#a new fic was born

[notsohehehahanow]

"history accurate lesbian cleradin au" if those two were in history accurate times theyd both be accused of witchcraft which has given me a new fic idea

[johnconstantinesdick]

I get the criticism of the Hunters of Artemis from a narrative perspective—it sucks that it essentially boots interesting female characters out of the story—but it always baffles me when people viciously hate Artemis for *checks notes* doing damage control.

Like. Thalia explicitly goes with Artemis to avoid the prophecy, and I definitely think that’s the reason Artemis tried so hard to get her to join—hell, you can view the hunters trying to recruit Annabeth as a way to get Thalia to join. And Bianca? You can’t convince me that Artemis didn’t guess there was something up there and react accordingly.

If Percy or Nico were even a little bit girl-adjacent you bet your ass she would be all over them to join. No one actually wants to risk the Great Prophecy happening, and Artemis is doing a hell of a lot more to stop it than anyone else.

[bravetemptation]

STANDING ON THE EDGE OF FALLING

“There’s a bit of a situation in one of the tenting areas, and you two are the perfect people to handle it.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“Some fucker’s brought a whole TV in and is streaming the England/Slovakia game. A whole crowd’s gathered, over a hundred people, at least, and it’s blocking walkways between the tents. I need you two to go shut it down.”

________

It’s Harry’s first security gig, and somehow, he landed Glastonbury. Unfortunately, he’s been tasked with telling a very gorgeous man that he can’t stream the football match. Things go … much better than expected.

Out now on AO3 😊

[elexuscal]

don't mistag fanfics

don't deliberately keep off a zesty trope tag, or mark a romantic pairing as platonic, or add a pairing that isn't actually in the story, or whatever, just to get more views

it's incredibly rude, and potentially hurtful.

i know, i know. you like what you're writing. You want more people to see it, and you think that people would like it if they just gave it a shot.

but you don't get to make that call for your readers. yes, using this technique, some might read something they otherwise wouldn't, and enjoy it. but many will be avoiding that ship/trope/etc for a reason. at best, you might just annoy them; at worst, you can accidentally trigger someone.

it's a courtesy to be as honest with your tagging as possible. it helps people avoid things they don't like, and conversely, find things they do like.

What if I genuinely forget to tag something or accidentally mistag it?

that's fine! accidents happen, we're all learning. just be willing to listen when and if someone asks you to make changes : )

What if I want the trope/pairing to remain a surprise?

then use 'authors chose not to use archive warnings'! or you could have a beginning author's note saying "hey this story/chapter gets into some intense themes, check out the ending authors note for a full list". those are good tools to preserve the surprise while letting people opt-in or out as necessary

Be nice to your fellow readers, and help keep the fanfic community a safe, fun space for everyone :3

[ckret2]

Are you perhaps going to add Bill's evident medical trauma into the story?

Bill's been getting called insane for seeing the third dimension by his mom since chapter 15 and I've mentioned his vision is tied to a medical condition he was born with. We were already going there.

Only difference is now he's going to an optometrist in addition to an orthopedic doctor.

[volivolition]

part of that "raising a kid au" i was working on, this is almost definitely not how skill checks work and i don't even know if i'll include this, but for now i think it's. so funny kjkgj

[sirenspells]

[Amnesiac Omori AU]

The day before Omori appears in the real world, Sunny has a dream that is totally normal and totally doesn't mean anything :3

[cmmdrkote]

based on @goddammitjim’s The Truth That Once Was Spoken

I was wondering what your average theater kid would think watching CW on stage, especially as those two 😂

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Imprisoned, Impressioned: Nathan Drake x Reader

Summary: As a Panamanian prison guard, you signed on the dotted line that you'd never take bribes, never bring prisoners off grounds, and never beat on/off inmates. But for one, you just might make an exception. So long as he stays in his cage. Notes: Explicit. Gender neutral reader. B0ndage, fem/male-dom, r*mming. Cause that's his bussy, folks, don't get it twisted. (Get it plunged.)

“God, you’re such a fucking brat.” 

Nate snorts in a wavering smirk in reaction, stabilizing a cocky grin as best he possibly can. 

