#all those 888 fics are not enough

[hnsl]

where tf is my gtop au

[gladiatorcunt]

summary: king!aegon ii targaryen x afab rhaenyra’s child!reader

cw: CANON TYPICAL incest/targcest, boot worship, free use, public, voyeurism/exhibitionism (non con on the guards part 💀), hints of reader being just as much of a weirdo i’m sorry (rhaenyra can’t blame them tho), used a valyrian translator so if there’s any mistakes no there’s not <3, fucking on the iron throne as a celebratory end of work day thing, everything is 100% consensual on reader’s part, one use of “whore”, aegon’s pet names are all food related 🥴 (deadass almost had him call reader beer for the joke)

wc: 888 (🎱✨)

block & move on if uncomfortable !!

do not repost, translate, or give ai my work

last hotd fic for a bit bc i’m out of ideas

kinktober masterlist

“Ry paktot, ilagon ao jikagon, jorrāelagon (all right, down you go love).”

You and your uncle Aegon have the strangest end of day ritual. It always starts with you being shoved on your knees, his hands cradling your shoulders to protect you from the sharp iron throne.

All others are sent away from the room, save for a few guards that had been eyeing your body far too much for his liking. You were yet to be married but numerous whispers of your sexual exploits ran through the castle like wildfire. Aegon II Targaryen, was a king that one could not even sneeze in front of for fear of setting him off. So he is careful to keep those shrews' musings away from you, it was a feat of strength to coerce you into being as bold as you are now.

“Come now, elilla (honey). Clean my shoes so i can give your cunt the fucking it deserves.” He orders you, and you are all too eager, especially with the eyes of the uncomfortable guards on you.

You pray to the Gods that Aegon does not catch them looking with their peripheral vision, pausing your fun to murder more of the staff would really rain on your parade.

The shoes of your king are cleaned before you put your tongue to them, something that you’re almost disappointed by at this point. You are tempted to ask him to turn away the shoe shiner for next time.

His crown has the same red haze surrounding it that lives deep within Aegon, and it commands your attention all the same. You let your eyes softly fall shut as you run your wet tongue along the edge of his boot. The metallic tang has become an old friend, as well as any paltry specs of blood you find. You fear that you could possibly develop a craving for it.

You prostrate yourself before your betrothed as if you were a humming bird that had come face to face with Balerion himself. A house kitten mewling for the attention of a tiger. It is not unlike performing a blow job. Your lashes become the sheer curtains you look out of and your mouth fulfills its purpose.

You flatten your tongue and begin to dip into the crevices, getting every inch of his shoes slick with your spit. Aegon has his weeping cock in the firm hold of both of his hands, and he times his strokes to every flick of your tongue.

Your “services” last for what feels like an eternity. Your uncle’s eyes wander to keep the forcibly voyeuristic guards in check. You can hear their feet shuffling on the ground as they squirm behind you, and Aegon is so pleased by this that he returns his attention to his beloved pet.

“Prūbres (apple), that is quite enough. Come back up, darling.” He says while gingerly rubbing the heel of his boot into your cheek.

“Yes, qȳbor (uncle).”

You clamor into his lap, taking the initiative by lifting your previously stretched hole over his cock. One of his hands claws into the flesh of your hip to steady you, and the other positions his cock upright. Once you get past the pink tip, your walls are snugly wrapped around his entire length in seconds. You both groan as he bottoms out. Aegon wastes no time and digs his nails into your other hip, lifting you off of his cock until the tip catches against your entrance and swiftly dropping you back down.

“My whore, a jewel worth more than any found in my crown.” The word comes out between gritted teeth, but the thumb drawing loose circles on your pearl is kinder. “Not one of those filthy dogs will ever know the pleasure of a cunny as sweet as the one made for me.”

“They will not.” You whined, relishing in the red marks his nails were no doubt leaving on your jiggling ass as you bounced on his girthy cock. “Only you, qȳbor (uncle), only my king. They could hang for all I care.”

You have an awful habit for letting words flow from your mouth with no thought of their consequences. It’s not your fault though, you muse as Aegon scratches at your moving globes of flesh, your cunt takes priority more often than not. You ignore the spark that ignites in his soul at the foolish declaration.

His thumb stops teasing your clit and rubs it harshly up and down until your rapid bouncing ceases in favor of chasing that high. He only has to spank you a single time for you to shatter around his cock with an angelic and blissfully soft moan. You let your torso fall to his and you bury your face in his neck as his other hand travels to grope your other ass cheek.

Aegon spills into you with an embarrassingly long and loud groan, licking at the pulse point of your neck as he fucks himself into overstimulation. This is the only time he will allow the guards to drink your sex in, so they can gawk at the pure amount of spend that leaks out of your ravaged cunny. He pretends not to notice or enjoy the stares, spreading your fat cheeks to give them a better view.

“Leave us be.”

[alwaysurvalentine]

trick or treat - st fic

Written for day 31 of @steddie-spooktober - prompt: trick or treat - wc: 888 - cw: none! Just lil steddie meeting as kids one halloween :)

enjoy! 💛

There’s a little boy sitting all alone on the curb at the end of the street. Eddie’s walking over before he’s fully made the decision to do so. When he gets closer he can hear the other boy sniffling, shoulders shaking slightly as he stares down at his own knees. A bag lays discarded next to him, only a couple pieces of candy in the bottom. 

“Hello?” Mystery boy shoots his head up fast, eyes wide. He doesn’t say anything, just scrubs at the tears on his cheeks before blinking up at Eddie. It doesn’t look like he’s wearing a costume either, just a white sweater with blue jeans. 

“My name’s Eddie, but tonight I’m Dracula!” Eddie pulls his cape out around him, flashing the red underside to the boy in front of him before doing his best vampire hiss. He’s been practicing for the last couple of weeks in the mirror, it’s pretty scary if you ask him. 

Instead of the fear he expected, the boy in front of him giggles. His giggles get louder and he even snorts. Eddie frowns and crosses his arms, his pillowcase full of candy swinging with the movement and hitting his side. It knocks off his balance enough for him to stumble and the boy laughs harder. 

“If you’re just going to be a meanie then I’m not going to hang out with you!” The laughter abruptly stops. Now he’s stuck looking at tears welling up in the other boys eyes. 

“Please don’t leave me alone. I promise I won’t laugh again.” Part of Eddie still wants to leave, his mama worked really hard on his cape, but the other boy looks so sad so he stays. 

“Fine. Who are you supposed to be anyway?” 

The other boy stands up and brushes off his pants and pulls his sweater down like that’s going to help Eddie figure out who he is. 

“I’m Fred, duh.” Eddie must still look confused because ‘Fred’ rolls his eyes and sighs. “You know, from Scooby Doo? He’s only the coolest person ever.”

“Um, Fred has a cool orange tie thing, I don’t see one of those on you.” ‘Fred’ stomps and crosses his arms with a frown.

“There wasn’t anything orange in my house.” 

“Eddie? Eddie? Where’d you go?” His mama’s voice distracts him and Eddie turns to see her further up the road turning every which way to try and find him. She’s wearing a long white dress and it swirls side to side as she turns. Eddie doesn’t know how she did it, but there’s also white streaks in her hair, which look cool even if she couldn’t get her hair to stand up like Frankenstein’s bride in the movie.

“Mama!” Elizabeth turns at his call and rushes through the small crowd between them. 

“I thought I told you not to wander off, mister!” She might be scolding him, but there’s a relived smile on his mom’s face when she crouches to see at his level. 

“Sorry, Mama. I just saw him sitting all by himself and I thought he might be lost. Are you lost?” The other boy just blinks at Eddie and his mom when they turn to him, eyes wide as he bends to pick up his almost empty candy bag.

“You could’ve told me that so we could walk over together. Who’s your new friend?” His mom stands and offers a smile up to the other boy.

“Uh, I-I’m Steve.” 

“Well, Steve, do you know where your parents are? I’m sure they’re worried about you.” Steve kicks at the ground and shakes his head. Eddie turns towards the street again, looking for any other adults like his mama, searching for the boy in front of him. Instead he sees different kids running up to houses, bags extended in front of them, with their parents watching from the road.

“Do you want help finding them?” Elizabeth’s voice is gentle at the suggestion, but Steve stumbles with how quickly he backs up. 

“No, it’s okay. I know which house is mine. They said I could come out here. I promise.” A pinkie is held out to Eddie, like he’s waiting to have to swear to the two of them that he’s telling the truth. 

Eddie believes him but still loops his pinkie with Steve’s with a grin. It’s so cool that Steve’s parents let him out on Halloween by himself, that means he gets to eat all kinds of candy before he gets home without getting in trouble. His mama’s only let him have two pieces for the night and said he has to save the rest for later. Especially the Reece’s, since those are Uncle Wayne’s favorite. When he looks up though, his mom isn’t smiling. Instead she’s got the same frown on that she gets when they pass by the neighbor’s dog tied to the tree. Before he can ask her why, she claps and turns towards Eddie with a wink. 

“How do we feel about Steve joining us for trick or treating? Looks like he has plenty of space in his bag for some candy.” Eddie’s nodding before she finishes talking, turning to see a matching smile on Steve’s face. 

“Really? I can come with you?”

“’Course you can, Fred. I’ll show you all the best houses. Let’s go!"

~

I kept thinking about writing more, but I think I'm gonna leave it as it is. Up to you on how their Halloween adventures go! (More than happy to discuss my ideas tho 👀 might have thought up some angsty stuff for this one but held back)

[luciellita]

Forget-Me-Not

╰---•��� Written by: Lucielitta

This is the Introduction.

A Bonten Haitani Brothers x Big Sister Reader fic.

Lenght: 888 words

Notes: How's this? ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) Let me know if you have requests, ideas, or suggestions, I'd love to hear it!

"Tsk, You're useless."

A pained gasp croaked through the man's battered lips, its tall, tender frame tumbled down the mottled soil while his body tensed and was forced to entangle itself In the mossy mess.

"A single shot isn't enough for him, Aniki." Rindou narrowed and a disdained look splattered his usual sly expression.

His violet eyes rolled at the crumpled mess on the ground, hinting no remorse nor forgiveness in his gaze that fixated on the man twisting in agony.

