#“Enjoy the chapter though! :3 <3”< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[bigfootsboytoy]

I just KNOW that Richie writes fanfiction. That boy goes home, curls up next to his anime love pillows and writes the most gut wrenching fanfiction you've ever seen.

[lilybug-02]

Pain is a great motivator…

Part 26 || First || Previous || Next

—Full Series—

Meanwhile Toriel:

(Loud noises don't wake her up usually.)

Artist note: I’m so proud of this :))) I know it’s a lot of dialogue and reading, but dialogue is grueling work for me. I’m glad with the art and for the amount of pages I made in such a relatively short time span -w- page 5 was super fun to work on. A lot of blood, sweat, and hours here... :) The backgrounds were a big bore tbh, but I finished them! Yippie!

[thegreatyin]

im gonna call it jerry :)

[ranubd]

1st panel of Cupid's Arrows!!

Part 1 | Part 2 –>

[charmwasjess]

For the ask game - 5, 7, 18 for dooku?

5) Out of all your fanworks that include Dooku, which is your favourite?

If I had to tell people to just read one of my Dooku fics, I think it would be Milk Run.

I think it's my best Jedi Dooku character work, and I loved writing his dynamics with Qui-Gon, Jocasta Nu, and Sifo-Dyas. It's a longer work, but hey, fuck being self-deprecating, I'd vouch for every page of that shit: if someone gets to the end of chapter two, where Dooku very awkwardly and earnestly tries to explain Jedi sex life to Qui-Gon, and doesn't love the fic by then, I'll give the reader a free coupon for… uh, *turns out pockets* I guess an essay on Legends/EU. :D :D ??

7)Is there a piece of clothing you think Dooku is particularly fond of/that you imagine them wearing a lot or like to draw them in?

I go with the characterization from the novels that Dooku is very fastidious about his Jedi uniform, keeping it all neat and perfect, very rarely if ever out of uniform. Like Sifo-Dyas and Jocasta Nu's depictions, he's got those warmer colored tan/gold/cream/warm brown Jedi tunics with the little flourishy gold detail work on the sleeves and hems.

I like this because it's fun to write the rare times when he needs to be out of uniform for a mission or something, and he's completely awkward about it. And it's fun foil with my headcanon that Sifo-Dyas is out of uniform a LOT with his underworld work. I like imagining them side by side looking like they came out of different eras.

Seer of the Cosmic Force, fated to speak with the froth of doom on his lips? No, it's that guy over there in the hoodie and the manbun, trying to convince the barista to take a coupon for a complimentary drip coffee but instead give him a free extra large matcha frappe with a five squirts of coconut syrup and extra whip.

18)Type Dooku's name and tell us what the autocomplete suggests as the next word

You know, I tried this in my SMS to see if it would give me a different answer than my previous, and got "Dooku cleaned"

Hmmmmmmm. *making direct eye contact with Sifo-Dyas*

[narlwhal-in-a-trashcan]

Nona is such a silly sweetie-pie

[every-sanji]

[rotworld]

chapter 2 of the luxuria triplicate side story is up! this one is suggestive but not explicit, has some vague mentions of child abuse/neglect.

[britishsass]

I should make a deadline for the next chapter of Something Missing. How about the 10th? I'll have it out on that day, or I'm actually late this time.

[gothamcityneedsme]

ok. I feel pretty good in saying that I don't feel good about FLED until around the middle-ish of chapter 3. But that was out of necessity. The first three chapters are already 18k words, and it's a LOT of set up for the time loop premise. Even back when I was starting it in 2018, I knew I was rushing the beginning and trying to condense it as much as I could so I could move on.

The place I wanted to go was the stage right before Flynn is kidnapped, and then TO that point, because Flynn getting kidnapped is the real point of rising action.

I won't consider editing/rewriting FLED (and tbh actually editing FLED was always on my radar, I was writing it in part planning to use it to practice editing) until the story is finished. So obviously not on my docket right now.

Anyways. There are only a few scenes in the early part that I think are pretty strongly defined and that I wouldn't touch much--the scene with Lucifer in chapter 2, and the second half of Nanashi and Flynn's conversation in chapter 3. The first half needs some work, it is burdened down by the utter clunk that the rest of chapter 1-2 are as well.

Getting rid of that clunk though would require a lot of restructuring, although I already have ideas on how I'd do it, but as I said, it would extend the word count by a LOT, even though I would also be removing a lot of parts, I would be largely restructuring them into the new context. Touching the same themes in different ways. etc.

It's interesting to think about and revisit. I am considering trying to get the next chapter out, so I'm revisiting it as a whole to remember where I was.

Just, whew. I wouldn't say it 'gets good' until that halfway-ish point in chapter 3. Chapter 4 on though I'm confident I'll be fairly happy with even now, because that was when I finally wasn't rushing and only working on setup--that's where the story actually is, lol.