But his best seems to be quickly deteriorating in quality. 

“I distinctly remember telling you we’d only keep this up if you stayed out of trouble.” Your busy tongue shapes words around a threatening tone, fingers drifting mindlessly where you spread him open, but Nate’s quick to wiggle his hips— cute, and fucking irresistible— to coax you back in. 

“Really? Because what you actually do kinda seems to imply the opposite.”

And he’s right. 

You rove and search memory, only to find no occurrence where he wasn’t sporting a newly-earned bruise, a flinching face from a black eye, blood still speckled where his lip had been split from a particularly well-aimed punch. And he’s right. you only gave him this when he misbehaved. 

Punishment, you convince yourself. 

Comfort, your better mind argues.

Like a band-aid you administer, a kiss where it hurts. Maybe you only offered such a thing in the aftermath of cruelty. Defend from the bullies when he claims he needs no defense. 

Even though he does.

“Do you mind taking these off? Wrists starting to ache a bit—”

And he sounds so earnest when he says it that you almost move, relinquish to give him what he asks for. But you’re no idiot. He may be cute— you won’t lie and say you don’t feel some sort of affection for him, no matter how tart and mistrustful— but you’re grounded enough in your conviction to know he always has an ulterior motive. 

“Good. It’ll build some strength. You’ll want this position again. you can tell.”

You learned quickly not to play coy with Nathan. He liked blunt. He liked vulgar. He liked when you told him to shut up after a quip and called him ‘pretty boy’ with a sharp, teasing tone and forced him as deep as his legs could possibly go, ignoring when he’d grunt discomfortedly. He liked it when you called him out on his bullshit. He liked it when you knew what he wanted before he did.

And just like you expected it would, his cock jumps with an excited, anticipatory twitch. Of course he’ll want this again. He likes being held open. He likes being held down. 

But before he can hop in with some sort of pathetic, half-hearted joke, you pry his legs wide and delve back inside. Tongue lapping pink and untethered between his thighs, where his hole puckers sweet, wet, and where he has no choice but to sigh in pleasure. you kiss him there like you’re kissing him— because we’ve never kissed before and frankly have no reason to— and this is a lovely consolation prize. He tastes tangy, stings of soap after-tasting between your lips because he always keeps himself nice and clean for you. You could only be so lucky to one day watch for yourself as he props one foot up on the shower bar, examines himself in the fogging mirror, razor in hand, and fantasizes about what you’d prefer, what you’d desire, what you’d want best against your tongue. What would make you bring him back sooner next time.

Maybe one day you can convince the Lieutenant to transfer your post to the male showers so you can watch for yourself. 

“So good…” His groan rumbles deep and dark down his belly, breath desperate, gasping uneven at a pleasure soaked in only on barren grasses on the outer perimeter, where they forget to water it because no one ever, ever goes out that far. Your passion exists in secret, exists only in handcuffs and lies you hold better than any truth when you tell the other guards you’re only planning to rough him up a bit. When you feel like treating yourself, pushing past the boundaries of where your waning shyness crumbles, you allow your palm to brush past denim— old bloodstains aged to a grainy brown— to squeeze his naked chest between your claws. He’s fit, he’s young, he’s nimble, he’s beautiful. And whatever he’ll let you hold, whatever he’ll let you touch, you will. 

Your tongue dips deeper, pushes past pucker with little resistance— you always wonder if he preps himself for you first, skin stinging freezing cold against the steel toilet bowl and leg hiked high over the toilet paper rack, how many cigarettes must he trade for olive oil, lotion, vaseline, fucking anything— and he croons sounds just as impassioned as his daily fist fights. 

Fights you sometimes let go just a hair too long to enjoy the sounds he makes: pained and giving pain near identical. Though the pained ones have always been a personal favorite. 

Again— he likes being held down.

And the wispy laugh that bubbles past his lips when the fight is finally broken up never suggests anything different.

This can never go on long enough for you— suspicion is born quickly in the likes of a Panamanian jail— so you always need to draw things to a close far, far sooner than you’d like. Your fingers reluctantly reach up to grasp his cock between them, stroke him just how you know he likes, be quick about it because he always either comes way too fast or takes just a little too long, and you always have to split the difference.