The vivid hues of purple and blue's on his roughed skin tore a blood-way within him, how battered he is; a mark of his insignificance to the eyes of those who wield power over him.

Pursing his lips into a sardonic sneer, Ran tapped his index on the gun impatiently, making a mockery out of him as he stepped forward towards the writhing nuisance. "I don't have patience for little bastards," The eldest yawned, lightly flicking the slender roll of nicotine that dangled in between his lean fingers, lighting the burning embers off his nicotine. "It'd be better to leave him dying." A bubble of ashen air escaped his lungs with a low chuckle, his mind immersed in the torment of the pained seer by the man below.

All the while his calm mask still held onto his face with a sly smirk as he dragged on, "It sounds more thrilling, don't you think?" Ran piqued. He discarded the stick of cigar onto the man's reddened side as his smirk soon faltered, walking away from the scene with his hands in his pockets. Disappointment replaced his expression as he handed the gun back to his brother, his thoughts elsewhere.

Turning a heel away from the scene, Rindou slid his gun back into its holder, a sigh followed by on his lips as frustration formed on his face.

Heavy lines of exhaustion etched deep into the brothers' faces as an uncomfortable silence settled around them. The coldness of the winter air stung their breaths, their fatigue was palpable, but despite the weariness that weighed on them, they remained silent.

The silence was intense, almost stifling, yet neither brother felt the need to break it.

Just... Where the hell is she?

Patience was wearing thin, and they could feel the tension building up with every passing moment. He couldn't bear it any longer, restlessness wrapped around his body in coldness and each second ticking away felt like an eternity, a loop. How long would this day continue on for? They were at their wit's end, and the uncertainty and frustration were reaching a breaking point.

Tap..

Tap..

Tap...

Rindou's foot tapped in annoyance, his patience growing more and more thin as the heavy seconds ticked by.

"Damn it..." He groaned. "How long has it been? Five months now?"

Ran rolled his lips between his teeth, his fingers fiddling with the box of cigars. The eldest Haitani pulled another one from the box, his slender fingers placing it between his lips. "It's been three months."

Three long, torturous months had rolled by since they'd begun on the search for their long-lost elder sister. It was a challenge as day after day, week after week, the search went on, with no end in sight. They felt as if they were falling behind. Each day brought new challenges and frustrations, leaving them exhausted and disheartened. The thought of never seeing her again formed a coil around their necks in despair.

If only they searched for her earlier, would they have found her by now? Will she still be here by their sides?

The thought plagued his mind like a dark cloud, always present in Ran's troubled mind.

"Forget it," the other muttered irritably, a click of disapproval sounded on his tongue as he went on, sparking an inner turmoil within Ran. "She could be dead by now so what's the point of doing this search? We're just wasting time." His words pushed back the silence that settled around them, the air thick with tension that danced around his bitter words.

"15 fucking years..." He reminisced in frustration, a reminder of the years gone by without her by their side. The mere mention of her name sent an ache of regret and loneliness within his heart. "After all this time..." He glowered sullenly, "Why should we start caring if she's alive or not?" his jaw set in a hard line.

15 years, and there's no sign of her anywhere. They had searched everywhere, leaving no corner or no street unseen, there was no trace of her anywhere.

Ran's fingers halted to a still, the bitter cigarette dangled from it's precarious position on his lips as he took in his brother's bitter words. The eldest brother took a long, silent breath, the ash of the cigarette slowly crumbling down as the thin smoke curled around his face.

His muscles tensed while his eyes darkened from the harsh edges of Rindou's words, it took everything in him to hold himself back from saying something he'll regret.

He sympathized with his brother's pain. They had buried their memories of her deep within their hearts, never bringing her up in conversation for such a long time, until now when the weight of her absence was too heavy to ignore.

He's confused, pained, lost, and so is he.

[marcspectrr]

My favorite genre of mk fanart btw ＼(^-^)／

Shoutout to you talented people @marertossss @leica-tendo @wp-38-rg-p08 @haliaz @hachihachi-888 @lolalikesflora @lawao

Here's a snippet for a fic based on the vibe above :')

TW suicide ideation

'good luck with that'

He'd felt faint.

Unsteady arms reaching through the gritty yet cool sand, unsteady breaths reaching no one ears but his own, unsteady grip on the rifle he'd finally worked off from his back while discarding it somewhere in his pathetic trek.

He'd lost time laying on those sharp steps, staring up, up, up, thoughts of a light polluted sky with Roro's hand in his filling his fading mind. Logically, it was the blood loss, sending his brain down confused paths. Logic was seeping away, though, leaving him right back to those scratchy sheets and blank faces and pills that made anything more than walking hard.

He'd felt...weak.

So weak, weak in the way that slowed his hands as he reached for his pistol, distinctly making him want to pull the trigger even more.

He could do it, finally do it, drag it under his chin and hope the world stops spinning for half of a split second to not throw off his aim, that's all it'd take, that's all it ever took.

He could barely pull it from his holster. The energy it took to merely squeeze his eyes shut was monstrous.

The effort it took to pull in a breath grew with every aching movement. Stillness left a soreness, movement was an agony.

Something strained was holding him back, something faint and weak, just like him, holding him in that timeless moment somewhat relentlessly. A thread, maybe. He'd wanted to cut it.

A merciless thread, tying him down, bounding him to the taunting thought that he wouldn't be able to do it. All the pain and sheer measure of guilt, decades worth, should be enough, yet he's suspended.

Mid-air, faint, weak. Lost.

He gives a shaky laugh at the voice despite it hurting his ears. "Good luck with that."

Unbalanced, untethered from all but one strained and derisive thread.

Eradicated. Seems like a fitting end for him, if end didn't quite mean what he'd always wished it did.

One thread turns into two, then four, then he's suffocating all over again.

Strength pours into him, filling all the cracks and erasing any hesitancy.

His breath hitched as it's torn from him, all the faintness, all in one swift motion, one fell swoop. It's trapping him now, feeding him ceaseless power not meant for him.

The wrappings are tight, scratchy, reminiscent of the way every CO he's ever had left no room for argument, like he was no longer his own, belonged not to himself but someone else.

Wrapped around the finger of a voice that fed him another end, this one just at the beginning.

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Love is Stored in The Dino Nugget

Ship: Hannibal Lecter x John Citta

Word Count: 888

Summary: Sweet sleepy fic in which Hannibal dotes on his softie boyfriend. :0) :0) CWs for food mentions.

Tag List: @canongf @futurewife

After a lengthy night of socializing at an art gallery for some event or another, Hannibal carried John from the car and into their shared home, arms wrapped securely around their shorter frame as he shifted them around to open the front door. He was sure they were asleep, if not close to it, considering how they kept dozing off on the drive back. He didn’t mind, after all, they had done well at the gallery and deserved the rest.

He closed the door behind him and turned on the lights in the entryway, reaching up to brush some stray strands away from John’s face when they stirred at his touch.

“I’m sorry, my love, did I wake you?”

He made a tired sound in response, unwrapping one of his arms from Hannibal’s shoulders to rub at his eye under his glasses. “No, I’mawake…” He mumbled.

“Hm. Are you hungry? I know it's late, but we can make an exception as it's been several hours since dinner and a few pieces of salami and cheese aren't going to hold you over until morning."

John nodded and Hannibal carried him into the dining room, setting him gently into one of the chairs.

“Could you heat up those gourmet, dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets you made?” It asked, stifling a yawn. Hannibal smiled warmly, stroking his hair again.

“Of course. Don’t fall asleep while I’m gone,” he teased before setting off to his kitchen, a room that he kept the most particular of all the spaces in his home. It was his heart, the beating life force of his dwelling, funnelling blood to the dining room (the stomach), living area (the lungs), and bedroom (the brain). Before Hannibal had welcomed John into his life, he had never kept leftovers for himself. If he was dining alone, he need only cook portions for one, and if he was hosting the usual dinner party, what was left over was sent home with guests. After all, no one could get enough of Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s home cooking. He could not recount how many times he had been encouraged to start his own restaurant. But that would spoil the fun.

When the timer went off, Hannibal retrieved the reheated nuggets from the oven and plated them, unable to resist dressing the rather plain dish up with green garnishings and a disposable cup of ketchup before bringing it to his boyfriend.

“Here we are, fresh out of the oven.”

John perked up at the familiar scent and attempted to patiently wait for them to cool off, only to eventually pick one up, blow on it, dunk it in ketchup, and quickly take a bite. “Thanks, Hanni.”

“You’re very welcome, John. I’ll go get everything set for bed.”

“Alright, I’ll be up in a jiff.”

As Hannibal disappeared, John happily and sleepily consumed his meal. He was eternally grateful for Hannibal’s patient approach to his complicated relationship with food, never chastising him for sticking to a certain selection of meals and being nervous about trying new things. When he was finished with the nuggets, he brought his plate into the kitchen and began washing it in the sink, quickly becoming consumed by the mundaneness of the task.

“John?” Hannibal’s voice shook him out of his daze.

“I think I scrubbed this plate… twelve times…” John mumbled with a loopy chuckle. Hannibal took the plate from him and replaced it with a towel. John dried his hands before following Hannibal upstairs.

“You look exhausted, mein Shatz.” Hannibal hummed as he helped them wash their face in the master bathroom. John opened his mouth to retort, but Hannibal clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Don’t speak. You’ve done enough of that this evening. You already have sleep issues, you need to conserve your energy.”

John nodded in agreement, content to let his boyfriend guide him through his nightly routine, his mind almost completely drifted from his body. Finally, wrapped in matching silk pyjamas, John was laid in bed with his lover, kept close by an expert arm. As he drifted off, Hannibal softly kissed the back of his neck. Despite his own eagerness to sleep, he found himself simply admiring John in the dark. Every curve of its body and texture on its skin. For most, John probably came off as rather unremarkable. Short and of average build, with dark hair and grey eyes. Quiet and comfortably dressed, only speaking when spoken to and occasionally fumbling conversations. Perhaps a little “odd” if you stood and watched him on his own for a bit. But he was a masterpiece to Hannibal, a feast for the eyes and a curious labyrinth to explore. Hannibal saw John’s potential more than John himself. He wanted to give him the world, fully providing whatever accommodations he needed along the way.

