#WIP snippet

[that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction]

Truth spell, insults are lies if you don’t believe them - cursed Merlin, Arthur isn’t actually a dollophead

So it’s only a one shot with few thousand words, but basically Merlin gets cursed with a truth spell by a witch who was frustrated that Emrys hadn’t even told the once and future king that magic isn’t good or bad, it just is. He’s not compelled to say anything, his secrets are his own, but if he tries to lie the truth comes out.

They realise what the curse is when Arthur asks Merlin if he’s okay in his own way of insulting him and Merlin can only compliment him in return,

This is sort of the general vibe of it summed up in a bit of dialogue:

Arthur: Merlin, why the hell would you jump in front of a curse!

Merlin: I wasn't going to let you get hurt.

Arthur: You idiot! You’re not a knight!

Merlin, increasingly more passionately complimenting him as he tries and fails to insult him: Well you're a reckless good man and I care about you too much! I- I mean- you're a great king! You're smart and pretty!

(Arthur’s stood there looking shocked, unable to react, getting slightly flustered at being called pretty. Merlin realises there’s one insult that still works because it’s become a term of endearment for him)

Merlin: Prat! Haha! It works!

Merlin: You're a prat and I can't bear the thought of you getting hurt!

Merlin: Damnit! Why isn’t this working?!

Arthur, realising what’s happening, teasing: Why isn’t what working, Merlin?

Merlin: Calling you a kind hearted, too good, smart and talented golden kingly prat! I give up! *storms off into the woods*

Then there’s a confession, cute Merthur moments, and Arthur gets to learn about magic because Merlin needs to tell him the trr about it before the spell can be broken.

If anyone has any ideas for what I can name this, it’d be greatly appreciated. The titles are always the worst part of fics

[the-bar-sinister]

Google, you get points this once for understanding the character but that is still not a correct suggestion.

[forestshadow-wolf]

God dammit consent is the sexiest thing in the world to me 😩

[sister-lucifer]

Man Up: A Preview

T4T Tim Wright/Masky x Transmasc!Reader

CW: force masc, degradation, use of homophobic language (i.e. sissy, pansy), generally mean, pissed off dom Tim

“I don’t wanna see you in any of that pansy shit ever again, do you fuckin’ hear me?”

“Tim, please…!” You whimper, grabbing his wrist and weakly trying to free yourself from his grip. 

“I asked you a question, boy. Do you hear me?” 

You nod as best you can, frantically attempting to placate him. 

“Y-Yes, yes! I hear you, okay?! Let go…!” 

He debates the order for a moment, ultimately deciding to concede. He releases his grip on your face, but doesn’t back up. He leans down to speak into your ear, his breath warm on your delicate skin. 

“You’re a man now. You’re gonna stop acting like a fuckin’ sissy. No more skirts, no more lace, no more of that shit I know for a damn fact you hate wearing. It’s for your own good.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you can’t force out any words. The humiliation of this ordeal is making your throat clamp shut. You didn’t think Tim had noticed. How stupid you must be for being so obvious. 

“…I’m sorry,” is the only response you can manage, a little whisper of regret. You keep your gaze trained on the floor, too afraid to look up at Tim. Even now, he thinks, you’re cowering. Pathetic. 

“Let me tell you what you’re gonna do, boy,” He says, placing two hands on your shoulders and squeezing a bit, “You’re gonna take off that frilly ass outfit. All of it. You’re gonna strip down nice and naked, then you’re gonna lay on that bed and wait for me to get back. I’m not done with you.”

[erisenyo]

A WIP snippet for @zukki-week Day 4,"On the Throne"...throne part not yet featured lol. Incoming this weekend!

“Come on, keep up,” Zuko says, tugging Sokka impatiently down the sandy walkway toward the chatter of food stalls. “Let me just—there’s sand everywh—” “You look fine,” Suki says, tugging two chunks of hair out of his hands and grinning at the face he makes when they fall to frame his face again. “You’re going to be late to your own Annual Dumpling Extravaganza.” “To our anniversary,” Zuko corrects, joining the line behind the first stop of the day. “Which means we can’t be late,” Sokka mutters as he ties his hair up in a high tail, but without any real heat as he leans up against the back of Zuko’s shoulder. “Definitionally, the Dumpling Extravaganza—” “Our anniversary.” “—is a date, not an event—” Suki lets out a deeply amused, deeply skeptical noise as she leans up against Zuko’s other side. “You’re saying the Dumpling Extravaganza—" “Our anniversary,” Zuko says happily, scanning the menu. “—isn’t an event?” “Oh, are you celebrating?” the woman behind the counter asks, barely looking up from the three little trays she’s assembling. “Congratulations.” “Yeah, every year we do this whole tour of—” “Once we had these really great—” “It’s our anniversary,” Zuko cuts in, delighting in being able to say it. “Our romantic one. Our romantic anniversary. Of our romance.” The woman glances up, eyebrows raised. “Of course,” she says as Suki snorts out a noise and Sokka presses a giggle against Zuko’s shoulder like he’s trying to contain it. “Congratulations.” A bit more giggle slips free. Zuko beams. “How long has it been for you, then?” Zuko hums, glancing at Suki as she lets out a high noise, Sokka grabbing at his arm. “It’s complicated,” he says, hearing himself sound utterly delighted by the fact.

