans view SoA!Sonic, to Anglophones, Games!Sonic seems like a squeaky-clean goodie two-shoes Gary-Stu. Which, again, ignores the cultural framework against which his character exists.

All that being said, Sonic is still quite a multifaceted character, even if he isn't the deepest or most fleshed-out in the cast. As a static character who represents an ideal and inspires positive change in others, he doesn't exactly need to be.

Lately I've been seeing a lot of overreductive takes with Shadow which attempt to boil him down to one or two traits at the expense of others, but I imagine it happens to Sonic quite a bit also. Despite being a static character, Sonic, like Shadow, has multiplicity of character. People really struggle with contending with that kind of variability. How he reacts to any given situation will change based on circumstance. Truth resists simplicity, which is antithetical to the kind of Declarations(tm) social media likes to make about the cast. Adding asterisks and footnotes risks diluting the impact of the message. So naturally, people are going to forgo context and nuance in favor of more digestible analyses, in addition to ignoring the games and just plain making shit up.

For instance: "Sonic's selfish" or "Sonic's selfless" is a false dichotomy. The answer is the Schroedinger's cat, both selfish and selfless until someone opens the box, maybe in a quantum state of both. To say one or the other is true ignores the spectrum and the circumstances in which Sonic expresses selfishness vs. selflessness. Sonic can be selfish sometimes, just as he can be selfless, but whether he is or is not depends on what he's doing at the moment and what provokes this reaction.

So on and so forth.

#asks #sonic

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jaxteller87 · 3 months

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Valentine’s Day Surprise

Teenagers years

There I stood, lingering in the hallway, silently observing the girls in the classroom reveling in the blossoming romance of receiving flowers from admirers, both secret and known. I purchased a single rose myself, and it was destined for Amber, the girl I’ve found myself secretly crushing on for a few weeks now. I was nervous to see how she’d react but excited at the same time.

“What’s going on?” Donna asked, approaching me from behind. Just as she fired off her words, Amber received the flower I got her. At first, she was surprised, just staring at it like it must have been some sort of mix-up or mistake. After a moment of convincing herself that perhaps it was actually destined for her, she closed her eyes, gently pressed the petals to her nose, and smiled.

“You think she likes it?” I asked.

Donna peered into the classroom and saw Amber smiling at the rose. “Ah, now I get it. Don’t take this the wrong way, Teller, but I see right through your tough, badass exterior. Believe it or not, deep down, you’re a softie.”

“Just because I run with the Sons doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about how to treat a woman,” I was talking to Donna, but I couldn’t stop looking at Amber.

“Yeah, I see how some of you SOA boys treat the ladies,” she sneered as if catching me in the act of something nefarious.

“Think what you will, but we’re not all like that.” At least not most of the time, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “I promise you, Don, I’m one of the good ones.”

She sized me up, “Yeah, maybe you are, Teller. Maybe you are.”

“I am. And my boy Opie isn’t too bad either,” I put in a good word for Ope, for what it was worth.

“Jury’s still out on that one,” she smiled awkwardly, clearly having strong feelings for him.

“What do you mean?”

“Look around, Teller. Even Brian Johnson got a flower for Lara Holtheimer, and he’s cheated on her twice,” Donna pointed to the fledgling lovebirds in the corner of the classroom.

I scoffed. “It was a lot more than twice,” I corrected her.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I know you guys are cut from a different cloth, but as a simple small-town girl, I guess I just kind of look forward to little quirky things like this,” she explained.

Just then, Phillip, the AV club president who was in charge of handing out the flowers and stuffed bears, cut in between us. ”Excuse me, Donna?”

“Um, yes?”

“Here, this is for you.” He handed her a little stuffed bear with a card.

“And you were saying?” I asked like a smartass.

“Aw!” Donna squealed with a knowing smile, realizing that her badass biker wasn’t a stranger to romantic gestures after all. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had reminded him an hour past the cut-off window for orders, but after roughing up the kid in charge, we got Ope on the list.

Later that afternoon, the sun began its descent, casting a warm glow over the backyard, where I discovered Amber surrounded by her canine companions. Instead of her usual wheelchair, she was sitting on a lawn chair, which was a pretty rare sight. Taking the seat beside her, I looked into her eyes and forgot what I was going to say.

