#amanda should be writing

[lilac-hecox]

So, the @soupy-girl made a post about Trevrasha being like Eric and Donna and I spent way too long making this.

[mamawasatesttube]

ooooo timkon w “Can you just hold me?” or “You look like you need a hug." for the ficlet thing :3

Kon's hair is a frizzy mess.

That's the first red flag. Kon is ridiculously vain when he wants to be, with a whole hair care shower routine, silken pillowcases, and an array of curl creams and whatnot that he had to explain to Tim twice before any of it stuck in his head properly. Tim teases him for it now and then, but he knows it's because Kon doesn't like people seeing him at anything but his best. Kon got too used to being picked apart on camera for that.

So the fact that his hair is unkempt and mussed as he lets himself in from the balcony is... concerning.

Even more concerning is the way he barely even looks at Tim before he throws himself at the bed, flopping face-down with an oof. The balcony door closes itself behind him like an afterthought, and he heaves a huge, melancholy sigh.

"Kon?" Tim pushes away from his desk, trotting over to the bedside. Kon's legs are sticking off, and Tim shakes his head fondly as he reaches down to tug Kon's boots off. "Long day, huh?"

The first boot comes off in his hands; the second follows almost instantaneously. Kon lifts his head from the duvet to give him a slightly sheepish look over his shoulder, apologetic, before he drops his face back down with a thump.

"I'm tired," he mumbles. And he sounds like it. There isn't even a hint of a smile in his voice.

Tim crawls onto the bed next to him, rests his hand comfortingly at the small of his back. "What happened?"

Kon hisses out another sigh into the duvet. "Someone tried to—and don't get your knickers in a twist, I'm fine—but someone tried to dissect me today. Again."

Alarm jolts through Tim's whole body; his hands immediately start roaming Kon's torso, probing for wounds. "What?! Are you hurt—"

"I just said, I'm fine, Rob." Kon sounds a little wry as he rolls onto his back. "Jeez. What happened to your listening skills?"

He catches one of Tim's wrists and holds it to his chest, over his heart; Tim can see the sliver of an incision, cut right into the center of the S-shield emblazoned on his chest. He can't tell if it cut the skin beneath or not, but at least he doesn't see any blood.

The tiny smile on Kon's face fades, and Tim softens, studying him. Now that he can look properly, he can see the telltale signs that Kon cried, earlier; his cheeks are a little blotchy, his eyes slightly reddened. An eyelash is stuck to the delicate skin just below his eye.

"Some... ugh. They were some, like, Cadmus-wannabes. Total bozos, though. They had a red sun lamp, but no metagene suppressant, so." Kon shrugs, discontented. "They didn't even use the energy restraints like that time with Amanda Spence, like—c'mon, at least do your basic research if you're gonna try to vivisect a guy, right?" He snorts humorlessly. "I got out fine, took it down, called the S.C.U., it's whatever. I'm just... I'm so tired, Tim," and his voice cracks on Tim's name.

"Kon," he murmurs, leaning down. He presses their foreheads together, his chest aching. He'll have to check the news, find out from reports who exactly was behind this, because... it shouldn't matter, since it's already taken care of, but something inside him burns at the thought that anyone, anywhere, could put such a bone-deep sorrow into Kon's eyes.

"I'm so tired of people acting like I'm—like I'm not a person just 'cuz I hatched outta some stupid tube in a lab." Kon's eyes are too bright. He squeezes them shut and takes a shaky breath. "Like—what do I gotta do, y'know? How do you just—how do you even get through to people who're so convinced clones aren't people? I'm a person, too! I just... I..."

Tim very briefly debates the ethics of breaking into Stryker's just so he can hit someone with his staff. Or his car.

"I'm... really sorry you had to deal with that," he says instead, lamely. It's cold comfort, and awkward, and—

And it makes Kon laugh, watery but real. He blinks his teary-bright eyes up at Tim, brushes a gloved hand to his cheek. "You're mad as hell right now, aren't you?"

Tim smiles ruefully and presses his lips to Kon's jaw. "You caught me." Another kiss, to the corner of Kon's mouth. "I just—I hate that I can't do anything to fix this kinda thing for you. You don't deserve it."

"Mm." Kon takes a second to collect himself, swallows hard, and breathes out slowly. "You do more than you realize, I think. Can you just—can you just hold me? For a little while?"

Tim flops down on top of him immediately, wraps his arms around his head and neck, and smushes his face into Kon's hair. It would probably be more comfortable if they were side-by-side and facing each other, but the advantage of this position is that—

Kon laughs again, soft and fond. His voice is still a little thick, but he's smiling now. "Is that comfy for you...?"