Tomorrow he would serve it it’s favourite breakfast. He would go to work and leave them some ideas for activities they could do until he returned. They would spend his lunch break together at a restaurant John mentioned he wanted to try. When Hannibal finally would return from work, they would play a round of croquet and go to the cinema… Hannibal typically preferred the theatre or the opera, but John’s passion for the art of film could occasionally convince him to step into that unfamiliar world.

[suga4mycoffee]

I was gonna only reblog this with tags, but then I apparently hit the limit. RUDE. So, here:

I'm gonna start reblogging my own shit (when I remember).

Because this is completely true.

Likes and kudos are wonderful. Amazing. Stupendous!

But, hear me out.

I'm talking from my perspective, and solely about fanfiction here, because that's the only thing I put out, but this is going to apply to all fanworks.

I'm a fanfic writer. I do it because I enjoy it, because there are things I like to fix, ideas I like to explore, and because I can't get enough of my chosen fandoms.

That being said, it takes me a huge amount of time, energy, and regular prodding (thank you, @theonlydayiknow) to actually write, edit, and post anything, for a variety of reasons. It can take so much mental and emotional energy to do write, too, depending on what I'm writing. You're putting your blood, sweat, and (many) tears into creating something. And then you're firing it out into the void, for free, for everyone to see and enjoy.

My most popular work on AO3 currently has 8,775 hits, and 888 kudos. That means that roughly 10% of those hits ended in someone hitting the kudos button. There are 23 comments on it (actually double that, because I reply to every single comment eventually). What percentage is that? 0.2% That means that not even 1% of the hits ended up resulting in a comment.

And I'm not even a hugely popular writer! There are plenty of people in various fandoms who are enormously popular, and (as far as I've seen) their percentages are about the same, just from much higher numbers.

(Note: Yes, there'll be some people who don't finish your fics, but I feel like most people will, even if they don't enjoy it enough to like/kudos/comment/share/whatever. And yes, some hits will be re-reads, but still. The math ain't mathing.)

And y'know what? It's so disheartening to pour your heart and soul into something, and you can see that people are consuming it and (mostly, presumably) enjoying it, but only care enough to give one quick click or tap of the like/kudos button.

Again, not dragging people who 'only' leave a like/kudos, it's still amazing! I see you're there, I see you enjoyed it, I see you left a token of your appreciation. Have my eternal affection in return!

But some people don't even leave a like/kudos, even if they really enjoyed the fic.

And I also know and 100% respect that not everyone is comfortable leaving a comment. (Although even dropping a single emoji in the comments makes me froth at the mouth with joy, so that could be an option if you wanted to leave a comment on anyone's work with no pressure.) But if you personally don't feel comfortable commenting, that's totally fine!

In my opinion, sharing/reblogging a fic you liked (even if it's just dropping a link in Discord, or sending it to a friend, or something) is potentially one of the best things you can do to show your appreciation for that fic/author, and here's why.

Even if you 'only' like/kudos, or don't feel comfortable leaving a comment, someone who sees a share/reblog might feel comfortable leaving a comment/emoji, or dropping another like/kudos, or sharing it themselves, where it can reach more people who might like to do any of the above.

Personally, I reply to every single comment I get, because I'm just so fucking grateful someone enjoyed something I wrote enough to comment on it. (I should say I eventually reply to every single comment, sometimes I'm late as hell, but that doesn't mean I appreciate them any less.)

Thing is, I write for me. I write things I want to read. So I could easily write fanfic and keep it to myself. Hell, it'd be easier, because I wouldn't have to edit it, title it, tag it, etc. I don't need to post it. But I post it because I want people to be able to read it, if it's also what they want to read.

But, like OP said, if it seems like there are so few people that actually give a shit about the work you put in to the things you create, eventually you'll wonder if there's a point to creating things at all, let alone posting them. And that can kill a fandom so fucking quickly.

Imagine it. Think of your all-time favourite fanwork creators. Writers, artists, video editors, whatever. Now think of them all leaving their fandom(s), because they feel like hardly anyone cares about the work they do.

As I mentioned, I'm not big and popular. I don't expect I ever will be, and that's fine. I don't even expect to ever have people who count me as one of their favourite authors, and that's also fine.

But when someone likes my efforts enough to leave a comment, I feel fucking giddy. I have genuinely, literally, ended up face down on my bed, squealing and kicking my feet over comments some people have given me. (Again, thank you @theonlydayiknow. I'd ask you to marry me if the world wouldn't end at such an alliance.)

And the people that come back and leave comments telling me they're re-reading, or using the comments to leave extra kudos? They have my eternal love and devotion, I actually tear up when that happens!

And maybe writers/artists/editors whose work you like would feel the same about getting comments too. I don't know. Just something to think about.

TLDR; as OP said, I'm reblogging my own shit from now on, because someone might as well.

Why do you reblog your own fics so much?

Because someone might as well!? And look at this. Look. At. This.

Does this look right to you??

These are just the last three fics I wrote. I appreciate the likes, believe me I do, but you have to understand. Likes do nothing for content creators. It’s the reblogs. Because that’s how you find shit on your dashboard. Through reblogs. Not likes. This isn’t twitter or tiktok or instagram. This is a website that’s run by the reblog system.

Reblogging helps content creators put their stuff out there. Why do you think so many people stopped writing fanfic and creating beautiful fanart and edits? It’s because they put in hours of work and don’t get nearly enough notes for their masterpieces. Yes we do this because we enjoy it but like...some validation won’t hurt. A boost of confidence here and there might be all someone needs to finish whatever thing they started and left.

Anyway, I’m still going to reblog my shit...

[andr0medafallen]

Green Tea Lemonade

A/N: Republishing my old fics

Pairing: Michael Perry x reader

Warnings: Playful existentialism, hipster coffee shops, fluff, judgmental baristas, overenthusiastic pretty boy Michael Perry, Michael Perry's fat ass, light swearing

Description: Hipster Coffee shops are fun, in their own way. Still, you wouldn’t mind if a handsome music teacher came and saved you from the exposed brick and judgemental baristas.

Word Count: 1.4k

You sat in the small, hipster-ish cafe as you waited for your drink. You figured that that was the sort vibe that the exposed brick and edison light bulbs nodded to. You had ordered the barista’s suggestion when you arrived, a green iced tea lemonade because ‘if you’re gonna get an upside down caramel macchiato, at that point just get a latte, dude.’ So when you asked for suggestions because clearly you didn’t know the ins and outs of overly pretentious coffee, you had quickly agreed to the barista's first suggestion.

You were a little hesitant to be going out so soon after moving to Pittsburgh, but you figure that that’s how you make friends, right? So when you saw the flyer for the open mic night at this cafe, you figured, why not? The boxes of your belongings could wait; it was a sunny Friday afternoon and you didn’t even start your new job until Monday.

You had scribbled your name onto the list of acts at the front of the room, and had even made time to find your guitar amongst the piles of your packed belongings before you left for this thing. It felt good to be out of the house, being independent in that spontaneous ‘I do whatever I want’ kind of way, but a part of you still felt like a bit of an outsider in a new city. Which, even rationally, you were.

You sat at the table which you had claimed for yourself. Strangely, the oak table was covered in graffiti. Cartoon flowers and existentialism covered the cluttered surface of the table, but it seemed encouraged by the owners of the establishment; A cup of multicolored sharpies was sitting tantalizingly at the table. You read some of the different messages which surrounded the cool condensation of your drink. ‘I am a cage, in search of a bird. 888-447-5594.’ Kafka. Interesting choice for table graffiti. You wondered how desperate you would have to be to start using a cafe table as your own personal tinder. On a scale of ‘Mary Wollstonecraft is my favorite philosopher’ to ‘that guy in college who put sticky notes on every door in my four story apartment building with his number on them’, you would probably put it at a solid seven.

You choked a bit on your tea (lemonade) when your name was announced on the speaker system at the front of the room. Not a gross amount, just a perfectly reasonable, ‘Mary Wollstonecraft is my favorite philosopher’ amount. Probably. Was in not she who said, ‘Those who are bold enough to perform in front of a very small crowd in a cafe…must learn to brave the possibility of choking on green tea lemonade’? Still, you got your sputtering under control in record time and made your way to the front of the room, guitar in hand.

You sat on the stool at the front of the room, forgoing an introduction in what you hoped was a blasé, couldn’t give two shits type of way. In reality, it was more of a, ‘God, why did I come here again? I should not have watched Pitch Perfect on the plane’ type of way. Not that you ever thought you were better than any one or cooler than anyone or any sort of embodiment of Anna Kendrick’s performance as Beca, but you were really tired. Honestly, you didn’t even feel like you had any moral superiority over Beca from Pitch Perfect. Hell, she would probably love this venue.

You finger-picked out the first few notes of your song before finding your way into a steady strum pattern and beginning to sing the lyrics and melody. You had listened to and learned to play lots of different songs at open mic night and karaoke bars, but this one was your favorite. You’d been told that it was sad and depressing and all of those lovely adjectives in the past, but it made you feel seen. And you figured that if this was the sort of venue where people quoted Kafka in an attempt to get bitches then mildly depressing music was perfectly acceptable.

It wasn’t until you had strummed out your last note that you really gauged your pseudo-audiences reaction. For the most part it was about the same as for anyone else, which was the preferred reaction in your book. Tame applause before returning to conversations. Except for this one curly-haired son-of-a-bitch who, for reasons unknown was freaking the fuck out. We’re talking those loud finger-in-mouth whistles that Dads do at little league baseball games, rapid-fire clapping, all of the above. Which, really, was flattering, sure, but who the fuck did he think you were, Taylor Swift?

You gave the man a hesitant placating smile before packing up your Martin and returning to your seat. It was an effort to avoid unnecessary eye-contact with anyone, but a worthy cause, in your opinion. That is, until Mr. Curl-of-Hair Fat-of-Ass made his way to your table. You looked up at him over your plastic cup of cheap tea, probably fake lemons, and artificial sweetener.

“I liked your song a lot,” He told you, stupid little smirk on his face, which was somehow safely on the genuine side of the line.