“Thank you,” she blushed, breaking the short awkward silence.

“For what?”

“Don’t lie, Teller; I know it was you.”

I sat back in the chair and sighed, “Ah, I see. Donna tell ya?”

“Nope,” she chuckled, “You just did, though.”

I walked into that. “That’s not fair,” I joked, “but you’re welcome. Oh, and thanks for the candy bar I found in my locker.”

She gave me a puzzled look, “Dang, how’d you know it was me? Donna tell you?”

“Nah,” I smirked, “but you just did.” We shared a laugh, and it felt magical. Everyone had been right; I found myself falling head over heels for Amber. Yet, an unspoken longing lingered—I wished she could see herself through my eyes. Perhaps, one day, she would.

Many years later...

I stepped out onto the porch, greeted by a surprise that warmed my heart — a bag filled with my favorite candies and a twelve-pack of beer. It was a thoughtful gesture from Amber, who, being pregnant, found it challenging to get in and out of the car, which meant she most likely had it delivered.

I told her a thousand times, expressing that she didn’t need to go to such lengths for me. But ever since high school, I had presented her with a single rose every Valentine’s Day, a tradition that I never broke once. Sure, some might say a single rose isn’t much, but to anyone who knows our story, it’s more about the memory than the monetary aspect. We grew up in the same town but came from two very different neighborhoods.

I strolled into the living room with the bag in my hand, catching Amber off guard. Before I could say a word, she immediately burst into tears. “You weren’t supposed to see that yet,” she confessed, joining me in the living room.

“Darlin’, what did I tell you?”

“I know,” she sniffled, wiping her face on her sweater sleeve. “But I just felt bad. Every year, it warms my heart to see you keep up with a tradition that literally changed my life for the better. All those years in middle school, watching girls get Valentine’s cards, candies, and gifts, but none of them were ever for me. Well, aside from the pity presents from the teacher or super popular kids, but never from a secret admirer. I didn’t care, though; I knew I was different. I mean, some people are just cut out for different paths than others. It’s not fair, but it’s life. The sooner you realize that the sooner you can learn to enjoy everything else life has to offer.”

Another wave of tears rolled down her cheeks, and then, unexpectedly, she started to giggle. “These damn hormones, I’m sorry,” she laughed. “I shouldn’t be crying over something so silly. Please forgive me, babe.”

“Relax, darlin’, of course, you are forgiven, my love,” I smiled, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I just don’t want you overexerting yourself on my behalf. The only surprise I need to come home to every day is you.”

“Okay, but—”

“No buts,” I interrupted.

“But babe—I really didn’t go too far out of my way.”

“Well, obviously you did; you had my favorite stuff ordered and scheduled to be dropped off on our doorstep,” I pleaded my point.

She had a shit-eating grin on her face. “Actually, I just asked Ope to pick it up on his way home from work and drop it off.”

I looked at her in disbelief for a moment before laughing at the simplicity of her plan. “Alright, fine. I guess that’s okay,” I smiled, planting a big, juicy kiss on her lips. “How about we make it an early night?”

“Jax, it’s not even 5:30 yet,” she said, glancing at the clock.

“It’s okay; no one has to know,” I smirked, kissing her forehead, slowly moving down her cheek and into her sweet spot on the neck. “But first, let’s get some dinner; I’m starving. Do you want to help me cook something?”

“Nah,” she shrugged.

“Nah? Why not?” I asked, almost offended.

“I also asked Opie to swing by that new steakhouse that opened up outside of Charming and pick us up ribeyes. I have the to-go containers hidden in the oven. It was going to be the rest of your surprise.”

“You were going to pass it off as your own cooking?” I asked, smirking at the idea.

“Perhaps,” she blushed, looking away.

“You are too funny! I love the shit out of you; do you know that?” I kissed her neck some more before she unloaded our meal from the oven.

And so, after a delightful steak dinner, we retreated to the coziness of our large bed.

“Thank you, sweetie. Happy Valentine’s Day,” she whispered.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, darlin’,” I whispered back.

#jax teller fluff #jax teller x disabled reader #jax teller x oc

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shannadreamgoddess · 8 months

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Cam, Mimi and I had an absolutely chaotic QnA with the FaS and SoA cast.