"Kinda." Tim kisses his temple, too. "You smell like smoke."

"Mmf, sorry." Kon sighs again. "And I got it all over the bed now, too, huh..."

"S'okay. We can just grab a different blanket later." Tim scrunches his fingers through Kon's hair until they hit a tangle. "...Want me to wash your hair for you?"

Kon's arms tighten around him, and suddenly he seems like he needs a moment before he can respond. Tim doesn't rush him.

"Yeah," Kon croaks out after a moment, his voice suspiciously wet. "Yeah, Robbie. I'd like that a lot."

[motherdanger]

besties having the worst days of their lives

[shesmore-shoebill]

In FNAF Amanda only ever really panics when she doesn't know what to do + can't do anything and starts thriving once she has something concrete to do, and Shayne Does Not Like the scary shit but is great at trying to reassure his friends + figure out what they should be doing.

Which means we get constant flips between Amanda losing her mind bc she doesn't know what to do and cant do anything oh god oh godddd and Shayne trying to provide actions for her/them to take vs Amanda Doing Something (Anything) With Gusto while Shayne loses his mind over the scary shit happening at increased pace bc Amanda just Keeps Going. and its. great.

[starangela]

ARASHAAA PLEASE

[rmbunnie]

Another little inconsequential red hood thing and I'll admit that I'm decently biased but it irks me to see the whole "Jason can't shut up about his death/he makes his death everyone else's problem" take really frequently because he simply does not do that enough for it to be a thing in like any actual Red Hood story.

It's a thing you see sometimes in modern annuals/comics with large casts, particularly if a writer doesn't seem super confident with writing all of the characters that they're working with or if he's just a background character in this one, because with comics it's quicker to reduce a character to recognizable landmarks than to try and work out a whole new complex voice if you don't really need to, so it's tire iron, Jane Austen, Joker, and death, and it's all written out in dialogue because every character in a group event can't have their own internal monologue, but like. That's pretty much it. UTRH is the establishing event for Jason Todd post death so of course a lot of it is about his death, although it's arguably about the lack of response to his death more than his death itself, and he certainly makes it Bruce's issue but one beef doesn't make a trend. Plus if his death is anyone's issue beyond his own Bruce and Joker are like the number one guys whose issue it is. He THINKS about his death a ton in Lost Days, but it doesn't really reflect externally on any of his interactions besides with Joker, which again, that's justified and relevant beef. Teen Titans 29 is more about his place in the hero community/feeling like he was an outsider even before the bomb/Tim being the new robin than about his death, and side note, that being counted as an attempt on Tim's life also bugs me. He beat him up and then left of his own volition. That's not an assassination attempt its called a fight, albeit a sneaky and unfair one. But anyways. I can't speak on Battle for the Cowl because i haven't read it, both that and Batman and Robin 2009 don't really compel me, but it's entirely possible that's an outlier to my point seeing as I kinda sorta haven't read it and don't care to lmao. Even New 52 (although HIGHLY unpopular) and Rebirth/Dawn of DC/Whatever we're doing now Red Hood content don't really have him talking to people about it besides the occasional little quips. He might make stances that were developed because of his death other people's problem, like in the Mia Dearden Green Arrow situation with the "getting involved in other people's business" issue, but acting like he makes specifically his death everyone else's problem is ignoring all of the perfectly valid actually canon things he makes other people's problem. Most of the unpleasant traits he brings to the table are a result of his death and the sense of abandonment and betrayal that came with it, but that doesn't mean he's bringing his death into it when he acts unpleasantly any more than he's bringing his birth into it when he shows up in the first place. The consequences do not equal the event. All this to say it's irritating when people say the character is grating because he doesn't stop whining about his death when that kinda just indicates to me that they're working off fanon based on fanon based on kinda mid batman annual.

[ace-of-clubs-and-diamonds]

Find My Sanctuary

Your fingers twitched around the cup cradled between your hands. You pressed the pads of your fingers into its warmth and imagined it was someone’s neck. Her father’s, Jigsaw’s. Whoever it needed to be.