He groans delicious at your mercy, nails digging contradictorily merciless into the skin you long to taste, but never have the time to. One day you’ll leave him hard from foreplay and nothing else, abandon him aching and more desperate for next time. And next time, maybe you’ll make him eat you out. The image of his sweet, strikingly blue eyes gazing up at you from between your legs imprints in your weak-willed mind and steers the rhythm of your fist faster. How fucking adorable he is, how scrappy, how witty, how bratty, how you love the sounds he makes, how you love his skin pinching pink between your fingers, how the thought of one day marking him even deeper drives you wild. 

Your tongue points, swallows, and savors for one final taste, before skating further along to foreign territories. And you distract him with quicker speeds, tightened grip, because you’re the same: 

You always have an ulterior motive.

“Fuck—” His moans transcend into higher octaves, just like they do when he’s close, and his feet scramble for purchase, legs bending and stretching and flailing until you have to force them back up into position. Be good, babyboy. Stay where you want you. A gasp suddenly squeezes from his overworked lungs, a product likely of his precarious positioning, and there’s one second where you almost fear you’ll drop him. But your chest is quick to push forward and prop him back upright, keep him vertical, give him support until he comes in your arms. He breaks out into a wistful wisp of moan at the movement.

Yeah. Yeah, you’re definitely gonna want this position again.

And when he finally does come, you squeeze his thighs between your arms just before he can tip over— even though the sick satisfaction of a ruined orgasm, the sight of him falling hard and fast and unfair into the dirt below, always sounds like a fun idea on paper. Your own brand of cruelty is usually more playful than sadistic. But eh, watching him come uninterrupted isn’t so bad, either. 

You drive your pace fast and consistent, and don’t stop even when you feel him coast languidly down your wrist. He always keeps bucking into your fist— hedonistic and somewhat masochistic— even when it must start to edge on the side of pain. Nate chases his pleasure because it’ll run out far too soon, it’s always far too soon, and something tells you he wants to impress. Prove to you a stamina that prolongs, even when you always deny his request to let him inside. Or maybe even a volume, to prove just how much he’s willing to give, how much his body will supply for your tongue to swallow up later— salty and warm and satisfactory because you earned it fair and square. 

He comes a lot— but maybe he’s just trying to beat a personal record.

His final wail gives way to heaving pants, stomach tightening and relenting and tensing and back again, and his pleasure is so thorough that he drops limp in your hands. Little death, indeed. Nate dies in your arms as you gift him one last kiss there in a sweet finality, remind him of what he’ll receive in a couple days if you’re feeling nice, a couple weeks, a couple months if you’re feeling cruel. Taste him again because you love the thought of being inside him-– and the feeling of him around your tongue will be enough masturbation fodder to last you the better part of a week. Until next time. Until he gives you something even better to imagine.

“Woof…” Nate smiles doey-eyed and serene, and you can’t help the cocky, self-satisfied smirk that eases itself across your face. He looks fucking adorable— all blissed-out and rosy red and still slightly throbbing between your fingers with an overeager abandon. 

Yeah… maybe you’ll be nicer this time around. Because you already know how violently you’re going to miss the sight of him like this. 

“Crap, that felt so fucking good.” 

Your teeth clamp teasingly into his thigh, flirty in a way you almost never allow, and he giggles. He fucking giggles. And you want to slap yourself for how quick your heart squeezes around such a delicious sound. you want to hold it longer. Wring it out of him faster. And against all reasoning, you want more of it. 

But there’s no time. There’s no trust. You can never let on such a feeling. 

This can only last so long as you keep control, so long as you keep distance.

But as soon as you lay his legs back to rest— he grunts when his body makes such an abrupt transfer of weight— Nate presses out into the unknown, and asks the only thing that would bridge the distance before you can push it back apart. Just as you finish lifting his slacks back up around his hips, zipping him closed (a common courtesy that may even be too tender by your standards), he sighs relieved and sweet before you can grapple him back to standing:

“...What? Not even a goodbye kiss?”

Oh god.