You chuckled. “Yeah, clearly,” you teased. You didn’t really know why, but you nodded towards the chair across from you, giving him an opening to take a seat. That’s what this was about though, right? Making friends. Your #1 fan accepted your offer, turning the chair around and sitting on it backwards, arms resting on the backrest.

“Seriously, you’re super good! I was going to play something, but how am I supposed to follow that up?” He exclaimed, running a hand through his curls. You laughed, shaking your head. He reached out his hand to shake yours. “I’m Michael, by the way.”

Taking his hand, you offered your own name.

“I do appreciate it, the compliment,” you admitted to him. “I’m kind of the new kid in town.” You chuckled a bit, blushing at your own childish phrasing. “So I guess even ridiculously boisterous applause and enthusiasm is appreciated.”

“Can I buy you a coffee?” He asked, a bold departure from the original source material. His cheeky grin when his eyes met your still mostly full drink told you everything and nothing about his personality. Somehow he kept managing to do what you would have considered the most cocky shit on any other man without seeming one bit an arrogant asshole.

“Honestly,” you looked into those warm brown eyes, leaning forward so that your gazes were level right above the wooden table and its sharpied Kafka quote, “I don’t want to be here right now.” You whispered it to him like it was a guarded secret. Like some part of it affected the fate of the world.

He matched your gaze, pausing for a moment as if considering or analyzing you. As if making sure that it was the place, and that he wasn’t making you uncomfortable in any way. “I think we can remedy that.”

You gasped, pressing a hand against your chest as if scandalized. “I don’t know what you’re implying but–”

Michael laughed, interrupting you with, “You are crazy, you know that?” You only smiled at him. Of course you were the crazy one. Shaking his head, he suggested, “Here’s a proposal, we leave, I show you the city that you clearly don’t understand the awesomeness levels of, and I finish that tea that you don’t look like you wanted.” He got out of his seat and came around to your side of the table, offering you his hand should you agree to his plan. “It’s a win-win situation.”

You took his hand, rising to his level. “Fine. But the tea is mine.” You doinked the plastic cup against his surprisingly solid arm in a joking cheers and downed the rest of the…What would be the prestigious way to put it? Citrusy blend of organic green tea, highlighted with an ethically sourced lemonade, and made more palatable with a house-made simple syrup.

He laughed at you, leading you out of the building, hands still connected, guitar scars on your hand meeting the guitar scars on his. “Deal.”

You could faintly hear the barista say “Thank God,” as you left, and knew that it was definitely directed at the fact that the two of you were no longer in her lovely establishment.

[starswornoaths]

Unsurprised

I'm still working on commissions, this idea was just starting to interfere with that, so it clearly needed out of me.

6.0 spoilers, though I try to be vague. Just in case, the whole fic is under the cut, along with a screen I snapped for it, since it spoils the raid gear.

Serella liked to check in on her comrades once returned from the field. It has always been her way. The threat of apocalypse did not change that.

word count: 888

Morbid though it may have been, the end of days brought with them an unexpected boon for the Warrior of Light: in the frenetic sprint toward either saving the world, or leaving it behind utterly, most folks were too busy to take note of the as she was passing through. Perhaps the most strange part of that was even when she moved with purpose, or rushed her way through settlements, she did not stand out of the crowd.

Least of all here in Labyrinthos, where engineers, gleaners, and aetherologists all swarmed like the worker drones of a hive. In the thick of it, Serella could almost liken it to tending to her garden at the season’s end, with her bees bumbling about. In much the same way as her own colony, the ebb and flow of those around her bent and warped around her path, to avoid colliding with her. If she narrowed her focus, even the buzzing almost sounded the same.

Another twisted source of calm, admittedly, but affording herself the luxury of such peculiar comparisons had kept her thoughts sufficiently occupied.

There was a sort of guilt that came with her newfound freedom. For how cold a comfort it was, she clung to it fiercely. The apocalypse was a grim equalizer of sorts, but she made it enough; in the wake of everything that had happened, she scavenged what ease she could find.

Such motivation drove her footfalls, wending and weaving her through the crowd of engineers keen on checking the Ragnarok’s status, upon its landing.

Estinien seemed to almost expect that she would seek him out. Serella couldn’t find it in her to be surprised. Not after what they had just walked away from—what they were about to walk into, once the ship’s status was verified.

“How fare you?” he asked, beating her to the question.

A complicated question, even before she had given Hydaelyn her answer.

“Well enough, all things considered.” she said.

She had been saying that a lot lately. She suspected she was not the only one.

“Much and more happened back there.” Estinien spoke up, nodding toward the armor that she now wore. “It weighs on you.”

The last of Venat was yet wrapped around her shoulders like a mantle of moonlight. The love woven into the fabric, the guilt hammered into the starspun mail, the patina of insurmountable pressure ingrained in the plate…it felt familiar, in a mournful sort of way.

“It has always weighed on me. And on her.” Serella offered a stuff shrug of her shield shoulder.

She had thought—hoped—that no one else would ever know such spirals so well. After spending so long being distrustful—disdainful, even—of the deity that Hydaelyn had become, she could only mourn the person Venat had been, and what she had twisted herself into becoming, all for the sake of bettering mankind on a harder, kinder path.

It reminded her of Ysayle. She wondered if Estinien thought of their lover too, or if explaining that upon their reunion would even be appropriate.

Yet, when Serella met her dragoon’s eyes again, she felt light. The armor that had been bestowed upon her was not a burden foisted upon her shoulders, but a blanket lovingly draped over them. Like the comfort of a friend older than her bones.

“I was thinking on what Venat said.” she began, and chose every word deliberately.

As she anticipated he would, Estinien clammed up at the mention. A lifetime ago, when they had far fewer things to cope with and far fewer coping mechanisms, the conversation between them might well have not gone much farther than that. A grumble, perhaps, a deflection, a warm reassurance, but very little else between them would go said.

But they were better now, the both of them. The snort that flared Estinien’s nostrils was followed by a fond, exasperated smile. An angling of his body toward hers. A quiet, hard won intimacy.

“What, surprised to hear my name and love in the same sentence?” he scoffed.

“No.” Serella said.

The calloused wounds on Estinien’s heart demanded of him a moat of verbal spikes, and before her answer had settled in his mind, he has pressed, almost indignant, “My heart is not made of stone—mm?”

His posture betrayed the moment it clicked that she had spoken, the mild tension in his shoulders jolting out of him with a start. His defenses, meager as they had been, crumbled, and he gawped for a lingering moment.

Long enough for her to elaborate, “I’m surprised that she said such things at all, aye. But that you are loving and good? No, I’m not surprised.”

“No?” he said.

If she gave mention to the way his voice squeaked, he would surely deny it. So she didn’t.

“Not at all.” Serella answered him, smiling. “I’ve known for years.”

“I…” Estinien floundered for a moment—it was clear that he doubted.

But they were better now, the both of them. He met her eyes evenly, and held her gaze long enough to see that she did not speak from the need to soothe his ego.

“Good. Then, that’s…” he paused again, before nodding to himself.

Through the fiberweave of her halfglove, she felt his fingers tentatively loop through hers. Almost shyly.

“...Good.” he said again, and stared at their entwined hands.

[donnieluvsthings]

healing me fine

ship: analogical

words: 888

content & warnings: technically hurt/comfort, and there are some brief almost-thought spirals but mostly fluff, human/college au, tell me if i need to add anything!

note: happy birthday virgil!! apparently i only post fics on the sides’ bdays. oh well. take some soft analogical inspired by “invisible string” by taylor swift (the title is also from that song). also @pehp-pehp-pehp u wanted to be tagged so here u go :D