Rating: Mature Fandom: Saw Pairing: Amanda Young x GN!Reader Word count: 3.2K Content warnings: Angst, trauma, violent intrusive thoughts, mentioned gore, implied/referenced abuse, emotional breakdowns, panic attacks, implied/referenced self-harm, kissing, non-explicit sex, sex as a coping mechanism. There’s some cutesy shit too but it goes downhill fast, so savor it. Some weird prose, tangential rambling, and unnecessary symbolism as the author tries to be poetic. Saw is its own warning. AO3 Link: Here

Author’s Note: So this was inspired by a self-indulgent piece I wrote back in December! I wanted to expand upon it, but in the process it became.... much less cute than the original. In fact it became quite angsty. But this is the second installment in a series of Amanda Young x Reader fics, the first of which is Too Late I'm Dead. It’s not necessary to read first, but it might provide context. I had a lot of fun with this, and I’m super excited for this series! I hope you enjoy <3

You tapped a fingernail against the glass, breath leaving a puff of condensation on the pane from how cold it was outside. “I don’t think this is gonna let up anytime soon,” you admitted. You’d already waited at the diner for an hour longer than you’d expected, and the rain had only gotten more intense, pounding against the window as if determined to force its way inside.

Amanda made a noncommittal sound of agreement. She looked tiny on the other side of the table, the faded red vinyl of the booth threatening to swallow her up. But she looked at ease with the thought of that. At ease sitting here, drinking endless amounts of coffee and talking about nothing, talking about everything. As if the world didn’t exist outside the preciously unremarkable 24 hour diner.

She looked.... happy. She had a fist planted against her cheek and a soft, barely-there smile. Fuck, you wanted to capture that image forever. Wished you had a camera to snap a picture of her, of the tender curve of her lips, the choppy hair that reached just past her chin, the lack of tension that seemed to take residence in her shoulders as if she was permanently braced for a blow that never came.

The thought settled in your stomach and left a bitter taste in your throat. All the things she’d experienced at the hands of her father, the cards she’d been dealt in life, and then Jigsaw.... Your fingers twitched around the cup cradled between your hands. You pressed the pads of your fingers into its warmth and imagined it was someone’s neck. Her father’s, Jigsaw’s. Whoever it needed to be. Before this, the thought might’ve given you pause. The overwhelming desire to lash out and unleash furious, boiling, poisonous hatred and take someone by the neck, so intense you could almost feel it. You would’ve stopped, maybe been a little concerned. Where did that come from? you would wonder to yourself.

You knew exactly where it had come from. It had come from the same part of you that ripped yourself free of the nails Jigsaw had hammered through your palms. It had come from the same part of you that was holding onto Amanda like a lifeline, like the last thing in this damned world keeping you afloat. You would kill for her, would kill to protect the life you had escaped with despite all odds. You would kill to preserve the soft smile and the tender gaze that had settled against you. After all this, you would’ve done anything.

“Most people are so ungrateful to be alive. Most take for granted the fragility of their lives and how numbered their days are. How easily good things can slip between their fingers. But not you. Not anymore.”

Not anymore.

Now you kept a death grip on every good thing that showed up in your life. And Amanda was at the top of that list.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispered. You shook your head and grinned sheepishly. You’d been mid-reverie, hadn’t meant to stare. Although you gladly would’ve spent hours memorizing every line, every curve and angle and detail of her face. The rest of her, too.

“Nothing.” You shifted your gaze out the window again. Her own gaze remained on you, heavy like a physical touch, like a possessive caress. It drew you back to her. As it always did. When it came to her, you were little more than a moth drawn to the flame. “Just happy to be here, I guess. With you.”

The words might’ve been cheesy under any other circumstance, but not with you two. Not when you’d both fought and killed and maimed to see another day.

And that wasn’t lost on Amanda. She looked at you with such raw, open adoration that it made your heart hurt. And then she came round to your side of the table and kissed the hurt away.

Someone muttered something nasty and only half-audible. The image of crushing the column of a throat flashed through your mind again. You tightened your grip on Amanda instead. When she finally pulled away, her lips were soft and wet and her crimson-red lipstick was just slightly smeared. The desire to wrap yourself around her, to press her to your chest and hold her there until your skin and bones melded together, pulsed through your body with breath-stealing intensity.

“Do you want to head back to my place?” you asked quietly. “Or yours.”

“Yours,” she said immediately. “But not yet. Just a little longer.”