The freedom awarded by ecstasy has made him dumb. He has no idea what he’s even asking for. And for the fifteen additional seconds of bravery he has left, before his orgasm leaves him in a cold sweat and he begs you to not take him back, he’ll convince himself that this is a good idea. 

He’ll convince himself that his joke is hilarious and he’s a better actor than he actually is. Because, even if you actively tried to ignore it, his wavering breath sticks out like a sore thumb. He can’t make the words sound natural, casual, suave in the way he must want them to. There’s something overzealous about it. And your stomach clenches at how your initial reaction to this isn’t repulsion.

But also, in the now ten seconds of bravery he has left, he’ll convince himself that a kiss will only make the sex better. That it won’t ruin it and he won’t mind the taste of himself on your tongue and the idea of adding feelings to the mix will be a good idea. Because, yes, oh my god, Nate, how fucking brilliant of you, yes, let’s add feelings to the mix. You know, I always thought prison bathrooms were so romantic. What a lovely getaway. Why not retire and raise kids in the handicapped stall while we’re at it?!

But his lips look so soft. Unbearably so. One corner is slightly chapped, skin peeling from a still-healing cut, and the instinct to kiss it better overwhelms, dizzy and sickening in just how badly you want to pursue it into reality. The idea of wanting him nauseates, terrifies. But the desire to give in, to taste for yourself the tantalizing beauty that always hovers just a little too far out of reach, is stronger.

When you two meet, it’s terrible and you hate it. 

Because it’s fucking electric. 

…

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

You break away before you can dwell on it, praying you’ve satisfied him enough to never ask again, but the residue stings clear across your lips. 

It was good. It was a good kiss. 

Nate’s eyes flutter back open just a second too late— and his lungs die on an inhale he must’ve thought he wouldn’t be privy to so soon. But the reaction is evident, etched along his face. It was a good kiss. 

And he fucking noticed.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

His lips curl with a dazed sort of satisfaction, just in the way you feared they would. But his eyebrows jump, too, confusion just as much as pleasure, eyes reading you for something more. Clearly something has to be said, and you pray you're the one to say it first. ‘Okay, up and at ‘em.’ ‘Nice try, but never again.’ ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ‘You’re a rat and you hate you, asswipe.’ ‘This can never, ever, ever happen again. And fuck you for even trying, Nathan Drake, if that even is your real name—’

But you’re too slow, and Nate’s chest rises in an abrupt inhale that signals he’s beat you to the punch.

Oh god. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. 

But he does. Of course, he does. Even with a sock in his mouth, rope, tape, palm, he’ll find some way to talk (and trust, every single one— and then some— has already been tried). 

“...One more?”

You just didn’t think that was going to be his answer.

There is one moment of absolute terror. The split second of doubt on the deep end diving board. He must know this is a terrible idea. He has to know. There’s no way his orgasm was so good that he completely lost touch with reality. The silence stretches endless and icey. And you can tell the feeling is mutual.

But then, all of a sudden, his fallen face splits, smiles uplifting into something familiar. Cheeky. Safe.

“I’m just messing with you.”

And a laugh escapes before you can even register exactly what you’re feeling. 

The feeling is relief. 

Yeah, that’s it. Relief trickles in and cools your blood back down to sanity. Fucking asshole gave you a goddamn heart attack. You deliver him a curt punch to the shoulder to release the remaining tension, but he laughs it off as soon as it lands. And how sweet his laughter is only makes you want to punch him harder. 

Little brat is much cuter with his mouth closed. And far, far away from yours.

You grab hold onto his handcuffs and wrestle him back to standing— a motion he leans into far more reluctantly than usual— his throat still fluttering with an excess giggle.

“Come on, champ, let’s get you back home. Nobody’s gonna be missing me, but they sure as hell are gonna be missing you.”

“Aww, don’t say that…”

His facetiously tender tone dribbles like slow caramel down your back as he twists his neck to face you, and he drops a bomb that almost makes you die at his feet. 

“I know I will.”

…Fucking brat. 