We found out Adelaide is Wile E Coyote and Avery is bugs bunny. Confirmed canon.

The QnA happened on the PMD Writer's Union discord! I might start taking character asks here, too ♡

#pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd #pokemon #story of arceus #art #poke'mon #poke'mon mystery dungeon #fire & stone

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ghostofadragon · 3 months

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some sun of alcoritrés stuff! flowchart + nonfinal concepts for FO + capt + modern day cast lineup :] if i don't come up with some batshit soa lore every once in a while i get sick with scurvy

#im scheduling this 4 the end of the strike i feel weird posting it before then. see you on the 29th my sweet prince oc lore #my artwork #sun of alcoritrés

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myckicade · 11 months

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If you don't like EZ why the fuck are you watching the show he's the whole show

I had to sit with this for a minute, I admit. Not because I think it's right and correct, but because it's so defensive I wanted to make sure I said this properly.

Mayans M.C. is not just about EZ Reyes, just like SoA was not just about Jax Teller. If either had been the case, I never would have seen either series through. Main characters give us a focal point, sure, but the supporting cast are the meat of the tale. If not for them, for their lives and storylines, EZ probably would have been shot dead in S1, or, at the very least, still behind bars. There is no show without all of the players present. And, unfortunately, he's endangering said players.

An issue I have with the telling of this story, and its main player, EZ Reyes, is that they've stripped him of anything and everything I could possibly root for. As President, he's in the Clay Morrow era of leadership. Every move is designed to benefit himself the Club on a financial level. It's about ego, and power. Status. Outsmarting people who are a hell of a lot smarter and more experienced. The writers have skittered right past creating an antihero, and instead have taken a head-first dive into presenting us with a villain to lead the way. It's hard to pull for a dude who's just going to get his people - his support - killed.

In the end, this is fiction, and I do enjoy the fact that this show makes me feel a rainbow of emotions. But EZ Reyes is still a character who can go cannonball onto a fence post.

#Mayans MC #Mayans M.C.#Mayans #Mayans Spoilers #Mayans M.C. Spoilers #Mayans MC Spoilers #EZ Reyes #Anonymous Ask #Anon #Anon Ask

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the-crowned-fowl · 6 months

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the soa cast all now have official refs !!! and ive started brainstorming for the first comic, so look out for that in the next few months (hopefully)

#finch does stuff #soa stuff #sparks of adventure #object ocs #object characters #object comic

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drabbles-mc · 2 years

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You Ever Get Nightmares?

Happy Lowman & Daughter!OFC (Diedra Lowman)

Whumptober 2022: No.5 Every Whumpee’s Needs- Running Out Of Air

Warnings: 18+, language, angst, mentions of past trauma/physical assault

Word Count: 2k

A/N: This is a day late and a loose interpretation of the prompt, but I was really excited to write for Di again. I’ve had her whole backstory in my head and it was nice to scratch the surface of it a little bit. Plus, it’s nice to see Happy doing the dad thing.

SOA/Mayans Taglist: @garbinge @espieviolet99 @mijop @chibsytelford @thanossexual @anditsmywholeheart @i-just-read-stuff @be-my-dear @bport76 @withmyteeth @unicornucopia-fuckers @buckybarneshairpullingkink @shadow-of-wonder @punkgoddess-98 @paintballkid711 @black-repunzel99 @lexondeck @jitterbugs927 @fanfic-n-tabulous @mijagif @frattsparty @winchestershiresauce @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @beardburnsupersoldiers @mveggieburger @choochoo284 @littlekittymeow @beardsanddetectives @i-love-scott-mccall @queenbeered @gemini0410 @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @lakamaa12 @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

She jolted awake, gasping for air like her body hadn’t recognized the difference between her reality and the nightmare that she had just been trapped in. She sat upright, immediately bringing her hand up to her throat as though she had to touch it to confirm that there really wasn’t anything there. Her chest was heaving as she tried to swallow, tried to get herself under control again. Her hand shook as she reached to switch on her bedside lamp.

The light cast off from the lamp wasn’t much. It didn’t feel warm or comforting in the moment. Her breaths were shaky as she aggressively kicked the blanket off. The thing wasn’t even that heavy, didn’t trap or create much heat, but it might as well have been made of lead with the way that it felt against her skin.