You nodded and pulled away, ignoring the pang of disappointment at her words. Not at her desire to stay here longer. You found yourself hesitant to leave, as well. You could’ve spent the rest of your life trapped in this mediocre diner with her, just to see her smile and laugh and never worry again. Just the two of you, isolated from all the shit that had happened outside. No, the disappointment was from the first part. “Yours.” She had answered so quickly. She always wanted to go back to your place. She always wanted to talk about you, your job, your hobbies, what you were up to. She never wanted to go back to her place, never wanted to tell you about her job, her hobbies, what she was up to. She evaded any question that was too deep, that required anything more than a vague hand-waving answer. It was like she was determined to keep the conversation away from herself. You weren’t sure why. It would’ve made you uneasy if not for everything she’d been through, and that’s why you didn’t press. Because she had been through so much, been burned so many times. Even with your disappointment, you couldn’t find it in you to be too upset about it. God knows how long it took you to open up about your own shit, after Jigsaw. And she’d been trapped by him twice. You couldn’t blame her.

Instead, you just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pressed you cheek against her hair, inhaling the faint smell of sweat and cheap shampoo. It was comforting. You uncoiled as she leaned into you.

The two of you watched in silence as the diner’s staff changed, trading out one group for another. The rain still hammered against the glass, almost religious in its determination. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like a slow-approaching omen. Of what? You weren’t quite sure, at first.

But the answer came soon enough.

You’d only distantly registered the sound of the diner’s door opening, the little bell pinging. It wasn’t until Amanda went rigid in your grasp that you looked up. Her face was frozen in an expression that you could only call “deer in headlights” – brown eyes wide, face pale, something startled and unpleasant and indecipherable written across her features. Your mouth was already starting to form the words, “What’s wrong?” when you followed her line of sight.

A man had entered the diner and approached the counter, one arm propped against the edge, the other resting against his hip and strategically brushing the edge of his jacket back to reveal a police badge hooked to his belt. Dark wavy hair, lips fixed halfway between a grimace and a pout, and a build like a brick shithouse. You didn’t recognize him. But Amanda most certainly did – she’d gone dead still in your grasp. You could hear her teeth grinding.

Who the fuck was this guy?

He ordered something from the cute girl with a nose piercing who was manning the counter, then cast a glance around the diner. He looked so deeply unimpressed that his expression bordered on disgust. And then his gaze snagged on Amanda. Surprise and recognition flitted across his face, lighting those blue eyes as his mouth pressed into a flat line. You could feel the tension bleeding into the air, from both him and Amanda, like blood from a wound bleeding into water. That rigid tightness had returned to Amanda’s shoulders, coiled even tighter than usual, so tight you thought she was going to spring out of the booth and throw herself at him with bared teeth and brandished claws.

And then his gaze landed on you.

Questioning, roving, examining you like a butterfly’s corpse pinned to a board. Like sticky, careless hands pawing through your organs. Your skin crawled. You didn’t even know why. You curled your hands into fists and dug your nails into your palms, into the scars there. It took everything not to cringe under the intensity of that look. The intensity of Amanda’s gaze was warm like the sun, inviting and alluring – his burned like ice.

After what felt like an eternity, he turned away. Discarded the both of you to turn his attention back to the girl behind the counter, who was offering him the coffee he’d ordered. She looked just about ready to offer herself, too.

You remembered to breathe. And then you remembered Amanda in your arms, and the fact that she’d stopped breathing.

You squeezed the solid muscle of her bicep. It broke whatever spell she was under. She snapped her gaze away from the man to your face, eyes wild and furious and with that element of something you still couldn’t put a name to. You let your concern show on your face. “Are you okay?”

“We’re leaving.” Amanda was on her feet and shrugging on her jacket before you could blink. Her movements were sharp and aggressive, like she was barely restraining herself from exploding. You scrambled for your own jacket. Amanda threw a wad of cash onto the table, and you hoped it was enough to cover the obscene amount of coffee you’d both consumed while there. She was already halfway to the door while you were struggling to get your arms through your jacket sleeves. You almost pointed out that it was still pouring.

You doubted she cared.

Amanda shoved through the door, and you felt the man’s eyes on both of you as you followed her. Neither of your jackets were waterproof. You were soaked and shivering in seconds, teeth chattering so hard you could feel your skull vibrating. The angry, quick walking pace Amanda set wasn’t enough to warm you up, so you just crossed your arms and hunched your shoulders and grit your teeth as your mind whirled.

Who the fuck was that guy, and why had Amanda reacted like that? He was evidently some sort of cop. You raked over everything Amanda had told you about her past. Former drug dealer wasn’t likely. Neither was an ex – he was hardly her type. He couldn’t have been the cop who’d framed and arrested her, because Amanda had told you that he was dead. Was he someone she’d run into while she was in jail, when she’d first started using? A cop who’d been particularly cruel? Maybe a cop who’d interviewed her after her Jigsaw traps, who’d dismissed and belittled her? Or maybe it had nothing to do with his badge. You mulled over the other possibilities. There were several, and each of them had your stomach roiling with unease.