[calamitoustide]

WAS NOT EXPECTING A HISTORY FIC UPDATE AT HALF 10 AT NIGHT ON THE FIRST OF THE MONTH, BUT IM VERY HAPPY ABOUT IT. (I will 100% be reading that while at work tomorrow)

what can i say the lesbian lake poets refused to be silenced any longer they wanted to exist outside of my not so little plan :/

[perexcri]

happy one year to her and one of my better opening lines for a fic <3

now, because i'm curious:

[tunastime]

prove to me that angels do love us

or Scar finds that the many times he's pulled into the void it feels almost like home, a radiance unlike the times he's died before. A painlessness, a love. And then he starts to connect the dots.

or, Grian loves Scar, just in a very strange way.

(Scar keeps falling into the Boatem Hole. He's starting to figure out why. Grian pines after a man prone to falling into the Boatem Hole. He's starting to think it's his fault.)

(17,203 words) (ao3)

Grian has a problem.

He isn’t supposed to feel this way. He, really, isn’t supposed to do a lot of things. He’s not supposed to be interacting. He’s not supposed to play favorites. But it feels too hard not to—so much to see and feel and touch and interact with and speak to and be near and he has to take it all in. What if it’s too late later? What if he doesn’t have forever like they all say he does?

Being a Watcher comes with many perks. And Grian abused them profusely. That wasn’t his problem, though. His problem was that Scar kept getting himself killed by the Boatem Hole and Grian knew it was his fault.

Not physically, though the number of times Grian pushed Scar into the Boatem Hole could not easily be counted on one hand. He didn’t mean for whatever he was feeling to seep into the fabrics of the world he stayed in but it seemed that people often felt a little pulled into the Boatem Hole and it was becoming an issue. Especially for Scar.

He decided, though, that as of now, it wasn’t a problem. It hadn’t happened in weeks, so it was a nonissue, right?

Future Grian could deal with it.

Grian stretches his legs out in front of him. He’s perched on the shingled roof of his house, picking at the leaves stuck under the thin sheets of deepslate. There’s a tight feeling in his stomach, one that he doesn’t think a real meal will settle. He leans back for a moment, letting the sun onto his face, stretching large bright wings under the rays just to let them soak a bit longer. Some days it was a blistering heat, and today, thankfully, it isn’t.

Leaning forward, Grian looks out onto Boatem. The sun is about midway through the sky, still high enough to beam open down on him. As he shields his eyes, he sees someone, down on the paths of Boatem, tracking toward the buildings edging the Swaggon.

Oh  , Grian notices, even without the tall hat and red, two tailed coat,  Scar .

“Scar!” Grian shouts. He lifts his arm, waving in a wide circle. Scar pauses, looking up. He shades his eyes, then waves back, squinting.

He looks small from this height, carrying a bag, carrying a pickaxe, leaning heavy on the wooden walking stick he propped himself up with. He walks far enough into the shade of the wagon to where Grian loses him. He sits up, craning his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his green waistcoat but finds nothing but trees.

After a minute, he sees him again and sits back. He watches him move heavy stacks of copper bricks, lifting and moving the oxidized metal back and around, further down and out of sight. Just peeking into view, Grian can see a shape rising further down, nearly covered by the trees. More Swaggon. More buildings. More copper. Scar disappears again, and Grian doesn’t see him reappear.

Grian laughs to himself. Without the mountain to keep him occupied, Scar had to find other work, despite tired bones and aching muscles and a need to sit more than he stood. Grian sits back.  Scar pushes himself too hard. He works too much. He needs to take a break.  

Stretching his arms above his head, Grian stands, balancing precariously on the shingles of the roof. He sets himself against the chimney to stabilize himself, feet planted on the cusp of the roof’s ridge. As he does, he sees Scar again. He’s shaking his head, moving around the side of the Swaggon. He holds his hand awkwardly. He doesn’t have his staff.

Grian frowns.

“You okay, Scar?”

Scar pauses as, for the second time, he hears his name. He looks up, nodding as he recognizes Grian, but Grian doesn’t take that as an answer to his question. Scar ducks away as Grian’s eyes leave him. Grian  tsks as when his eyes snap back he doesn’t see Scar, and in a smooth motion, he pulls away from the chimney and down into the wind, catching the air and the sun in his feathers. He drags himself down to the Earth, feet meeting grass and soil. He can hear Scar, but he can’t see him.

“Scar?”

“He-ey! Grian!” Scar calls. Grian can see the green outline of his waistcoat behind the wheels of the wagon, near the clutter of chests he called an organization system. As Grian ducks under the wheels of the wagon, Scar turns away from him, still holding himself at a peculiar angle. He turns his head, rather than his body, to see Grian approach.

Grian frowns, eyebrows furrowing.