Bending her legs, she pressed her elbows against her thighs and dropped her face into her hands. Her breaths were shuddered, and she hated how intensely she could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage. All these years later and she was still fucked up. All the things that she had done to be stronger, harder, smarter, colder, and it didn’t even fucking matter. One bad dream and she was just a scared little teenage girl all over again. She hated it.

The second she felt the tears stinging her eyes, she knew that she had to get the hell out of her room. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t the room that was the problem. It wasn’t her bed, wasn’t her apartment, wasn’t even the town—it was just her. But she couldn’t fix that. So, instead, she forced herself off of her mattress. Putting one foot in front of the other, she fought for each step that she took towards her dresser. Her legs felt like they were locked up, stiff in a way that not even her toughest workouts left her. Each breath she took was calculated as she grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a flimsy tank top.

She slowly opened her bedroom door, poking her head out into the dark hallway. The entire apartment was pitch black except for the soft pink light coming from the crack at the bottom of her sister’s bedroom door. Walking closer, she was about to knock when she heard the sound of her sister’s laughter on the other side. She waited for another moment, but when she heard the muffled sound of the television and Juice’s laughter too, Diedra immediately crept past the door without interrupting them.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she really expected Dakota to be able to do for her. She loved her younger sister more than anything, but this was one thing that she didn’t think the two of them would ever talk about. Diedra made the decision years ago that she was better off not knowing about it. It’d been a long time since then and she had yet to go back on that decision. She wasn’t going to break that streak tonight because of a nightmare, no matter how real it felt.

She moved quietly across the apartment, grabbing the bare minimum of things as she went along. She shoved her phone and keys into her pockets as she shoved her feet into her boots, not bothering to tie them before slipping out of the apartment, making sure to lock the door behind her once she was out.

The house was pitch black when she rolled into the driveway, but she knew that he was home. His bike was there, along with his car. There was no way that he had gone somewhere without either of those. She turned her car off, hesitating for a moment and wondering if it was too late to turn around and head back to her apartment. She didn’t exactly know what she wanted from him, either. He’d get it a little more, maybe, but it wasn’t like the two of them ever talked about it.

She lost any opportunity she had to turn around and bail when lights started to shine through one of the windows. Seconds later, the front door opened, and all she could see was his silhouette in the doorway, shadow against the weak, yellow light coming from inside. She saw the brief shadow of the gun in his hand before he tucked it back into his waistband, realizing that it wasn’t a threat rolling into his driveway in the small hours of the morning, it was just Diedra.

Swinging the car door open, she slowly made her way out. She gently pushed the door shut behind her, feet practically dragging as she walked towards his front door. She didn’t regret it, per se, but it felt much more daunting now than it had when she was frozen on her mattress at home.

Once she was close enough to see it clearly, she saw that his expression wasn’t really conveying much one way or the other. She let out a deep, quiet sigh. “Hey, Dad.”

“What happened?” he cut right to the chase.

She raked her hands back through her hair. “Can I stay here for the night?”

He nodded, not asking anything else as he opened the door a little wider. Diedra slipped underneath his arm and into his house. She dropped her phone and keys on the counter as she made her way through the kitchen and towards the living room. She flicked on the lamp there just seconds before Happy turned off the lights in the front of the house. It wasn’t long after that he materialized, sitting next to her on the couch.

After another minute of silence, Happy repeated himself. “What happened?”

She shook her head, feeling so small, weak, feelings that she worked tirelessly to avoid. “It’s stupid.”

“So? Tell me.”

“You ever get nightmares?” she asked.

He paused, thinking about it for a moment before he shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“About real stuff? Like, flashbacks?”

His brows drew together. “What is it?”

She huffed, shaking her head. It suddenly felt much more difficult to look Happy in the eyes. Which was stupid, and she knew it, because he was the only other person on the face of the planet who knew what was eating away at her. But she also knew the things he’d done, the things he was still doing, and it felt silly to come to him on the brink of a breakdown over things that had happened so long ago.

“Just, uh,” she shrugged, twisting her hands in a vain attempt to hide their shaking, “all the shit that happened with…you know…”

“Say it,” he nodded encouragingly, face still nearly blank.

