Skyward Brandon Novels & Stories

"Sometimes, I impress even myself with my stunts. But it's not too late to back out if you're having second thoughts." "Thanks for the offer. How about you help me stay awake instead? I'm feeling a bit sleepy," Alexander muttered, stifling a yawn. "We'll see if you're still so confident later," Brandon retorted, gripping the joystick tightly. The helicopter swayed erratically, reminiscent of a drunken dance as it circled around the lake. Even Alexander could not resist poking fun at Brandon's piloting skills. "Did you learn to fly from a tractor driver?" "Cut it out! I've logged over three thousand hours of flight time, and I'm quite proficient," Brandon asserted defensively.

Other times, like this one, it was only going to hurt him in the end. Sky looked severely unimpressed. Her feet barely even moved. The smallest of adjustments and she was out of his reach every time. Brandon started to spit, almost foaming at the mouth. Smiling brightly, Sky spun out of the way of a kick and then landed her own against his shoulder. One minute Brandon’s hulking body was on the mat and the next, it was gone.

he asks stepping forward to get a better look at my face, I back up and with finding my lighter in the driver's seat, I light up a smoke and exhale to the right of me away from him. "It's alright. Nothing," I backed up another step from him as he stepped forward to touch me. Taking the hint he drops his hand and stays where he is. "I'm Jason, Jason Austin." He holds his hand out for me to shake. I take it carefully and shake his hand. "I'm Marrallyn Wheaton, nice to meet you." Boy, this guy yummy. "How old are you?"

~Winter~ As we chatted and shared gossip during the flight, the cabin buzzed with lively energy. Across from us, the men were deeply engrossed in their card game, seemingly oblivious to the chatter around them. Brandon, in particular, appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself, his demeanour reminiscent of the carefree spirit I remembered from our initial meeting. It was a welcome sight, a reminder of the person he was before the weight of responsibility descended upon him with the challenges facing Hayland.

It wasn't until I got into the passenger seat that I realized I hadn't really paid attention to the young man who was driving so seriously. Under the golden hair, his skin was fair, his nose high and straight. His features were sculpted, and the corners of his eyes were slightly upturned. He seemed to be smiling gently all the time, but there was something childlike about him. "How old are you?" I asked. "19," he replied, turning the steering wheel. "I'm an adult now." "What's your name?" "You can call me Lorne." I nodded, and we lapsed into silence. He didn't ask about Owen or anything else during the ride.

In a family defined by massive egos, volcanic tempers, and enough shredded muscle to fill a stadium, you needed someone to keep the pot from boiling over. Brandon wasn't just some impulsive brawler, though. At 6’4”, with heavy shoulders and a frame built for impact, his prowess on the ice was undisputed. Along with Viktor Petrov, he formed the defensive spine of the Stormbreakers—Viktor was the silent sentinel, while Brandon was the life of the party. That lifestyle hadn't been an issue until a certain elegant journalist decided to splash Brandon’s late-night exploits across a digital front page, earning him a half-season suspension for "conduct detrimental to the pack."