(ao3 link)

~~~~~

Virgil can’t sleep.

To be fair, it is—he checks his phone—eleven at night, and he normally wouldn’t even be in bed for another two hours. But he’s been exhausted all day, and his bed was calling out to him, and now he’s just sitting here doing nothing and he isn’t very tired at all anymore.

With a groan, he shoves himself up and swings his legs over the side of his bed, just staring forward and turning his phone between his hands.

It’s pretty late. Too late to make plans, at least, although he’s sure most other college students are still awake. Even if his friends aren’t in bed it’d be really weird to invite anyone anywhere so late, right? And what if they’re already out? What if everyone is somewhere together and they didn’t invite him and now he’ll be interrupting?

Virgil calls Logan.

There are a few rings. And then another few. And another. God, why didn’t Virgil just text him or something? It’s gonna go to voicemail soon, Virgil should just hang up and pretend it was an accident—

The line clicks, and then: “Hello?”

A smile sneaks it’s way into Virgil’s face, completely unintentional, and he lets it stay. “Hey, L.”

Logan makes a soft, sleepy noise that vaguely sounds like a “hmm?”

Right. Logan is the one college student who actually does have a sleep schedule (and if he’s being honest, Virgil didn’t forget this; he knows Logan won’t mind being woken up just this once).

“Hey, uh, do you want to. Go somewhere.”

“Uh,” Logan says, and Virgil fights to urge to smile even wider because he can just imagine Logan blinking tiredly as he processes the request. “Go somewhere? You do realize it’s eleven o’clock at night.”

“Yeah,” is all Virgil replies. Logan huffs a laugh.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he says. His words are a little mashed together, probably because of the retainer he still wears every night, even though it’s been years since he got his braces off. Virgil figures no one will know if he smiles a little wider. “What did you have in mind?”

”The park?” Virgil says, but he’s sure Logan’s guessed that already.

“Okay,” Logan replies simply. Virgil hears a car start through the phone. “I’m on my way.”

Logan hangs up, because he’s a responsible driver and doesn’t multitask, and it’s only been seven minutes when Virgil hears a car pull up (not that he was counting). Grabbing his sweatshirt, Virgil slides out the door and into the passenger seat of the car. Logan smiles at him as he climbs in, and Virgil can see a glint of silver.

“You have your retainer in,” Virgil says, and Logan huffs a laugh.

“My teeth will un-straighten if I don’t use it,” he says, like he does every time. Virgil shakes his head fondly and ignores the fuzzy warmth in his chest that appears whenever he realizes how well they know each other.

Logan is wearing a faded teal shirt, one Virgil recognizes from the old yogurt shop where Logan used to work in high school, and also where they first officially met. The fuzzy feelings intensify, and Virgil lets them escape a little as he reaches out to grab Logan’s hand.

“I need both hands to drive,” Logan says, but they both know he isn’t going to pull away. Virgil just weaves their fingers together and enjoys the warmth of Logan’s palm against his own cool one.

Logan pulls away, heading towards the park, and they sit in comfortable silence for a moment before he murmurs, “Are you alright?”

Sighing, Virgil says, “Just can’t sleep.”

Logan nods sympathetically, and as they pull up at a red light, he stretches the hand not clasped in Virgil’s across the steering wheel to turn on the radio, quiet enough to ignore but loud enough to fill the quiet. Virgil smiles a bit to himself; Logan has never liked complete silence, no matter how comfortable it is.

“There’s nothing that’s actually wrong,” Virgil continues after a moment, knowing Logan would be wondering. “I’ve been tired all day but now I just keep...thinking.”

The light switches to green, and as he continues down the road, Logan quickly readjusts their hands so he can swipe his thumb back and forth reassuringly. Logan’s not the best with words, but Virgil finds just as much comfort in these small gestures of affection that he knows are just for him.

When they reach the park, pulling their hands apart only to get out of the car, all they do is wander, gazing up at the indigo sky and the way the moon shines through the thin layer of clouds. They make absent conversation, quiet discussions about nothing important, and Virgil lets those fuzzy feelings consume him completely. He’s calm, and he’s content.

And Virgil knows it has nothing to do with the car or the sky or the park, and everything to do with the teal shirt and the held hands and that stupid retainer. It’s Logan, a steady comfort, swinging their hands back and forth just slightly. Logan, who does his best to be there for Virgil just like Virgil tries to be there for him, as if the two of them are tied together by an invisible golden string.

[mirjam-writes]

Fanfiction rec: End with Hope

End with Hope by PepperPrints

Rating: E

Words:  15 888

Summary by the author:

In 537 A.D., the Black Knight enters King Arthur's Tournament of Champions, with quite disastrous consequences, and Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table takes it upon himself to intervene -- which, naturally, also turns out to be quite disastrous in itself.

A very beautiful story based on the movie A Knight’s Tale (which I haven’t watched) but it’s not an AU. A lovely mix of Chivalry, courting, romance and Arthurian mythology. 

I fell in love with the idea that Aziraphale actually loves to be a knight. It makes so much sense! Yeah maybe it’s a bit damp, but it also has all the aspects he misses from being a heavenly soldier! There’s not enough fics where Aziraphale actually misses Heaven, and it’s a true shame, because it is more than okay to miss things you don’t actually want back. Heaven was a huge part of his life once, so of course he misses it! Just like children cannot help but love their parents even when they are safer and happier without them. It’s okay!

And sometimes maybe Crowley likes to be a demon and have a scary reputation too! But he’s oh so much in love!

And I can’t stand how romantic this story is! They flirt, they yearn, the dialogue is perfect and clever, and the romance and the tension is built by the smallest of touches, looks and gestures. I’m practically swooning while reading this! And it’s not too sappy!

There is sex too, it’s not very explicit but it’s so beautifully written. It’s romantic, it’s bittersweet and gentle, and it feels like it’s the perfect and unavoidable culmination for the tension that has been building through the story. 

I love how Lancelot actually ends up shipping them, and Guinevere seems to understand Aziraphale so well. It’s heartwarming to see how much they care for Aziraphale. He has truly found a community there with these people! This fic really filled my heart!

The story ends in a bittersweet though a rather positive note, it made me want to smile and cry at the same time! It’s one of those where you are left to yearn more even if you know it’s perfect as it is. And this isn’t an AU (Isn’t Good Omens marvellous? You can write stories in every historical period and can still be canon compliant!), so in a way we know what will happen to them! This story truly ends with hope!

I believe their time in Arthurian court will be a precious memory to them forever.  Please please please if you know more romantic Knight!Aziraphale fics, send them in my way because this fic gave me a new obsession! Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879666 PS. If you know the author’s tumbl/twitter/something, can you let me know so I can tag them (or you can just let them know I rambled about their story here). 

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

do you know any stydia/sterica/stallison fics where stiles isn't just the weak boyfriend? i know its common for steter/sterek fics to have the bamf!stiles tag, so i was just wondering if you knew any fics for those pairings with stiles as the baddass guy who doesnt just blindly follow his gf?

Yeah. I think so.- Anastasia

Detention Jail Cards by cat_salad

(1/? I 658 I Teen I Sterica)

Professor Adrian Fucking Harris had unusually sharp senses today. Almost animalistic, one could say.

You and I by jamesm97

(1/1 I 681 I Teen I Sterica)

Stiles is in love with Erica and Erica is in love with him, their both just scared to admit it.

It all comes to blows during a training session.

I'm on the horizon by Marishna

(1/1 I 888 I Teen I Sterica)

Erica nodded to the bar across the street that had a few cars and some motorcycles parked out front. She jogged over and disappeared inside the seedy looking building.

"This probably won't end well," Stiles sighed as a creeping sense of trouble crept over him.

He grabbed his baseball bat from the backseat and waited.

The Boy That Knew Just Enough by Jenetica

(1/1 I 3,960 I Explicit I Stydia)

Lydia Martin has no idea why she agreed to de-virginize Stiles. Seriously, she doesn’t.

But it's the best decision she's ever made.

Salute, Salute! by callunavulgari

(2/2 I 11,303 I Mature I Stallison)

Stiles smirks at her, a glint of white in the dark. “That’s it exactly. It’s the circle of life, girlfriend. You hunt us because you’re scared, because we’re different. We hunt you because you want us dead. It’s that simple.”

“You keep saying that,” Allison growls. “‘We.’”

Stiles laughs at her, head thrown back to reveal the white line of throat, just like that day in the sun. “I may not turn into a big bad wolf, Argent,” he says, still smiling. “But don’t ever think that I’m just their little red riding hood. I’m just as much of a wolf where it counts.”

Death, Thou Shalt Die by EclipseWing

(1/1 I 15,465 I Teen I Stallison I MCD)

Stiles is dead. It's okay though. Not that being dead is anywhere within the region of okay, but at least his friends are all dead too. And that's not okay either, but this is heaven. So they should be here, right?Then why can't he find any of them?

In which Stiles and Allison fight their way through Purgatory to find their pack.

Honorary Argent by Ravenclaw1991

(10/10 I 19,209 I Mature I Stallison)

Stiles freaks after almost having an encounter with the alpha twins. He goes to Allison's and ends up asking her to teach him some of her hunter skills. Things go from there.

Not All Pain Heals by AnchoredTether

(24/? I 70,941 I Mature I Stydia)

"I think I understand now, what Allison meant when she said it didn't hurt. There comes a point where it doesn't matter how much it hurts, because your resolve is stronger than your suffering. You could never take away her pain, Scott, because she loved you more than the pain hated her. Not all pain heals, but that's alright. Sometimes the pain is worth it."After the Nogitsune was defeated, everyone thought their problems were gone and they could finally begin to heal from the death of Allison and Aiden, and the destruction left in the wake of Stiles’ possession. Chaos remains in Beacon Hills when the morning after, Stiles finds a mirror bite mark on his arm, and it’s healing.

Drove Through Ghosts to Get Here by Sxymami0909, xtremeroswellian

(32/32 I 264,593 I Mature I Stydia)

The one year anniversary of Allison's death is right around the corner just in time for a new threat to make it's way to Beacon Hills. With Lydia's banshee powers growing, and dead bodies piling up near the Nemeton, Scott and his pack need to work together to figure out who's behind the latest attacks and what knew evil is on the lose. Tension is mounting in the pack and relationships will be tested when an old ally returns to town with information that could help the pack. But can the pack trust their old friend or has the year passed hardened him to a point of no return?

[spikeymarshmallows]

End of May Writing Update

Total for year as at 30 April 2020:  185 588 [+33 922 in May]

Status of Current Projects *indicates completed; **indicates completed & posted

Detective Diego: 65 046 [+2 315]

Museum 'verse Fics: 1 753** [Escape]; 3 811 [Pre-FT]; 3 277* [FT]; 3 515** [OD]; 2 345 [Post-OD]; 2 265** [Webcam]

Shibari Baby: 6 800 [+5 559]

Boots ‘verse: 875** [scream louder]; 209 [no progress - Fucked Up Fic II]

Tumblr Prompts: 629 [Eyes Up]; 1753** [Escape – x-posted under Museum]; +3 277* [FT – x-posted under Museum]