“Dad—”

“Stop choking that shit down.” He rested his hand in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades. “Say it.”

She buried her face in her hands for a moment, trying to figure out if she was going to pluck up the courage to really talk it out for once, or if she was just going to deflect and try to bail. She took a deep breath. “Sometimes…sometimes I can still, just, feel,” she gestured vaguely in the air before lightly dragging her fingertips down the column of her neck, “like it’s fucking happening…” She laugh she let out was hollow, one that was trying to drown out the urge to cry. “God, it sounds so stupid saying it out loud. It happened so long ago and we’ve both got so much—”

“Hey,” he cut her off, “Don’t do that.” He waited for her to look at him, “Talk to me.”

“It’s not like it happens all the time. But sometimes…sometimes it feels like it’s still happening to me. And I can’t…control it. I can feel myself not being able to breathe and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s that same fucking,” she clenched her fists tight, not even noticing the tears that were on her cheeks now, “crushing feeling. I can fucking feel it, Dad. It hurts even though it’s not happening to me.”

“It did happen.”

“Yea,” she scoffed, wiping at her face, “like almost fifteen years ago.”

“It still happened.” He paused. “You stopped him, though.”

“I never seem to make it that far in my dreams.”

“You remember it?”

She shot him a disbelieving look. “Did you really just fucking ask me—”

“Then say it.”

Her breath got caught in her throat. All the years of the both of them expertly maneuvering around the topic, and now Happy was placing her directly in front of the oncoming train. She wanted to run, but she felt frozen. If there was a guarantee that this would fix her, she’d spill her guts to the goddamn world. But there was no guarantee, and forcing herself to say things that Happy already knew to be true felt nearly impossible.

Her voice, one that was usually so strong and sharp, sounded fragile, “I killed him.”

“Yes you did,” he sounded to matter-of-fact, “He fucked up. You didn’t, though.”

“But I still feel like this.”

“You were fifteen.”

“So?” She shook her head, blinking away the lingering tears. “You’ve done that kind of shit your whole—”

“That’s different.” He shook his head at her. “You’re good, Di.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You don’t feel it, you try not to act like it, but you’re good.”

She leaned back against the sofa. Her eyes were locked on the ceiling about them as she spoke. “You say that. But I just, I look at myself, then I look at Kota, and…I don’t know…”

“You’re not like your sister,” Happy shook his head, “but you’re still good.”

“Kota never—”

“She never had to,” he didn’t let her finish the thought. A few beats of silence went by before he asked, “Why didn’t you ever say any of this before?”

“We all deal with our own shit, Dad. And you and I don’t really…you know…we don’t really talk about shit.”

“But you can. I’m here. Always.”

Some of the tension disappeared from her shoulders and she nodded, tears springing into her eyes again. “I know,” she hadn’t meant to whisper but she did. “I guess I just hope that if I don’t talk about it, try not to think about it, that maybe it’ll go away.”

“Has it?”

She managed a tiny chuckle, “Clearly not.” She took a deep breath trying to get herself together, the first deep breath she’d been able to take comfortably all night, “Thank you.”

“I love you,” he draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in so that he could kiss the side of her head, “a lot.”

She smiled her first real smile of the night as she leaned into him, “I love you too. A lot.”

“Do you wanna stay up? Or try to go back to sleep?”

She looked up at him, and she knew for a fact that if she said that she wanted to stay up, that he would spend the rest of the night sitting on the couch with her, awake, most likely in complete silence. Because there wasn’t anything that he wouldn’t do for his daughters. He proved it time and time again. He’d been proving it to Diedra since she was fifteen, and it was one of the few things that had never changed.

“I think I’m gonna try and get some sleep.” She paused. “Can I sleep out here?”

He didn’t even bat an eye as he nodded. “Yea, I’ll grab your pillow from your room.”

“Thank you,” she said as she folded her hands in her lap.

When Happy came back a few minutes later, he had two pillows and two blankets bundled up in his arms. He tossed one of each onto the couch for Diedra, lightly hitting her in the chest with the pillow and getting her to laugh quietly. Then, he walked over to the recliner. Propping the pillow behind his head and draping the blanket over his legs, he pulled the lever on the side that made the footrest kick out. He didn’t say anything as he waited for Diedra to get situated.