Yeah, you’ll make sure to bring him back sooner this time. Fucking definitely. Give him a spank or two for good measure. Let him kiss you again— and this time bite his lip til’ it bleeds. Give him a wound of your own. A mark of your own.

But then again, none of that would really be punishment for either of you, would it?

And just before you can shove him back into the courtyard, he tilts down to whisper in your ear:

“Please don’t make me wait so long next time… ma’am.”

Oh.

Oh god.

Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, Nathan. 

…

I won’t.

⭑⭑⭑

The metallic walls sting matte and clouded with a heavy steam, lungs thick and breath difficult. Lust and peace lie reclined in humidity. After a startlingly quick release down the shower drain, a simple purpose rather than a prolonged pleasure— he tries not to think too hard about why he always curses himself for finishing so soon, or what reasons he has to prefer saving such a deeper pleasure for later— Nate points his focus back to the basics. He never bothered with anything fancy. The money Sully wired them was only ever used for band-aids, Tylenol, and whatever shitty coffee the commissary kept stocked (“None of these rats are ever gonna catch me sleeping,” Sam would say with a suspicious side-eye), which meant nice shampoo was off the table. But suddenly Nate was rethinking it. 

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he started making sure he smelled good. Looked good, too. 

…But for who? 

A pestering question he always ignored the answer to.

He scrubs up his chest generously, barely even notices when he catches the tail end of a peeling scab, absent-minded and letting his thoughts run to nothing and nowhere. This was his only time of peace and solitude— why waste it with thinking? Why waste it when the next black eye, cut knee, broken rib was probably already outside waiting for him?

But as his hands drift downward, reaching to clean between his legs, he abruptly flinches. 

…Huh. 

That’s weird.

Now, Nate was no stranger to violent wounds he didn’t notice till later on— he could almost consider them a friendly confidant, a toxic sort of lover— but this one was especially disconcerting. A dull, tingling pain on his inner thigh. A strange place to not notice getting wounded. 

He shakes his head and tries to ignore it— maybe he had just scratched himself during a particularly vivid nightmare— but when his palm moves low, he winces even harder. 

…What the fuck?

It’s bigger than he thought. A lot bigger. And the ache is sharp enough to make him completely drop his soap when he touches it. 

Okay, seriously, what the fuck?!

Nate abandons all motivation, turns tail out of the stall, and leaves his bar of soap to linger lonely on the shower floor. He has to know what’s going on. Allergic reaction? A sneak attack while he slept? Fucking STDS?

But when he reaches the bathroom mirror, levees his leg up to catch the culprit, his stomach drops. 

And his cock twitches in unexpected interest.

Because there, stained across the inner side of his left thigh— drawn across his skin in lovingly littered hickies— is the unmistakable, pink-purple bruised shape of the first letter of your name. A brand. A claim.

A mark of your own.

“ ...Shit.”

⭑⭑⭑

[eywaseclipse]

Guys the original script for ATWOW is not canon. I repeat it is not canon. The edits and revisions made for the theatrical release happened for a reason. Everything excluded in the final version is because the original script was the original version. Think of it like a rough draft. 🤗

[lainalit]

Moodboard for the hewn city family of my one shot

[tactax-art]

Hey! I loved your art of god of explosions soap and alb ghost. Do you have a post going into any of the lore/world building? I love creature aus! If you don't already have a post, I'd love to hear more about it! (Also what's an alb?)

I've not shared anything anywhere yet! Just the two drawings. Not super solid on the world building yet, so I'm gonna wait with sharing that for now until I have a better grip. Do intend to write a fic for these two when I've got some scenes together though!

Ghost being an Alb is generally inspired by the german "Nachtalb". I'm not aiming for him to be precisely that, but it was my jumping-off point. Also I grew up on the 'Alb' spelling, but that might be a regional thing? No idea why in english they quote it only as 'Alp'.

Ghosts abilities aren't something I've completely settled on yet (gotta keep my options open for plot and angst, you never know *rubs hands*), but he's a kind of fear entity.

Alb's are myth's answer to sleep apnea, sleep paralysis, nightmares, and night terrors. As such he sustains himself on consuming dreams (rare) and breath, and causing fear (more effectively when it's during people's rest but also when awake), nightmares etc. I'll probs keep some of the mischief Albs are known for, not that anyone would believe it's Ghost which he finds super funny, and also some shapeshifting.