[taintandviolent]

a little preview!!! thank you to @juliamaximoff for the delish idea!

[hbyrde36]

ghost eddie fic for wip weekend pleeeasse!!!! 👻

Thanks for the ask! Apologies for it being well past the weekend, but all the motivation in my inbox has been AMAZING for getting words down 😍

Concept post

Prev snips here, here, and here.

“Don't tell me you’ve all given up on me already.” Oh. Oh, no.   Steve had read about this, how sometimes spirits don’t realize they’ve passed on, but surely Eddie had to know. What other possible explanation could he have for suddenly becoming invisible and incorporeal?  “Eddie, what is it you think is happening here, exactly?” Steve asked, bracing himself. “Well, clearly I–I'm…” Eddie sputtered haughtily for a moment before looking away. “Well, I'm not sure. I’ve been separated from my body somehow, obviously. It’s gotta be some weird Vecna shit, right? And, uh, you can hear me and see me because we both got bit by the bats?”  He sounded less and less sure as he went on, and Steve felt a painful pang of sympathy for the guy—and, honestly, for himself. How on earth do you go about telling someone that they’re dead?

[flowersforbucky]

sipping on an iced pumpkin coffee and writing some absolute filth because i started thinking about logan having a thing for cute panties 🫢🫶🏻

(this should hopefully be finished this week or weekend!!)

[ghcstao3]

hunger game :3

[echochqmber]

rewrites rewrites rewrites

[tgmsunmontue]

                “What are you looking at?”

                “T-shirts.”

                “Are those for Bradley?”

                “Nope. I’m making myself a secret identity.”

                “What?”

                “Bradley won’t let us visit him because he doesn’t want everyone to know who his family is. So… I’m going for hip-looking professor. Blazer over a tshirt, but it has to be a tshirt with a joke to show I’m hip.”

                “Do kids actually use the word hip?

                “Huh. I don’t know. I made you one by the way.”

                “Made what?”

                “A secret identity. Want to know what it is?” Pete wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and part of Tom is afraid to ask.

                “I’m not wearing a blazer.”

                “No. But you know how you had that leather jacket back in the 80s? Thought I’d bring it back…”

                “I… do I even have that anymore?”

                “Sure do. Bet it still fits too.”

[the-bar-sinister]

“You’ve had me here for weeks now. Please tell me you’re going to untie me. I won’t try to escape.”

“Sorry, babe , trust isn’t won that easily.”

“How can I get you to trust me, then?”

“You could kill someone. How about that? I’ll bring someone here, and you kill them, and then I’ll trust that you’re not going to run away and cry to the cops about this.”

[fox-fic-and-ink]

warning- torture, violence, Hazbin Hotel typical etc

I can't help that I like Alastor equally dapper and disturbing. Formal apologies to Husk as I keep making him the target in all my works. The downside of being a favorite. 😭

Also. Am I the only one who thinks those wings are a trophy/threat above Husk's bar??? I may not be long/deep enough in the fandom to have seen it discussed but the moment I first saw them, my brain was firing on all cylinders. They dont match him exactly but the vibe and the symbolism are there!!! And who is to say Sinners dont reform in stages in Hell? Those could be new wings that didn't have a chance to mature and form the cute little poker chips before Alastor ripped them off and mounted them.

What I'm saying is I do believe the torture demon did some torture. Ha! I believe Husk did too but that's a separate long post about a separate fic.

Anywho...Alastor being a smug, creepy, asshole makes me happy. He is so not a Huskdust fan. *tosses some WIPS below*

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

this is your fault @guiltyasdave

“No, don’t think about it. Keep your eyes on me and focus on how it makes you feel,” he instructs with a firmness that had you complying within seconds.

His fingertips are wide and heavy on your tongue. Saliva is starting to pool and stick to his fingers. You grasp at his wrist with both hands to bridge the gap between your two bodies.