“Night,” he said as he reached for the lamp and switching it off.

She sunk down into the comfort of the thick blanket he’d given her, eyes closing as she focused on the reality of the fact that she was safe and sound at Happy’s house. “Night.”

#whumptober2022 #no.5 #running out of air #sons of anarchy #soa #happy lowman #oc #oc diedra #oc diedra lowman #fic #trauma #assault #happy lowman x oc #sons of anarchy imagine #soa imagine #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc #mayans mc

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chaoticxrobotic · 1 year

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Annd here’s another ficlet lol, based on a fun little ship between @shookethdev‘s SOA Y/N and @crazybookcat‘s Cursed Shoes Y/N. Started as a one-off crack ship, now unfortunately unironic and slowly rotting my brain. Sneakers. Every night I dream of sneakers.

Hanahaki Hospital

(Hanahaki disease: A fictional trope in which a person’s unrequited feelings bloom into flowers, choking them from the inside until their feelings are returned, forcibly removed, or until they perish.)

Hurt/Comfort, 2263 words. CW: Hospitalisation, talk of death, mild injury.

The sun is beating through the windows, the air is thrumming with the sound of distant birdsong, and Shoey is flinging themself down the hallway, leaving a trail of blood drips in their wake. They stagger down the ever-expanding corridor, holding themself upright against the colourful array of noticeboards and poster-lined walls that frame their path. Every few steps they pause, stagger, and almost fall to their knees as a fresh wave of agony punches them in the gut, reminding them of just how shredded and tender their insides are.

But they gather themselves and press forward. Blind determination fuels their body, turning each muscle into a tireless piston that drives them ever-onwards, past gasping nurses and quietly concerned receptionists. Neon lights blink at them as they pass, each one marking a branching passway through the endless network of the hospital. They ignore most of it. Only one stands out to them, a beacon that guides them through each confusing twist and turn:

Visitor Waiting Room.

It seems like both an eternity, and like no time at all when Shoey finally finds themselves on the visitor ward. The room is decorated in bright colours, with a children's playpen nestled in one corner. Magazines are strewn across the coffee table, right next to a carefully arranged vase filled with-

A wave of nausea rises up, and Shoey forces themself to turn away, breathing carefully through their mouth. Their eyes fall on a figure, curled in on themselves, sleeping despite the uncomfortable rigidness of the plastic waiting chair.

A familiar mop of curls frames a face that is forever etched into a terse frown. Black face mask pulled high over the bridge of their nose, beanie pulled firmly down until it kisses their eyebrows. Their arms are crossed over their chest, defensively, even as they sag forwards slightly in sleep.

Shoey can feel their heart leap into their mouth, any lingering pain chased away by the surge of butterflies that tingle in their chest, spreading out until even their fingertips begin to tingle.

"Afty," they breathe.

A tentative step, then another, treading so lightly. As if the slightest vibration might unsettle this miraculous mirage, shaking Shoey from their own slumber. Might force them to wake up from this glorious dream, leave them stranded in whatever unfortunate reality was waiting for them.

Because this had to be a dream, didn't it? There was no way Aftyn would have come for them, would have been content to wait patiently in this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by people, and bright lights, and screaming children, and-

And they were holding one of Shoey's boots in their hands. Clutched tightly, as if they couldn't bear to lose it. As if it were an anchor, keeping them weighed down.

Shoey can feel their heartbeat pounding away in their ears, as if trying to convince them that this was no mere illusion. Each breath snags in their lungs. They pass a shaking hand through their hair, a small movement that might help this feel like less of a dream.

And then a sob leaves their throat, tense and tight and hopeful, as they stagger forwards. Stopping just a few inches away from Aftyn, they reach out with a trembling hand. Gently, oh, so painfully gently, fingertips crest over the soft curve of their cheek. The skin there feels warm, as if it held a piece of the sunlight that shone determinedly outside, casting the room in a golden haze. It dapples across Aftyn's face, making them glow softly. Like some kind of sombre angel.

Shoey lets out a strangled laugh, throat bobbing around the lump that is quickly forming. It's getting harder to drink in Aftyn's features, now that their eyes are growing clouded with tears. But their fingers are content to map out their face, already tracing softly over the bridge of their nose. Then, they dart to coil a few strands of hair around each digit, marvelling at how springy and soft and alive each curl feels.