By the time you got back to your tiny apartment, your hands were trembling so badly you struggled to get the key into the lock. Amanda huffed in frustration and grabbed them from you. She stabbed the key in as if imagining the lock was the cop from the diner.

“I had to cut him open to get the key. It was in his intestines. And I thought he was dead at first, but he wasn’t. Just drugged. Just... asleep. He woke up right as I started cutting into him....”

The door’s lock clicked open and Amanda shoved through. You followed her with less fervor. The sounds of squeaking boots filled the apartment as she paced angrily. You listening to her as you clicked the five different locks on your apartment door into place – you’d had them installed after you’d been discharged from the hospital.

She was muttering to herself under her breath. You couldn’t parse the actual words being said, but the acrid fury was clear. Tension locked around your vertebrae.

“Fuck!”

You whirled, alarm spiking through you. Amanda had stopped in the middle of the space, the palms of her hands smacked against her forehead, fingers gripping her hair and eyes screwed shut and face contorted as if she was in physical pain. She looked like she was on the verge of a breakdown. She looked like she was on the verge of bursting apart.

The image of digging your fingers into that cop’s neck tore through you, visceral and hot and angry. This time, you held onto the image. Pictured your nails breaking his skin and your palms crushing his windpipe as he stared up at you with wide blue eyes. Whoever the fuck he was, you’d make him regret whatever the hell he’d done to send Amanda spiraling.

A ragged breath sawed out of Amanda. You tucked the image away for now and rushed to her side. “Hey, honey, sweetheart. Look at me.” You kept your touch as soft as your voice when you placed your hands against her arms. Enough to let her know you were there, but not enough to force her into anything. “Look at me. It’s okay. We’re home now. You’re okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.” Amanda’s breath rattled in and out, too rapid and too shallow, as if she was struggling not to burst into tears.

You had no idea what was happening. It was so surreal to see Amanda – strong, capable, beautiful Amanda, who’d been your lifeline ever since you met her – on the verge of a breakdown. It was as if your roles had been flipped, like Amanda had rushed out of that Jigsaw survivor’s meeting instead of you, tears in her eyes, and like you’d calmly turned around from your seat on the steps instead of her. It made anxiety gnaw at your insides and your throat ache. It made you feel woefully ill-prepared to deal with this. But fuck, you had to do something. You had to try.

“Mandy,” you pleaded with her. You moved your hands to her wrists and gently tried to pull them away. You were afraid she was going to rip her hair out. “Sweetheart, please.”

She stared at you with wild eyes. She no longer looked like a deer in headlights. She looked like a cornered animal, hackles raised and ready to shed blood to survive, even as fear pumped through her veins like a half-blinding drug. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

“Here. Put your hand here.” You moved one of her hands to your neck, pressing her ice-cold fingers against your pulse. “Feel my heartbeat. Pay attention to it, yeah? Don’t focus on anything else, just focus on that. Focus on me.” It was a shot in the dark. You’d done something similar for yourself a thousand times before when you were in the worst of your post-trap paranoia, when you thrashed awake in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and unable to breathe. In a moment of desperation, half out of your mind with sleep-deprivation and fear, you’d bought yourself one of those stuffed animals with a heartbeat. You’d listen to it when you woke up already barreling head-first into a panic attack, focused on the metronome ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum instead of your own rebelling body. It had helped you. Grounded you. You had no idea if it would help her. Or if your own pulse was too frantic to be effective.

And at first it seemed like it didn’t. She was trembling and cold and teary-eyed. Her grasp on your throat was just a hair too tight, just shy of comfortable.

But after what seemed like hours in limbo, her breathing slowed. Deepened. It was unsteady, but it was something. Her eyes lost some of their panic and focused on you.

You offered her a soft, cautious smile. “Hey. Hey, honey. I’m here. You’re okay.”

She stared at you for a silent moment, then her hand moved from the column of your throat to cup the back of your neck and she was pulling you into a bruising kiss. A fierce press of lips and teeth, a possessive gnashing that didn’t give you a chance to draw breath until she pulled away. She cupped your face between her hands. Dark eyes glimmered with desperation.

“Please don’t leave,” she whispered.

“Whu–”

“Please promise me.” She choked back tears. “Promise me that you won’t leave. You’ll stay. You won’t leave me.” She shook her head at some unspoken question. “Not after everything, not after all this. Everything I’ve done, I–” A small, broken noise that made you feel ill. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll stay.”