Banned Together Bingo: 888** [CSA]; 2 236** [WEB]; 2 662 [AK&M]

Completed and/or Posted:

all eyes on you – heavy degradation set in "boot's 'verse" [this was finished back in February but only posted now]

a steady beep - Museum 'verse angst!

pros and cons, really - Museum 'verse long-distance webcam sex YEE. For the prompt "only when I give you permission"

shades of indigo - Horrance somnophilia fic for my bestest best friend [written back in March but only posted now]

several arms down - Horrance friendship fic; fill for Banned Together Bingo prompt "Worms Eat Body"

and then there was - pre-Kliego, first fic in Museum 'verse, where Klaus and Diego leave the Academy. For the prompt “Come on sweetheart, we can’t stay here any longer”

step backward, step forward - The "Main Fic" as it were for the Museum 'verse! So excited to have finally posted this! It's only a short fic, but… it's spawned a million side fics and it's really special to me [finished last month but needed to be beta'd]

tell-all tale - implied Kliego; fill for Banned Together Bingo prompt "Child Sexual Abuse". This was actually an epic salt fic, and I stand by it! Does not contain CSA

a little louder for those in the back - "boots 'verse" choking out porn >:). For the prompt "scream louder and I'll fuck harder" teehee

FT - unposted

Goals for May: Mixed Bag

Write every day, even if it’s just 100 words - Achieved!

More detective Diego! MORE MORE MORE. - :(((((( This is probably my biggest disappointment for the month...

Post Museum Klaus - Achieved!

Maybe work on some of Museum Klaus’ prequel things - Achieved!

Post some oneshots (F, HH, D - aim for two being posted) - One posted; the others not posted because I posted a bunch of other stuff!

Finish Tumblr prompts, or at least make some solid progress there -NOPETUS :((((( Only got 3 done

Shibari Baby, written, beta’d, posted - NOPE :((((( Got about 5k done but... Don’t feel like I’m even CLOSE to making solid progress

Sign up for Banned Together Bingo >:) - Achieved!

Inhibitors:

TBH the ADHD

The Thesis was a major inhibitor—fucking shocker right there :P

What was good about this month:

So, here's the thing. When I started making this update, I was feeling really fucking down on myself. "I haven't done enough", I was saying to myself. I was pretty down that I haven't done as much on my Detective Fic as I'd like to. I've struggled with depression and stuff once again, and like, I am trying really hard to make this fic happy and light, but it requires a certain headspace for me—and one I haven't had for a while. And I just updated the above and jesus fucking christ spikey. You have done a fuckload. Stop being such a dick to yourself. Like… I… am honestly kinda gobsmacked…

The past two months I've really leaned into the fics I'm doing. Whether it be "Klaus is high on LSD and just talking batshit insanity", or "heavy kink", or "angst", or just outright "porn". I'm learning that it's okay to lean into fic.

I've had a lot of plot bunnies!! Loads of fun ideas ahead!! A High School AU!! A High School AU where the Harkids are taken from Reginald, thrown into foster care and have to face, le gasp, public high school! :O

I have written 211k worth of TUA fic since I started writing for this fandom, which was… 13 December.

How to improve on this past month:

I dunno man. Build a better writing habit?

Try not to lose momentum…

Try to be more conservative with my words

Get outside. For the love of god. And wear sunscreen—you are too pale to be going outside in 40C weather without sunscreen.

Potential inhibitors:

IDK, I hate myself?

ADHD

Loads of uncertainty about the future

Goals for June:

Write every day, even if it’s just 100 words

Build up my backlog again—I had a really nice backlog of about 10 fics just waiting to be posted, and now I'm down to… 4. That makes me feel uncomfortable because I felt good having this nice backlog that means if I ever get stuck, I can yeet out fics. I mean… I could probably afford to slow down on the posting… >.> But. Yanno. Goal: Build up the backlog!!

Detective fic – T.T please write more T.T

Museum 'verse - Finish pre-FT and post-OD fics

Boots 'verse (F, D – post one)

Boots 'verse – write more here?

Tumblr prompts – make some progress here pls

Shibari Baby – finish, beta, post

Aim for 4 fills per card for Banned Together Bingo

[freddiesaysalright]

My Man Part V

A Ben!Roger Taylor x Reader Fic

Summary:  Reader is a Broadway actress currently starring in a West End production of Funny Girl. She’s a widow, thanks to the Vietnam War, but it’s a well-kept secret. She also wants everyone to think she doesn’t care for rock music. She met Roger Taylor when he brought his date backstage. They didn’t start off great, but a party at Freddie’s turned them around. Now, they’re friends. A new opportunity has presented itself to her, but Roger is suspicious of the circumstances.

Word Count: 3.5K 

Tag List: @bohemian-war @kittygirlno @rebelrebelyourefaceisamess @rockyroadthepastryarchy @goodoldfashionedloverboyy @jennyggggrrr @discodeacygotmorerhythm @x1975sos @slytherinxval @cyndagoaway @doingalrightt @lovvliies @hopefully-aesthetically-pleasing  If you’d like to be added, let me know!

Part I   Part II   Part III   Part IV

A/N (Please read carefully!): Warning! This part has an attempted sexual assault. A couple things I promise for this: 1) It doesn’t last long, 2) I will be telling you exactly where it starts and stops so you can skip it if  you choose, and 3) It’s not just for shock value/drama, there’s a plot reason.  If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, don’t hesitate to reach out for help. You are not alone. RAINN Sexual Assault hotline: US & Canada: 1-888-407-4747 International:+1 202-501-4444 They also offer live chat :)

Part V! Here we go!

The next day, you carefully decided what to wear to the meeting with the director, whose name was Mark Hudson. You were actually a fan of his from seeing his production of The Music Man a few years ago back in New York. It was amazing and you were thrilled to see what he could do with a Rodgers and Hammerstein classic like Oklahoma. You decided on a dress, to look more demure like Laurie. It also hugged your body in the right places, which you liked for auditions and meetings so that directors could see your type.

As the afternoon closed in, you felt your nerves begin to flutter around in your stomach. It had been a while since you’d gone for a new role. Your New York agent had secured Fanny for you before you even got to London, so you were feeling a little unsure. You fidgeted with your hair once more, sweeping it into a bun before leaving your flat early so you would appear punctual.

Your agent told you to go straight to Mark’s room when you arrived. He was in 317, so you walked straight past the front desk and got the lift. You pressed the button for the third floor and waited for the doors to close, feeling your heart rate increase with excitement. You couldn’t believe you were on your way to get your dream role.

With a soft ding, the doors opened for you on the third floor. You made your way down the carpeted hallway, and held tighter to your purse with anticipation. Luckily, the room was toward the front of the corridor so you didn’t have to go far. With a deep breath to calm yourself down, you knocked gently on the door.

When it swung open, you were face to face with Mark. He was a handsome man - dark hair, light brown eyes, and a strong jaw. He clearly took care of himself as well. His biceps and pecs were threatening to tear the tight t-shirt he had on.

“Y/N!” he cried, clearly delighted and extending his hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you, kid! I’m a big fan!”

“Likewise, Mr. Hudson!” you returned, shaking his hand as he let you inside. “I’m so thrilled you thought of me for Oklahoma. I’ve wanted to be Laurie since I was six.”

He laughed, closing the door behind you. “I’m happy to give you the opportunity. Please, come in.”

You followed him further into the room. It was a standard hotel room, but large with a desk on one side toward the window. He poured himself a glass of brandy.

“Would you like one?” he offered.

You shook your head. “No, thank you. I’d rather get straight to business.”

“Very serious, I see,” he said, sounding impressed. “I like that. So, I’ve seen you in Funny Girl and your agent sent me the rest of your resume. You’ve definitely got the singing chops to be my Laurie. My only concern is your dance experience.”

He took a seat at the desk and motioned for you to sit across from him. You did.

“What about it?” you asked.

“Well, you’re not a ballerina,” he said. “And the show does have a ballet in the first act.”

“I’m familiar,” you said. “But trust me when I say, I am willing to work hard to learn. My ballroom training can help me, and I’ve done bits of ballet in other shows.”

“I believe you, kid,” he said. He grabbed a cigarette from the box on the desk and looked at you before lighting it. You noticed his eyes lingered a moment on your chest. “Do you mind?”

Used to Roger’s smoking habit, you said, “Not at all.”

After taking a long drag, he looked you up and down again. “You are beautiful, you know that?”

“Thank you,” you replied, looking at your lap as a blush spread across your cheeks.

He groaned. “Oh, I love the look of humility on a woman.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair. You didn’t know how to answer that.

“I’m gonna level with you, Y/N,” he said. “I wanna give you this part.”

You grinned. “Really?! Oh, Mr. Hudson, that’s great news!”

“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “There’s something I’d like you to do for me first.”

“You want me to keep it a secret that you didn’t have me audition?” you guessed.

“Actually,” he said, rising from his seat and moving to stand over you. He put his hand to your cheek and then slid it down to your neck. You wondered if he could feel your pulse quicken. “I had something else in mind.”

You had to play dumb. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” he insisted, glancing between you and the bed.

You got to your feet, brushing his hand away. Anger roiled in your stomach at the audacity to suggest such a thing.

“Mr. Hudson,” you said. “There are some things I am unwilling to do for my career. I am a married woman, after all.”

“I know your husband is dead,” he said, and he took hold of your arm, squeezing. “You’re not married. And I know you’re not with Roger Taylor either.”

“Would it matter if I was?” you replied, trying to stall. His grip on you was like a chain and he was blocking your path to the door.

“Not even a little bit,” he whispered and then yanked you into him.

****HERE’S WHERE THE SEXUAL ASSAULT STARTS. SKIP TO THE NEXT SET OF STARS IF YOU DON’T WANT TO READ****

You held your lips closed as he tried to kiss you, struggling against his hold. You brought your hands to his face and started to shove him away. He stepped back, but he still had a hand around your arm.

“Let me go!” you demanded, attempting to pull it free, and trying to maintain your calm. You hoped your voice didn’t betray how scared you were. “Now!”

“As an actress, I thought you’d be better at taking direction!” on the last word, he brought back his free hand and slapped you hard across the face.

The sound cracked like a whip through the mostly empty hotel room and the force was enough to knock you off your feet. You were so stunned, you didn’t even know if you cried out. The skin around your eye was already throbbing. He let go of your arm as you hit the ground, only to shove his fingers into your hair, his nails scraping your scalp. Your hair fell around your face as it lost its style.

You whimpered as he pulled you up and tossed you - your body limp from shock - onto the bed. You tried to gather your thoughts, but you couldn’t focus. You cheek hurt, your scalp stung, and you didn’t know if you wanted to cry or yell.

Quickly, he crawled on top of you. Out of instinct alone, you brought your leg up to try and kick him off. He grabbed both your knees and sat on them, holding you down with his legs. You squirmed with your upper half to try and wriggle free, to no avail. As his hands came down toward the straps of your dress, you tried to slap them away.

“NO!” you screamed. “GET OFF OF ME!”