When they finally pull their hand away, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill molten hot over their cheeks, they find Aftyn's eyes boring into theirs.

Neither of them dare to speak for a moment. It all feels so fragile, this closeness: As if the entire world were spun glass, fragile and beautiful, and the slightest wrong word would shatter it all over again.

Aftyn's eyes are lingering on their face, steel-grey eyes pausing to drink in every detail, to imbibe themself on each slight contour and curve of their form. The muscles of their face are quivering, cheeks twitching minutely as if they wish to say something. To ask what they were doing out of bed, perhaps, still clad in their hospital gown and leaving a hansel-and-gretel trail of bloodstains behind them.

Instead, Shoey breaks the silence first.

"Hey, stranger.”

As their surprise visitor sits up, blinking the uneasy sleep from their eyes, Shoey traced their tongue over shaking lips. Each word felt like a concentrated effort, so at odds with their normally easy, rambling way of speaking.

“This isn't a dream, is it? Because that would suck pretty hard, considering everything that just happened." Their hand reaches out again, unable to resist, as it gently cups Aftyn's face.

Afty allows it, shockingly. Their only protest is their urge to look away, eyes instead pretending to examine the dental hygiene display board that lurks to the right of them. Shoey silently files the uncharacteristic lack of resistance as another point in the "This Isn't Real" column.

Shoey feels their jaw shift as they swallow, brushing their thumb over where the edge of the mask meets the edge of their skin. Tenderly, they tilt Aftyn's head to one side, then the other, as if weighing up every feature. Looking for any discrepancies that would prove all of this to be a cruel facade.

Hesitant, cautious, aware of how they hold their heart exposed in their hands, Aftyn speaks.

"I wasn't sure when you would wake up. If you would wake up. The doctors- They said visitation was for family only, even though I tried to tell them that... You know."

"That my entire family is six feet under?" Shoey chuckles weakly, going to move their hand away. "Don't worry, I'll plead our case. Doubt they'll be able to argue when they see my-"

A hand closes around Shoey's wrist, holding them fast. Incrementally, as if on the verge of reconsidering, Aftyn tilts their head and presses it into their palm. They stay still, blinking quickly with shadowed eyes. Shoey notes the bags that have formed underneath their eyes, so heavy that they more closely resemble suitcases. How long have they been out for? How many naps has Aftyn been forced to take in this chair, hunched over and struggling to filter out the hustle and bustle and brightness of the hospital?

Even fifteen minutes here is enough to make Shoey feel nauseated, the stench of disinfectant and desperation filling their nose and causing their stomach to flip inside out. The forced joyfulness of the decor only serves to highlight how morose the place is, people pacing anxiously as they wait for the news that could change their life completely, for better or for worse.

And yet… Aftyn has stayed. For them. Alone, mired in uncertainty, watching the hands of the clock tick along with each agonising second. Losing hours of precious sleep and study time, just to make sure they were okay. Shoey swallows thickly, lost for words. It feels unusual, to search their mind for a quip or tease, only to find it empty.

"Did you rip your IV out-? You know how dangerous that is, don't you? If you were in that much of a rush to get out, you should have called a nurse. That's what the call button is for... Idiot."

Aftyn's words are familiar in their roughness. Almost comfortingly so. Their tone, however, is less of a growl and more of a chiding rumble. Steel coated in velvet. It leaves Shoey wrong-footed, caught between elation and wariness. Unsure of how to take this new Afty.

"I had to see you. I had to know what had happened, if you were- If I'd scared you. I didn't want you to see me like that, sweet bean.." They laugh hollowly, their free hand moving to clasp the back of their neck. Nervous fingers skating over numbed skin. Their feet, feeling naked without the comforting weight of their shoes, shift and rub against one another.

Aftyn shifts slightly, the grip on their wrist adjusting. Their hand cups the back of Shoey's, fingers interlacing with theirs. The closest thing to pda they can manage. Shoey flushes with pleasure, some colour gradually seeping back into their cheeks.

"Well, I'm here. Clearly. You should have waited - I'm not going anywhere."