“You alright?” he asks again. Scar nods, eyebrows pulling together, waving his hand.

“Oh, I’m fine, looking for some bandages, though, you know...” he trails off. He sounds transfixed on something else other than Grian, eyes darting as he opens another chest beside him, digging through. He pauses his rifling for just a moment as he finds what he’s looking for: a roll of white bandage. His eyes flick back to Grian and his face flushes.

“It’s all good, you know me,” he says, a little laugh coming to his voice. Grian sees the edges of his smile peek across his face, and though it does little to sooth the anxiety bubbling up in his chest, it’s nice, it feels nice to see, and it nearly distracts him long enough to miss that Scar is rapidly pulling away the roll of bandage.

“Scar, let me see that,” Grian grabs his arm. Scar folds, turning toward him, but lifts his hand, half wrapped, above his head.

“It’s fine!”

“Give me your hand!”

“Grian—” Scar huffs, trying to pull away from him. He can’t—Grian latches on to his wrist, pulling him back down. His wrist is sticky, and when Grian pulls the poorly wrapped bandage away, Scar’s palm comes up red. Scar winces.

“Careful!” he chides. Grian’s frown deepens as he looks up at him.

“What did you do?”

“I—” Scar squirms, trying to pull his hand away. “I just cut myself cutting copper, I’m fine!”

“Let me see that,” Grian gestures to the bandage in Scar’s other hand. Hesitating, Scar did, sighing through his nose. He’s rolled up his sleeves, Grian notices, so the blood that sticks to his hand and wrist hasn’t stained his shirt, but it stains the pale scars on his skin and crawls down the side of his arm. Scar splays his fingers as Grian starts to work. He pulls the bandage around his hand, holding his hand aloft by his wrist. Scar keeps his head down. His eyes follow the movement, he keeps silent.

“You’ve got to be more careful,” Grian says. “What happens when it’s deep enough to be sewn up? You know you can’t hold stitches, you...” Grian sighs. There’s no use chastising Scar more than he needed. He shakes his head, but his expression softens. He doesn’t think Scar is really listening anyway.

“Yeah, yeah,” Scar says. His voice is tinged with amusement as he sighs again through his nose, and that smile returns. Grian rolls his eyes as he drops Scar’s wrist.

“Thanks, Grian,” Scar says after a beat. Grian nods and he can’t help smiling back.

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Say,” Scar says, squinting down the path he made from the chests over to the newest build—Grian can see it now, it’s ladders and scaffolding and he really can’t tell if it’s anything coherent but it looks rather nice so he doesn’t think twice about it. “Do you think you can get my cane for me?”

He looks between Grian and the build before he continues. “The braces work pretty well as a standalone but I’d prefer it to walk, and I got a little distracted with the...'' he looks away sheepishly. “with the blood and whatnot.”

Grian sighs, though it’s less out of displeasure and more out of worry. He nods.

“Sure I can,” he says, and Scar’s face lights up as he sits on one of the chests. It only takes a moment for Grian to find it, carrying it over to Scar. He holds it out, and when Scar takes it from him their hands rest together on the wooden body. Even though his stomach drops, Grian forces a smile.

“Thanks,” Scar says. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’d say die, but you do that with my help too,” Grian manages as he pulls his hand away. Scar snorts.

“You can say that again,” he sighs, smiling at Grian. Grian’s stomach does a little flip as Scar says: “But I appreciate it. At least you try.”

“I try...” Grian trails. Scar gives him a firm pat on the shoulder with his good hand, snapping him out of the temporary daze that holds him. He startles, looking into Scar’s face.

“I’ve got to get back to cutting copper, but I promise I’ll be careful,” Scar says. He gives Grian’s shoulder a squeeze, and Grian nods.

“Please do,” Grian manages.

He watches Scar as Scar moves away from him, casting a carefree smile over his shoulder as he does, turning his bandaged hand over and over. Grian watches him go until he becomes lost behind a wheel of the Swaggon, and continues watching until the shadows grow a bit longer than before and the trees loom a little higher.

There’s an oppressive feeling in Grian’s stomach, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about it. As he trails back to his home, he turns his problem over in his head. At this point, was it even fair to consider it a problem? Was feeling a problem? A bad thing? Did he want to not like Scar? Scar—with a comforting smile and pretty eyes, with a knack for getting into, and subsequently out of chaos, Grian’s favorite pastime, someone who fully, wholeheartedly trusted him to keep him safe, a man who he would follow to the end of the Earth to keep alive, who’s laugh was akin to being held, who’s attention to detail captivated him, who’s hands created at flights of fancy, who’s—

Grian teeters, boots peeking over the edge of the Boatem Hole.

He shakes his head—yes, yes all of those things were true, but what good was a feeling he could never express? What good was a feeling that was simply eating him alive?