His hand seemed to snap in place around your throat, and all noise ceased as you now fought for breath. It made your head swim and your vision go blurry.

“Be quiet, or I’ll make you,” he warned through gritted teeth.

With that, he let you breathe as he grabbed the strap of your dress and ripped it. He pulled the neck line down to reveal your breast. You felt a pang of regret at not wearing a bra. He took hold of it and squeezed so hard you yelped in pain. You grabbed his arm to try and pull his hand away, but he was too strong. With his other hand, he mirrored his actions on your other breast. It was so painful you felt a tear leak out and roll down your cheek.

When he let go at last, you let out a breath of relief, but not for long. He sat back, took hold of the hem of your dress, and shoved it up your thighs. You shivered with the cold blast of air that hit your legs. He grinned, and then your eyes went wide as he started to unbuckle his belt. Something surged in you, and you brought back your right hand to swing it as hard as you could onto his left ear.

“Fuck!” he cried, and his legs let up just enough for you to get a foot out from under them, which you drove hard into his chest, forcing him off you at last.

****END OF SEXUAL ASSAULT****

When he fell to the side, you scrambled away as fast as you could and hurtled for the door. You didn’t turn to see if he pursued you as you tugged on the handle and fled down the hall. When you got to the stairwell, you thought enough to hold your dress over your exposed chest, but you did not stop running. Your lungs felt like they were on fire as you went. You tore through the lobby, ignoring all the stares and shouts of surprise from onlookers. You had to get to the studio.

When you rounded the corner to the street the recording studio was on, you slowed to a walk. Your chest heaved with your winded lungs. You felt heavy and like every part of you was sore. You could not process what just happened. Those sort of things happened to other people. You were supposed to be going to tell Roger you got the part. How were you going to tell Roger this? Shame crawled over your skin and you felt dirty all of a sudden.

More tears welled up in your eyes as you went through everything you were feeling. Shame, anger, regret, guilt, sadness. It was too much. You heart couldn’t take it. It was beating so hard you thought it was trying to escape from your rib cage. You wanted to go with it. To shed your skin and become a person who had never been touched by Mark Hudson. You wanted Roger, too, but you felt a little afraid to face him. He knew this would happen and you felt so stupid for not listening.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Even so, you continued on your way to the studio. You could see it now. The front door was your refuge. You looked over your shoulder finally, to be sure Mark wasn’t following you. To your great relief, he wasn’t. Swallowing through the tightness in your throat, you opened the door to the studio.

You had been before so you knew where to go. You walked down the hall, and to the door of the booth. When you opened it, you saw Mary there with Paul, Jim Beach, and John Reid.

“Christ,” she gasped. “Y/N, what’s happened to you?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but couldn’t form words. What had just happened to you? How could you even begin? You couldn’t. You let out a wail and fell into Mary’s arms. She held you tight, rubbing comforting circles on your back.

“Roger, you better get in here!” Reid called.

The whole band came in, and when they saw you, they shot questioning looks at Mary. She took hold of your shoulders and had you look up.

“Y/N, what’s going on?” she asked again.

Through your tears, you took in Roger’s familiar form, and you felt so awful. He looked at you with an confusion and worry.

“Roger,” you began, your bottom lip quivering. “Roger, I…” you didn’t finish, as you darted over to the nearest trash bin and vomited into it.

“Shit!” Roger hissed and knelt down beside you. From this angle, he could see the damage to your dress and the purple bruises blooming across your skin.

You couldn’t look at him. He reached out for you, but you recoiled.

“No, don’t touch me!”

He stopped, clearly hurt, and gave you some space. Then you watched him ball his hand into a fist as he jumped to his feet.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he said, and stormed toward the door.

“No, Rog, wait!” Brian urged, grabbing hold of Roger’s arm.

“Let go, I’m gonna murder that piece of shit!” Roger yelled. “Get the fuck off me, Brian!”

The idea of Roger leaving caused you to panic. You extended a trembling hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, tugging lightly. He turned to look at you and his face softened. Finally, you met his eyes. It was the first time since you’d known him you saw tears in them.

“Don’t leave me, Roger,” you begged. “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, my darling,” he sighed as he knelt down again. “Can I...can I hold you?”

You considered it. You desperately wanted his embrace but you felt so undeserving of it. If you had only listened to him!

“Please, Y/N,” he said again.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Roger.”

“What the hell are you apologizing for?” he asked, as gently as he could.

“You knew this would happen,” you explained. “I was such an idiot. I should have listened to you. I’m so, so sorry.” You broke down again. “I don’t…I don’t deserve you.”

“I can’t even begin to tell you how wrong you are,” he replied, and he choked a little on the last word. “This isn’t your fault, Y/N, do you hear me? This is in no way your fault.”

You began to shiver. You couldn’t accept his words, either. All you could do was look at him and feel the whirlwind that swirled through your heart. You hardly even noticed when Brian generously draped his jacket over your shoulders, careful not to actually touch you.

“Roger,” Mary said. “She needs to be taken to hospital. That way they can report it to the  police.”

“No,” you said. “I don’t want to report it.”

“Y/N,” John said. “If he ra -”

“He didn’t,” you interrupted. “He just tried to.”

You thought this might make you all feel better, but it didn’t. You were still a shivering mess on the floor, wounded in ways far beyond the bruises.

“You should at least tell your agent,” Reid said. “If it were someone I was managing, I would want to know.”

“Would that be alright?” Roger asked you.

You nodded. After all, Stephen would be calling to find out how it went. You’d have to tell him something.

Freddie squatted down in front of you. “Can you put your arms through the sleeves, darling?” he asked. “I’ll zip you up.”

You gave him a frightened glace and he held his hands away from you.

“I won’t touch you, I promise.”

Holding the top of your dress, you slipped your arms into the jacket one at a time. You sat up a little and held it up again while Freddie reached out and deftly hooked the zipper and pulled it all the way up. You were certain you looked ridiculous, but that didn’t matter now.

“Mary, could you help her up?” he asked, backing away.

“Sure,” she said, and put her arm around your shoulders. “Come on, love. Up you get.”

With her help, you pushed yourself onto your feet. John took a step toward you.

“Hold out your hand, Y/N,” he said.

You did so, but Mary had to hold it still. He dropped a mint into your open palm.

“Thank you,” you whispered, bringing it to your mouth. The flavor helped you feel fresher and settled your still unruly stomach.

“Let’s go,” Roger said.

You and Mary followed him out the door, quiet as a funeral procession. When you got to the street, Roger looked in the direction of the hotel and his jaw clenched. Mary hailed a cab. You gave the driver the address of Stephen’s office. As he pulled into the traffic, you found yourself numb. What had been a storm of feelings had slowed to a flat lake. You wanted to sleep or get drunk. To be anything but what you were in this moment.

When you arrived at the office, you told the receptionist you needed to see Stephen right away. She paged him and then told you to go ahead inside. The three of you entered, he took in the sight of you, and he looked down.

“Oh, no,” he sighed. “Did he get carried away?”

Roger lost his shit. In seconds, he had taken Stephen by the collar and slammed him into the opposite wall. Mary gasped, and held you a little tighter.

“You knew?!” he shouted. “You fucking knew this would happen and you sent her over there anyway?!”

Stephen whimpered. “I - I didn’t know he would get violent!”

The flat lake stirred up as you matched Roger’s feelings.

“You - ” you started but caught yourself choking on the betrayal. “You knew he wanted me to fuck him for the part?”

Stephen couldn’t meet your eyes. “I thought you’d...many actresses do that sort of thing...and he needed…” he trailed off.

“No,” you said, unsure where this strength was coming from. “Finish that sentence.”

“He’s an old friend of mine,” Stephen said. “He said it had been a while for him and he wanted you.”

Roger punched Stephen in the face, sending your agent’s head back, spit and blood bursting from his mouth.

“SO YOU THOUGHT YOU’D JUST WHORE HER OUT SO YOUR MATE COULD GET OFF?!” Roger bellowed. “FUCK YOU!”

He punched Stephen three more times.

“Roger!” Mary interjected, before he could strike again. “That’s enough!”

He released Stephen, who slumped to the floor.

“You’re fired,” Roger said.

“With all due respect, Mr. Taylor,” Stephen returned, blood dribbling from his split lip. “You can’t - ”

“You’re fired,” you cut across him. You looked at Roger and Mary. “Take me home.”

Roger stormed out, you and Mary on his heels. You could hardly remember getting back to your flat, but you were so relieved when you did. Then you weren’t. George’s photo sent another wave of guilt over you. Mark’s words echoed in your mind: you’re not married...you’re not with Roger Taylor either...

You squeezed your eyes shut. Then, your heart wrenching, you removed your wedding band. You walked over to the mantle and placed it before George’s picture, inwardly sending him an apology. But you couldn't wear it. You weren’t George’s anymore. You weren’t Roger’s. You belonged only to yourself. Oddly, the thought made you feel better. More free. But also pretty lonely.

“Are you alright?” Roger asked.

“No,” you told him. “Nothing is alright.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Mary said. “But I’ve got to get to work. Are you gonna be okay if I leave?”

You looked at Roger and held his gaze as you answered. “Yeah. I’m safe now.”  

She left. A heavy silence hung in the air. Roger took a step toward you before stopping himself. You moved slightly in his direction and he looked at you thoughtfully.

“I should change,” you said, and disappeared into your room.

You were still shaking as you peeled off Brian’s jacket, followed by your dress. You saw yourself in the mirror at last and took in the sight. You didn’t even look like you. Especially since you’d never had a black eye before. No one had ever hit you before. None of this had ever happened to you before. You thought you might break down again, but you held it together as you grabbed some sweats and a tank top from your drawer. When you were finished, you padded back out to Roger, who had taken a seat on the couch. His leg was bouncing and his hands were in fists again. His knuckles were purple from hitting Stephen, and there was a light spatter of blood on the end of his sleeve.

“Roger,” you said, and he stood up immediately. You held out the jacket. “I’ll let you bring this back to Brian.”

He took it and then looked back at you. “You want me to go?”

You shook your head. “No. I don’t ever want you to leave.”

Now the emotions were coming again. When would this back and forth ever end? You could see he was itching to comfort you somehow. To wipe the tear from your cheek, or hug you, or anything to ease the pain. He tossed the jacket onto the couch.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Hold me, please,” you said in a voice so small you were surprised he heard you.

You were ready for his touch at last. You could still feel Mark’s hands on your skin, and you wanted Roger’s arms to take it away. He obliged, and wrapped them around you. Your buried your face in his chest and sobbed. You absurdly noticed how nice he smelled. It was something uniquely Roger and it brought you such a sense of peace. You never wanted to move from this place for the rest of your life.