"You- Really? You promise?" The words stumble out of Shoey's mouth in an uncertain rush, as if entirely unable to believe it. "Not even after I- With the- And you saw me, covered in the..?"

Aftyn's gaze flickers from Shoey's hopeful, spreading smile, to the vase of flowers that have begun to droop on the table. A single white petal trembles and then falls from the head in a slow, drifting arc. Gently, it rests on the tabletop with a shivering sigh. Aftyn sighs with it. Their eyes turn back to Shoey's.

"Back then, in your apartment-" Flashes of that awful night appear in their mind, of finding Shoey all alone, engulfed in a forest of their own misery. Suffocating in succulents and fighting for breath amongst the flowers. How they had cried, then, tears mingling with flowing blood until they streaked crimson. Every time they close their eyes, Aftyn is back there. In that room. Holding Shoey close, prickling their hands on the endless sea of thorns, and feeling each shuddering, struggling breath go ever weaker.

In their dreams, Shoey would crumble to mulch in their hands. Leaving only stains.

In reality, Aftyn grips them tighter. Their flesh stays firm and warm, and wonderfully alive.

"In your apartment," they try again, turning their head minutely so Shoey's knuckles can brush over mask-covered lips. A kiss steeped in plausible deniability. It was a start. "I made a promise to you, then. A bargain. I wouldn't leave you, if you didn't leave me." Their eyes are half-lowered, uncertain. Unable to hold Shoey's own. "Do you remember?"

"Yes," Shoey breathes. Every inch of skin that Aftyn touches seems to come alive, tiny fireworks bursting in each little cell. It’s almost overwhelming, and they feel their toes curl against the cold tile. "I remember. I'm just surprised, I guess. That you wanted me to stay."

At Aftyn's disbelieving glance, they chuckle breathily. "I know I'm too much for you, beanstalk. Even when I tried to water myself down, I was too intense. Obnoxious. Overwhelming. You'd said it yourself: You guess you didn't hate being around me. You guess you could tolerate me."

Shoey can hear Aftyn saying their name, buzzy and faint, but they’re too mired in their own doubt to pay too much attention. Yes, Afty was here - but it would take a monster not to be concerned by someone who was willing to perish from their own self-pity and stubbornness. They were a good person. They would stay, just long enough to ensure Shoey didn't end up putting their life in peril again, and then they would sneak out of their lives once more. As stealthy and silent as an assassin.

"I don't blame you, spitfire. I'm just happy you tolerated me for that long." They can feel that sickenly-familiar stirring in their guts, something pushing a slow path throw weakened organs, seeking to claim territory briefly lost. "It's fine if you leave. I'm a tough bean, I can handle it. You don't need to stick around for me."

"Shoey-"

"I don't want you losing sleep over this, Afty. I don't want you to throw your study time away, sitting in this awful chair and feeling your spine give out on you. You have to focus on your classes, right?"

"Shoey."

"I mean, who would want me, right-?" They chuckle shakily, hands moving to card through their hair, tugging fiercely at the short strands. In the corner of their eye, something shifts, chair scraping across the floor. They pay it no heed. "I'm- I'm constantly in people's space, I steal shoes just to 'improve' them, and the beans! Afty, how could you ever love someone who's so obsessed with bea-"

Their rapid spiral into uncertaintly is cut off by sudden pressure, arms moving around them to pull them close against a firm, steady body. Aftyn holds them fast in a hug, each muscle tense, face set in a grimace as they try to ignore just how unnatural it feels to initiate such a physical display of affection. The difference in height means that Aftyn's mouth is pressed against the crook of Shoey's neck, their fierce growl rumbling right through their body.

"Do you really think I'd go through all this out of pity? I'm here because I care about you, you idiot-" Their arms squeeze them a little tighter, as if terrified Shoey might fall apart without the pressure holding them together. "So get that through your thick skull, before you go and try to die on me again."

It’s the closest Aftyn could get to saying I love you. Shoey circles aching arms around them, mindful of the blood still oozing from protesting wounds. They can feel Aftyn's heart thrumming against their own, steady and refreshingly alive. The twisting remnants of vine still in their gut, then recede, and finally began to die.

It was going to be okay. They were going to be okay.

#krill scribbles #sneakers #I edited this a little and added one or two more lines. you're welcome :].

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