You stared at her in bewilderment. You’d been plummeted into unknown waters, had no idea where this was coming from, only half an idea of what she was talking about. The traps? The things she’d done to survive? Of course you couldn’t blame her for that, of course you wouldn’t leave her –

“I promise. I promise.” You brushed your thumbs against her cheeks, sweeping away the spilt tears. You kissed them away and tasted salt. “I promise.”

She kissed you again with the same fervor as before. As if she was scared you’d slip out from between her fingers, like mist in the sun, like blood in water. As if she was trying to memorize you, to convince you to stay with the movements of her mouth and her hands. As if she might just consume you to keep you. And there was nothing you could do but kiss her back and desperately try to communicate in that same language that you didn’t need convinced. You were here, you were with her, you weren’t leaving, and you never would, no matter what. No matter what she thought she’d done, no matter your scarred bodies and your bent souls.

At some point you ended up in your bedroom, and Amanda begged you to distract her, to ground her, to keep her from destroying herself piece by piece. And so you did. You worshipped every part of her. You pressed kisses to her scars, whispered promises and sweet nothings into her skin. You wrung out sweet pleasure from her until the tears of fear and desperation turned into tears of ecstasy and she was sweetly moaning your name like you were the only thing keeping her from shattering.

She fell asleep curled in your arms. It was almost unnerving how fragile she suddenly looked, how small and brittle. You gently traced a line up her arm and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. She buried herself further in your embrace. She looked so much calmer, now. At ease. A total contrast to just a few hours ago.

Despite the exhaustion tugging at your own mind, you stayed awake a while longer. Kept watch for whatever mental demons might come, held her close, and imagined wringing that cop’s throat with your bare hands.

[baflegacy]

Maybe a hot take but fuckboy amanda is the best thing smosh has given me, and I want more of fuckboy amanda flirting with angela for a video

edwin o’brien truly was a menace….really felt that youtube comment that said “why is amanda’s rizz working on me” in the baf legacy video

[carnivalls]

want to bring her into the mutual circle so bad

[robinsversion]

I was rewatching hbomb’s video for the millionth time yesterday and the line “I don’t know why anyone would make video essays like this unless they were strictly in it for the money” stood out to me because if you replace “make video essays” with “write poetry” that perfectly describes my thoughts about Rupi Kaur.

[pintsofguinnesmakeyoustrong]

had a dream that jigsaw made a trap that was a fucked up dentist chair holding the victims arms down and their head tilted back and just preparing a plate of nachos with guacamole, sour cream, salsa, cheese and jalapenos on the victims face and they had to eat the whole thing before they suffocated in. The nachos.

[jazzyjj]

I missed the stream when it was live but seeing that it was the painting crew plus spencer building Legos for an hour and a half!!?

LET'S GOOOO

[shesmore-shoebill]

As promised: An Amangela fic inspired by the whole "Hey Siri, remind me I'm an asshole at 2:30 tomorrow" arm grabbing in the latest Sounds Fishy video.

Written sporadically over the course of today, edited on the go. Completely platonic although there ARE bits in here you can interpret otherwise if you'd like.

also yes when i posted about this earlier today i said it was 2.6k words. You might notice it is 4.2k words. Thats because I wrote everything leading up to the actual inspiring event. And then when I tried to wrap up the fic the actual event snuck in and doubled the size. Oops.

[sillyguy-supreme]

🥺🌹🙏

“If he had to choose between saving either you or me, he would save you.”

“No,” said Keefe. “I would never give him the option.”

“You’re right. You would sacrifice yourself, and he would blame me for your death my whole life.”

[thecollectionsof]

Can I have 11 and 19 please 😊

11. What work took you the longest to write?

this year?? i mean soulmate au has been a wip since early september so i think that one takes the cake, but as-of-yet unreleased postcards fic was conceptualized in may and is looking to be my longest fic yet so that one might beat it. for posted fics it was scam likely, which i think i started in march 2022??

19. What’s one pairing you want to explore next year?

i think i wanna do more lemyanka maybe? and i would like to actually write for s16 ships when people are into them because i missed that for s15 :p who knows if i will, because i'm not really the type to write ships i'm not into myself, but i'm hoping i'll find one that i enjoy!!!! :)

[stabbyapologist]

Do I write a chapter in my Bellatrix/OFC fanfic or start a new wip between Amanda/OFC/Hoffman?

*internally screaming in indecision*