“Good. That’s good. Keep going.”

You lift the tip of your tongue and let the heft of his fingers weigh it down. Without thinking, you gently suckle. Dave’s eyes grow dark and focused, and it makes you suckle again and harder.

“There you are,” he breathes. “Just focus right here – focus on me.”

You whine at the encouragement, eyes feeling heavy and fogged, and split his fingers with your tongue. Your mouth hangs open with the movement, and he takes the opportunity to slowly rub his fingers back and forth along your gums.

“You like the way I feel in your mouth, bunny?”

The double meaning is nearly lost on you, but your cheeks burn with the confusing need his ambiguous, suggestive question drowns you in. Your brows scrunch in concentration. You pull his fingers out of your mouth just enough to answer.

“I like you in my mouth,” you whisper. “It feels good. You feel good. You make me feel good.”

He hums a lazy acknowledgement, draws his fingers back together, and slides them back into your mouth on the span of your tongue. “Suck.”

[alchemistc]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by @liminalmemories21, who Doesn't Go Here but whom I am going to try to tempt further into the fold by choosing a hockey heavy snippet just for funsies. Just to see. Also I couldn't decide where to clip this so... enjoy like a whole game.

Tommy shifts his weight and settles the nerves, accepts the smack to the back of his helmet, and watches Binnington throw a fit between the pipes when the stripes don’t call the puck trickling in behind his net an icing.

They’re five minutes in and everyone’s getting testy. He can feel it.

This is where Tommy does his best work. It’d been a task, ten years ago, a part of the job he’d accepted because he was good in a fight and fully capable of taking a few punches. Under the thumb of the old boys club it’d just been expected of him — the ability to throw his weight around was what had kept him from complete obscurity in a lower league that would have worn him down much sooner. Tommy’s fists and his ability to twist his shoulder just in time to knock a guy flat on his ass were the only things that mattered when his agent settled him down with two offers and he’d chosen the team most likely to make his dad proud.

Never mind that his dad had come to three games when Tommy was a bright eyed-rookie, seen Tommy get his ass handed to him by a man twice his size, and stopped bothering to show up.

He’d turned that around, in recent years. Longer stints with the affiliate teams, less time under the microscopic eye of the national press (even as a role player he’d had his moments under that eye) — he’d learned when to pull his punches, when to turn the other cheek, and when to lock his ankles and aim for the fucking chest. He had friends up and down the continent who knew him as the guy who’d take them all out to dinner after a bad loss, find something stupid and entertaining for them to do after, and then go into the next game with a chip on his fucking shoulder.

There were three kids with insane star power in the league who had him on speed dial even though he hadn’t played with them for a year or more, because for some fucking reason he had the ability to talk them off a ledge when the pressure drove them towards it.

He’d never tell a soul that Crosby still sent him gym selfies so they could compare the relative size and plumpness of their ass during the offseason.

There was still a reverence for real enforcers, in the league, even if they’d fallen by the wayside as teams got smaller and quicker. They were more a deterrent than anything else these days, but that usually meant Tommy got to lumber around on the ice for a few minutes a game, remembering what it had felt like the first time he’d laced his skates and stepped out to a roaring crowd, before he took another dumb penalty and spent the next forty-five minutes riding the bench. He’d been instructed not to take any dumb penalties, tonight, because St. Louis didn’t tend to get sloppy until the game was on the line.

Thirty-six minutes in, Schenn takes a chop at Diaz’s knee under the guise of a poke check and the home crowd gets loud, and ornery.

Nash smacks him on the shoulder on their way back down the tunnel for the third, eyes a little wild, and Tommy immediately recalls the old highlight reels of Nash shaking hair out of his eyes while he squared off against a guy twice his size, motor-mouthing his way into getting the other guy to take the first swing. Minnesotans and their right hooks weren’t something to fuck around with. Too much time in the cold not to have a little crazy in them.

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth, tilts his head to where Diaz and Buckley are bent over the boards together on the bench, already prepared to hop out the moment Bannister tries to get a match-up that’ll tilt in the Blues favor.

Nash sends him out with the rest of the fourth line, and Tommy doesn’t waste any time.

It’s immediately clear that they’ve all been warned to keep level heads. Schenn won’t engage, Buchnevich barely acknowledges Tommy when he hip checks him into his own bench — he goes ass over tea kettle and Tommy gets nothing more than a few shifty looks and some smack talk from the guys sitting.

There’s an easy way around that, though.

Tommy clambers back over the boards and waits out his next shift, practically vibrating with it when a shot pings off the crossbar and Greenway skates right through Binnington’s crease chasing after it.