Standing at the edge of the Boatem Hole, Grian looks out onto Boatem Proper. There’s a stillness in the drafty afternoon air that carries with it the smell of sea water and wheatgrass and Grian takes a lungful before he decides what to do. Pearl’s house, a menagerie of windows and doors strewn open to take in the air, meets his eye.

Pearl , Grian thinks. A Watcher. Watcher in creed as much as he was, bright eyes and bright wings and a bright energy for getting into trouble. He’d gone to her a million times before—what was a million and one?

read the rest on ao3!

[thiscatiscreepy]

So I'm rewriting The Smell and I thiiink I just finished the first (and shortest) chapter. I might post the next chapters of the fic here as I progress (the red fanfic website is blocked over here and i don't care enough about it to use a vpn)

I would really appreciate feedback on pacing and word choice and stuff like that, but if you just want to read about Marius having a weird one, you're more than welcome.

Anyway, Chapter one, A Dream.

Sirens wailed and gunshots sounded as Marius approached an immense concrete building. In that moment, he wasn't driven by murderous glee, morbid curiosity or even basic boredom, but pure, unfiltered hatred. There wasn't a single thing or person that made his jaw clench or his hands curl into fists like that crumbling edifice. And for the life of himself, he couldn't explain why.

Inside, the air was hot and thick and made his head swim. The lobby was empty, its occupants either cowering, dead outside or retreated downstairs. That's where he was heading as well.

Someone was beside him. He glanced at Raphaella with a rifle in her hands. Strange, he thought, she didn't favour firearms, the recoil didn't mix well with her habit of flying everywhere.

They found a door that led to the staircase. Looking over the railing, the descent seemed endless. Marius proceeded regardless, with Raphaella closely behind. The ground above them rumbled from an explosion, dislodging dust in a grey snow. They passed dark labs and empty offices until they reached a library-like server room with its tall stacks of powerful processors.

Cautiously, they entered, and were shot at. Raphaella took off while Marius ducked behind an overturned table. He fired at the assailant and it fell to the floor. Hearing shots from above, he looked up to see Raphaella press against a wall as she fired at more armed things. Worry rose in him, she was too exposed. As he opened his mouth to shout for her to fly lower, a shot sounded from below, and the scientist gasped and fell, her metal wings making a horrible clutter. Marius jumped from behind the table and ran to her, shooting the gunners in his way.

Raphaella lay face-down in a pool of her own blood, limbs splayed, a wound through her chest. As he reached for her, a bullet hit his shoulder. He swore and shot back, then dragged her behind a cover and continued shooting the creatures. His shoulder stang. Warm blood spread on the floor.

After some time, the armed beings stopped coming. Marius sighed and turned to Raphaella. She was still lying face down, still motionless, still bleeding. He touched his own shoulder, the gunshot wound had already stitched itself up.

How much blood did she have?

He shook her by the shoulder. She was cold and rigid.

How could she still bleed when she was already so stiff?

He whispered her name, then repeated it louder, and louder again. She lay bleeding. He withdrew his hand, it dripped with blood.

How was she still bleeding?

His heart beat wildly in his chest. He reached to turn her over, to look at her face, but stopped his hand short.

How was she still bleeding?

Fear seized him. He felt - knew - that whatever had happened to her face would be too awful to witness. Still, curiosity and urgency pushed him to see her monstrous image.

How was she still bleeding?

As if possessed, his shaky hands moved to the woman's unmoving body on their own. One took her shoulder, turned Raphaella of her side, and held her so. Blood gushed freely from beside her breast.

How was she still breathing?

Blood-soaked hair clang to her face. The other hand reached to move it away and see the horrible face at last. Marius was powerless to stop it.

How was she still bleeding?

He couldn't breathe as his fingers touched the dark red strands of hair and- "Attention crew."

The doctor jumped out of sleep at the booming voice of the ship.

"Attention crew," she repeated, as Marius rubbed his eyes, "inhabited planet located in the nearest system, landing in approximately four months. Take stock of supplies. I repeat-"

Marius tried to recall what his strange dream had been about, and why it made his stomach turn. But as the Aurora recited her message, the dream slipped from his mind until all that was left of it was an uneasy tightness in his throat.

The ship concluded her announcement, and Marius' quarters fell into the comfortable ambience of machinery whirring quietly behind the walls. Soon, he drifted back to sleep, and dreamed of birds.

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

This is going to sound like I'm gloating but I swear I'm just in awe TuT

One of my fics, my most recent one, just reached 40 subscriptions. FORTY. Forty whole people liked my mediocre writing well enough to click on that 'subscribe' icon. I don't even speak with forty people on the regular. Forty whole people. Wow.

[camping-with-monsters]

Started playing Bayonetta 3 finally. Here are my thoughts on chapter one.

‼️PLEASE DON’T TAG WITH ANY BAYONETTA 3 SPOILERS‼️