His body is sand based, as a nod to the sandman (folklore), golden sand being dreams he consumed and black his base being from nightmares/dear. His bed's full of sand. His gear is full of sand. He prefers knives to guns cause guns and sand don't mix and having to keep it all together is so annoying. It's rumoured Ghost can control shadows, but it's actually his own black sand he moves around.

I'm pretty sure the skull mask is his actual face, and him making it gold is bragging about eating dreams (not that anyone would know, but it's enough that ghost knows, and considering that there's a god of dreams they're not exactly easy to get ahold of).

The tag is: #tactax mwii creatures au

[ell-arts]

Hey. Psst.

Sooo...if all goes well...

And the motivational drive lasts just a little bit longer-

Then ya'll are getting a new PMATGA oneshot fanfic from me.

Either this week or the week after.

Watch this space.

[shannonsketches]

something something foils moving in opposite directions Goku's always happy to seek and fight stronger opponents because he spent most of his life being the strongest guy in the room and Vegeta wants to be the strongest/is always exhausted to find stronger opponents because he spent most of his life having to navigate his survival around the whims of the strongest guy in the universe room and so Goku has a foundation of safety and stability and so spends his time craving challenge and adventure and Vegeta has a foundation of challenge and adventure and spends his time craving safety and stability and the overlaid section of their venn diagram is that the only way they know how acquire and maintain those things is through battle

[eruisapenguin]

hi its me from neko's blog

im giving MC free weekly sessions with Dr. Glass because holy shit sre they okay.

-sleep deprived anon, 2:37 am

HIII SLEEP DEPRIVED ANON I know you and welcome! :D nice to see you minglin about here.

——————&

Mono-Frontier MC

"Aren't you supposed to be in site-17?" Your question caught Simon off guard, this was the first ever time you've been issued a psychological evaluation two weeks after your containment, two weeks after the breach. He doesn't know you, of course, he also did not mention the way your eyes look when he had sat down; recognition, familiarity, fondness. You knew him.

Simon did not show it through however, so he smiled, "Say...a special occasion."

———————

Pataphysics Department MC

Simon looked up from his clipboard. "I've never seen you this cheerful before, y/n." His statement was harmless at best, yet the way you tense up immediately...only for it to melt away as you let a hesitant laugh. "You're not the first to say that..."

"Uhm, is it a bad thing?"

"Of course not!" He shook his head. "I'm glad to know you're in a more positive mood today. Did something happen?"

Your lip twitched. "You can say that..."

———————

Scarlet Child MC

You, SCP-____, are awfully too human for Simon's liking. He admitted his softness towards humanoid anomalies and he knows the Foundation is currently weaponizing it since you're just...a child. A child of one of the most malevolent god with a whole blown cult surrounding it, but still a child; barely treated as one or even as a human being, because you aren't...but...all of this is too difficult.

When he entered the chamber he could see a glimpse of fear in your eyes then surprise then grief then gratitude and relief and of knowing.

"You're...Glass." You know him, Simon hadn't yet introduce himself yet. It doesn't shock him much since your files did say something along that.

"Yes I am, how about you?" You smiled, it was a sad one, it's difficult to witness.

[hum--hallelujah]

honestly if I were ever to throw the Suitehearts into any of my Killjoys stuff the dynamic would literally be the stupidest thing in the world. you do not want to have the Four and those guys together in any setting. it's a recipe for disaster. Jet and Benzedrine bitch and bicker like old ladies. telepathic warfare is waged via a complex language of glares and eyebrow movements between everyone in the room. Sandman makes a wholeheartedly joking comment to Ghoul like "I want to study you in a lab" and Kobra Kid gives him a black eye on the spot. Crab and Donnie end up playing hide n seek with the Girl until someone else who isn't aware of the game accidentally dumps a whole dude out of their hiding spot on accident and then gets elbowed for it. everyone hates each other but they're also kind of pals in the way that people who occasionally help each other out but don't see each other outside of that can be. that kind of thing