Kyrou tries to take out Buckley against the boards, looks livid when Buck skates just free of it, and Buck does some ankle breaking in a rush to the goal. It hits the post, and when the whistle gets blown fifteen seconds later Tommy watches level heads not prevail when Binner says something snippy to Kyrou that has him rolling his eyes on the way back to the bench.

It takes another minute and a half for Nash to set up the line matches the way he wants them, but as Greenway skates off for relief and Schenn’s line stays stuck in their own zone spinning their wheels, Bobby smacks a thick hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Kinard, you’re up!”

Tommy takes an awkward pass once he’s past the blue line and goes full tilt towards the net. Full tilt for Tommy isn’t anything special, but it’s not what the Blues are expecting, and most of them have been out for two plus minutes at this point, hemmed in by their third and fourth lines just shoveling the puck back in every time it nears the blue line.

The snow shower he aims at the goal, half an inch into the crease when he fully stops, isn’t anything to write home about, but it has it’s intended effect. Already short on patience, Binnington watches Schenn intercept and send the puck careening down the ice — a third icing in a row — and lashes out with the butt end of his stick, a glancing blow Tommy laughs at as the rest of the players start to circle up at the whistle. Tommy’s laugh pisses him off. The laugh pisses him off so much.

It’s so fucking easy to rattle him with he’s already two goals down. There’s some shoving, a few hockey hugs to keep things from escalating, but Panikkar has apparently cottoned on to Tommy’s plan, and he says something under his breath that has Sundquist in his face, and Binnington skating around behind the net in irritation while the zebras break up a few of the more reticent shoving matches.

Tommy wins about one face-off out of every fifty, but that’s not the reason he’s bending across from Schenn now at the circle.

“We could end this before he loses all his cool and breaks his stick on the pipes,” Tommy goads, and the linesman with the puck rolls his eyes towards Schenn. The other man shifts, readjusts the grip on his stick. “Or I could just keep taunting him for something that isn’t even his fault, this time.”

Schenn’s not a particularly bad dude, just a little gun shy about fighting when his coach has clearly told them all not to engage.

Tommy wants him to fucking engage.

Schenn waits for the puck to drop, and miraculously, it’s Tommy who scoops it up to a fresh-faced Buckley just in time for the man to wind up and sneak it through about four bodies on it’s way over Binnington’s shoulder.

It takes Tommy a few breathless seconds to remember to skate in and hug the rest of his team, and another five to realize that technically the assist is his. He stopped caring about stats so much the second year in a row that his time in the box exceeded his time on ice for more than five games out of the season, but it sits there, in the back of his mind, his name next to Buckley’s on the score sheet.

And then Schenn gets sloppy again, a check into the boards that has Panikkar limping back towards the bench while the crowd boos the refs, and Tommy doesn’t give Schenn any time to think about it when Nash sends him out in the immediate chaos.

He catches Kyrou mid-ice with his head down, a shoulder right to the chest that sends him reeling back, skates leaving the ground as he crashes backwards, and Schenn is on him in the next five seconds, gloves off and a resigned look in his eyes. Tommy grins and shifts his weight back, tossing his own gloves and reaching for the neck of Schenn’s sweater.

i know it's late so consider this a no pressure tag for Thursday Tidbits: @beefcakekinard @rcmclachlan @kirkaut @xofemeraldstars @princessfbi

[adiduck]

WIP Train WIP Train!!!

I have been invited to join the WIP train by @howdyrat (informally on discord LOL 🥰) Littled did Howdy know, I am incorrigible.

Rules: Post a minimum of one sentence (I'm adding: or line) of a WIP of your choice, and tag others to join the train!

[Today, 1117] Mav: [A photograph of all fourteen selected and potential aviators for the uranium mission in swim suits on the beach. Lieutenant Pete Mitchell is holding a football and bent down to spike it to Lieutenant Iceman Kazansky, who is crouched behind him. Arrayed around them are Lieutenants Bradshaw, Trace, Floyd, Bassett, and Avalone. The remaining seven aviators are arrayed in front of them in what looks like it might be making an attempt at a defensive line] Ice: Nice ass shot, Mitchell Mav: You love it Ice: That was sincere. What do I tell Cyclone you’re doing? Mav: Creating a team

(Operation Groundhog AU: Admiral Ice and Captain Mav often provide commentary over text ;) )

No pressure tags that weren't explicitly in the post I first saw:

@frostbitebakery, @asukaskerian, @oathkeeperoxas, @lambourngb, @goddammitjim, @brigittttoo, @lttrsfrmlnrrgby