[lethesomething]

2017 fic roundup

So I blatantly stole this meme from @themorninglark​. Feel free to make one for yourself, you writey people. I found it pretty helpful.

Because it's as good a time as any for some retrospective, and honestly, my writing can probably use some reflection.

my 2017 in fic writing

Total year-long word count: 287,599 Word count by fandom: Haikyuu!!: 241,726 Kuroko no Basket: 4,181 Boku no Hero Academia: 43,790 Original: 960

Fics completed: (I’m not going to do all of them, but these are notable)

The Lock, the Key and the Sacrifice (138,040 words): Haikyuu!!, a sprawling urban fantasy story and my first big fic (started in 2016, last third finished in 2017, but I’m counting the whole thing)

Monsters (45,038 words): Haikyuu!!, a rarepair TenSuga romance in a Vampire Yakuza Urban Goth Coffeeshop au. Because I can.

Chocolate Hearts (42,308 words): BNHA. A slow burn romance for Aizawa x Reader.

A Fairy-tale Haikyuu: Flash fic edition (497 words): The first time I tried my hand at flash fiction. Made for HQBrofest.

On villains and trust (888 words): BNHA. A serious attempt  to start a rarepair by writing fluff for Tokoyami x Shinsou

Thirst (596 words): BNHA. Poetic naked Aizawa.

Putting the rest under a cut for length

 Works-in-progress: My Girlfriend is a Goddess?!: Haikyuu!!, a gift for the Fantasy Exchange, which got out of hand completely. (we’re currently 52,280 words in)

 This year I wrote and posted: 10 fics

 Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted? Absolutely. Somewhere around August, I became Extremely Wordy, and now everything I write takes up way more space than anticipated. I'm still not sure what happened, but all those long ones up there, apart from The lock, the key and the sacrifice, were all written in the last half of the year.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? Tokoyami x Shinsou came out of nowhere and started out as a sort of joke with @leeva-z-kai​. I also never thought I'd be writing Aizawa reader inserts, but here we are. Considering my tastes in fictional characters, I should have probably seen that coming.

What’s your own favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest? I'm going to have to say The lock, the key and the sacrifice, for the sheer amount of time and effort I put into that, and for the immense sense of relief and satisfaction upon completing my first big project. I wrote a friggin book. That is a thing I did and I'm pretty proud of that.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? I try to do new things to challenge myself with everything I write. I think the biggest risk I took, from a… fandom type side, is Monsters, because I knew from the very start that it definitely wouldn't be popular. It literally started as a way to prove to the world that you can dump several au's together, and then why not add a rarepair and lots of gore for good measure.

Your best story of this year: It's kinda hard to discern here between huge, enormous fics and the little ones, but, um, let's go with Thirst, because while that is very short, I like every single sentence in it.

Your most popular story of this year: Without a doubt Chocolate hearts. Still kinda reeling from the popularity of that one. I don't know if it was the timing, or the fact that the Aizawa is strong in the fandom, but it seems to have really hit a nerve.

Story of yours most under-appreciated by the universe, in your opinion: That which was not broken is one of the most personal stories I've ever written, which probably clouds my judgement. To a regular person I assume it's a cloying, angsty, almost teenager sentimental rarepair, and that's… fair. But it's currently sitting at 66 views and that's mildly disappointing.

Most fun story to write: Intersectional feminist mermaids. For the rather simple reason that I don't remember writing most of it. It's one of those 'chat lodged a story idea in my head' moments that I quickly typed out. I found the story months after initially writing it and then just finished it.

Story with the single sexiest moment: I've written surprisingly little smut this year. For some reason, my sexiest moments are mostly Aizawa, and he is just a lot better in soft, fluffy touches and understated movements and just… subtext than as straight up porn. So that whole scene with the hair in Thirst is Peak Sexy to me.

Most “Holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you" story: Yeah… Monsters. It has like… people-to-food factories and stuff. There’s a lot of weirdness in there.

Story that shifted your own perceptions of the characters: On Villains and Trust was a lot of fun, because I wrote it almost on a dare and I'd never considered those characters in that setting. The thing with writing rarepair is that if you do it well enough, those two characters suddenly look like they're made for each other. So that happened…

Hardest story to write: I struggled a lot with Monsters, but I think I'm currently struggling more with My Girlfriend is a Goddess!?, so I'll pick that because it's fresh in my mind. It has something to do with how hard I find it to focus on a specific set of characters, and to find the balance between telling too much of their mundane life, and telling too little.

Biggest surprise: Considering Chocolate Hearts was mostly written in a fever dream, a random flash of inspiration that pushed actual, planned fics out of the way, I wasn't really expecting it to go down as well as it did. The near daily feedback and the full blast of emotions from the people in the comments was incredible.

Biggest disappointment: This is gonna sound stupid. But after having one fic that was really warmly welcomed, the gap that came after Chocolate Hearts was… difficult. Like, I'm used to fics getting a hundred or a couple hundred views, and a few comments from friends and the occasional wanderer. But after seeing what Could Be, it was hard to go back to life as normal. So while I realize that because of the timing, or the fandom, or the subject matter, I shouldn't expect too much from some fics, the reception of Monsters, and especially My Girlfriend is a Goddess?! has been… disappointing.

Most unintentionally telling story: I suppose That which was not broken was an intentionally telling story. So let's go with A man walks into a bar, because I never realized how big my personal need is to write a ridiculous space opera.

Favorite opening line(s): He drinks his coffee black.  (from Monsters)

Favorite closing line(s): It had been two years, but Akaashi still painted any new men he met with the same brush, only to find that the picture wasn’t as beautiful as Kuroo’s. (from That which was not broken)

It holds promises of friendly conversation and creativity and maybe, just a little bit, of adventure.(from The lock, the key and the sacrifice)

Favorite 5 line(s) from anywhere:

Cheese crackers, also, because everyone likes those, even mermaids. (from A fairytale)

Tortugan native beer was only 'beer’ because they changed the definition of the word for marketing purposes. The tortugans didn’t so much brew, as drink rocks. Literally. They dissolved minerals into water to get high. Unsurprisingly, it tasted like dirt. (from A man walks into a bar)

« He nodded and said 'I understand', » he went on. « And then we agreed that he doesn't ask questions and I don't tell him things that could cause an existential crisis for an experimental physicist. »(from My Girlfriend is a Goddess?!)

His skin is flushed, heat turning it a shade darker than normal, and the low light raises up his scars, turning them into islands of gold in a pool of vermilion.(from Thirst)

Semi Eita, 1,8 metres of undiluted sex appeal, folds his arms and looks around the coffee shop with a small pout.(from Monsters)

Top 5 scenes from anywhere you would choose to have illustrated:

Kageyama Tobio on the world's creepiest beach, being a badass (in The lock, the key and the sacrifice)

The elaborate, alt Venetian feast, full of gaudily costumed people twirling around to music, like cogs in an overstuffed clock, would make a pretty picture, I think. (from The Golden God)

The flashback scene to Aizawa's graduation party, partly because of the sheer cringiness, and partly because hey, it’s a party under fairy lights. (in Chocolate Hearts)

Tendou fighting Iwaizumi in an abandoned homeless camp is one scene I wrote almost exclusively for the visual (in Monsters)

Bokuto and Akaashi at work in a mirrored attic feels like it would look really cool (in My Girlfriend is a Goddess?!)

 Fic-writing goals for next year:

I’m trying very hard to understand my own fic writing. I've written a lot this year, like a LOT, (probably too much, if I’m honest, not even counting the meta and the analyses and stuff) and I can feel myself evolving, but I have no idea where I’m going and why certain things work, and other things don't. So that’s something to figure out.

My main goal, I think, is to start writing slower again. I feel like I’m just more pleased with works that have been given the time to ripen, to stew a bit. Pacing, if you will.

[odditycollector]

i am noodling about with a nepeta/vriska fic so how about those two?

1.

Vriska freaks Nepeta out, but I had to go check if we even know if Vriska likes her or not.

and actually? Signs point to yes!

They only have one interaction in canon, as far as i can tell/remember. Vriska is super gung ho to rp with her, and they’ve obviously done it in the past at least once or twice, but Nepeta shuts the conversation down p quick due to Vriska being a terrible rp partner. Vriska: ::::( of disappointment.

And here’s the thing, right? Equius has forbidden Nepeta from playing games with Vriska’s group… but who was inviting Nepeta to play games with Vriska’s group in the first place?

2.

I’d draw from there. She meets Nepeta through Equius, since he’s close enough she’d *know* if he had someone over, and acts overly friendly & invites her to play a game just to fuck with Equius, since *he’d* know that’s actually an invite to get murdered.

So of course her compelled but confused refusal is a hilarious blueblood injoke, right? But over time she starts to see her as more than Equius’ pet feral - sees her take down some terrifying deathbeast? Saves Assists Vriska in taking down a terrifying deathbeast, not that she didn’t have things 888% under control herself obviously? - and invites her to hang out for real.

Nepeta, of course, says no.

Fiiiiiiiine, but they can at least exchange im handles, whereby Nepeta is later introduced to Terezi, Aradia, and Tavros.

Eventually Vriska finds out Nepeta and Terezi are best rp buddies, and she is jealous. Of, weirdly, Terezi? Vriska could be a great RP partner too! She has the perfect character already!

Yeah…. that session ends badly, and future sessions are just nepeta awkwardly excusing herself, and Nepeta *still* won’t accept the standing invitation to play games in person even though Vriska promises she won’t murder her at all!

And here is the thing, ok. Vriska is not used to being denied. She’s *definitely* not used to being denied by someone from such a lower caste. Vriska is a g8 h8friend who has n8thing to prove… and she will d8mn well prove it!!!!!!!!

Except… do you know the difference between a hatefriend courtship and a matesprit courtship? I ask because Vriska does not seem to have figured it out….

One day Equius intercepts her. He is furious because he thinks she’s still fucking with his moirail to fuck with him, even though that isn’t it at all! (Okay, maybe a little, but just because it’s funny.) She just wants Nepeta to want to hang out with her as much as she wants to hang out with Nepeta! It is like a special kind of wanting that never goes away!

(so maybe he could put a good word in like, idk, how Vriska’s known Aradia for ages and hasn’t murdered her yet? And Nepeta’s way more kickass than Aradia anyhow. Has Equius *seen* her fight?! Wow.)

Equius… did not come here to walk Vriska through her redrom feelings (does this mean he’s cheating on Nepeta or being a good partner? troll romance is hard and it is giving him sweaty palpitations) but he did come here because Nepeta *does* want to hang out with Vriska, so.

He does still say the part of his prepared remarks about what will happen to Vriska if she hurts Nepeta, though.