#as yet untitled fic

[private-bryan]

WIP Wednesday

So, after "In Their Thirties" rewired my brain the other day, this fic idea moved in - this is your fault, areseebee. When/If it's done, it'll be a companion piece for chapter 13 of MQRB (assuming I make it that far for that fic, too), and this also is a prequel explaining James and Erin's living arrangements in my fic "To Travel", set ~5-6 years beforehand.

It's not alluded to yet in the draft, but this fic will show the main difference I have in my headcanon for Future Jerin compared to most of my mutuals' - that is, I think Erin would be the one to leave Northern Ireland, not James.

He's found a home with them, which is something he was missing with Kathy IMO, and I think he'd stay in Belfast for a bit after Uni, then later move back to Derry. Erin wants to be more worldly, but she does have a habit of looking before she leaps...

He should have gone. It was stupid, really. She was his best friend, the person he'd call every week to spend hours chatting to, and she'd email him every day to check in. Even with all the wedding planning going on, she had still kept it up. He'd lost track of which excuse he'd told which person. He was sick. No, he was working. No, he'd lost his passport (which even Michelle had said was a stupid excuse, considering he could have travelled over on the ferry using just his driving licence). Whatever anyone believed, she was over there, no doubt being whirled around on the dancefloor by her new husband under the loving gaze of her friends and family (could he still include himself in that, now?), while he was sitting in his depressingly empty new home, surrounded by still packed boxes and unassembled furniture. He tried not to think about the fact that he'd made sure the bottles of wine were near the top of the kitchen box. The only light was from the front hall, the previous owner having removed the rest of the bulbs when they’d moved out; he’d not bothered to move it over to the living room, knowing that he’d just have to go out and get more the next day anyway. He thought there was a bedside lamp tucked away in one of the boxes nearby if he needed it, but right now the darkness suited his mood. A quiet buzz sounded from the other side of the room, and the walls were briefly painted a pale blue as his Blackberry received another text message. He’d been getting them, on and off, all day; Michelle had been gently teasing him at first, saying how all the English were rides and that he’d obviously pulled the short straw looks-wise, but then she had texted him. I hope you’re OK. I wish you were here today. I need you here. That was her to a 'T', ever the stickler for correct spelling and punctuation. He’d tossed it into the corner after that, his stomach giving sickening flips, and had resolutely ignored every text and call that had been sent since. He didn’t need the play-by-play of what was happening, about how the ceremony had gone, about how happy she was. A car drove past, its lights briefly illuminating the room and catching the half-filled glass in his hand, before the evening gloom returned.  He’d wanted to get drunk all day, the knowledge of what was going on across the Irish Sea preying on his mind as he shifted things from the rented van into the house, but even this late he was still only on his second glass of rosé. Maybe that was the reason she’d never made another attempt at them getting together over the last nine years; he was too safe, too boring.  She’d had ample opportunities to make a move if she’d wanted to. They’d been together often enough, thick as thieves all the way through the last years of school, through Uni and beyond, until she’d found her match and they’d drifted apart a bit. He’d never seen her more enthusiastic then, and she didn’t need him hanging on when she was getting a serious relationship off of the ground. So he'd stepped back, still being good friends but not as close as they'd once been; it had almost come as a relief when they became separated by the ferry journey. A clock chimed from one of the boxes, muted and faint, and he checked his watch.  11 o’clock, and all was “well”.

[maxmaxsupersupermax]

a little preview as to their interactions early on in the as of yet unnamed RWRB lestappen AU.

Green eyes that are glaring at him. ‘Which Disney prince are you cosplaying as?’ Max asks.

‘This is traditional-‘

‘Right so from the middle ages?’ He interrupts a prince, which he is totally not allowed to do.

‘Well, that’s where your family would like to go back to, non?’

‘And it’s the bit that your family never left.’ Max says, aware of how his voice has gone cold. ‘Don’t you have a cousin to marry? How many proposals do you get per day, huh, prince charming?’ Max can see Daniel approaching them from the corner of his eye. He looks concerned, probably for Max’s reputation or something, like that isn’t ruined already.

Charles squares his shoulders. He’s an inch shorter than Max and that inch matters when you’re the kind of basically-enemies that they are. ‘At least people want to marry me, I can’t imagine the pain of the poor soul that has to spend the rest of their life with you.’

How're we feeling, too harsh? Just right? I mean early on they really are very bitch to each other no?

[hippolotamus]

Thirsty Fuck it Friday 🪩

Tagged by @tizniz for Thirsty Thursday and @daffi-990 for Fuck it Friday. And let me just say... go read their snippets if you haven't because 🔥🔥🔥

okay! so, two tag days, two snippets... right? a little Buddie here, a little Lutalia there. bon appetit!

from debatably (i use that so loosely lmao) sfw watch my shattered edges glisten:

Whatever Eddie thought he was going to see tonight– this was not it. He was prepared for flowing, graceful, and ethereal. For simultaneously muted and vibrant blending together in what could almost be described as an erotic ballet.   This, however– it’s loud and bold. Like being thrust into the daylight after years of darkness, or an endless storm, sending the shadows scattering.  Arsen steps out to music that begins with roughly ten seconds of synthesized horns before melting into an intense beat. He’s forgone his usual long sleeved mesh tee, wearing only a black chest harness on top. Even that’s slightly different, using a shiny patent leather instead of a matte finish. It hugs his muscles perfectly, with horizontal straps encasing his pecs and a singular vertical strap down the middle that disappears under matching booty shorts that showcase his thick thighs. Normally, Arsen seems to tease at whatever’s hiding beneath his clothes. Just enough of an outline to make Eddie wonder. Tonight there is no hinting. There’s an obvious bulge under the skin tight attire, further highlighted by the way he drags his palms up his quads and deliberately frames it with his fingers. Like he’s showing off. Strutting around like a peacock looking to prove he’s the best mate.

Buck’s music 😏

And some definitely nsfw untitled Lutalia (they are strangers at this point and Lucy hasn't given up her name):

Her right hand slips over Nat’s abdomen, past the hem of her dress until she’s grazing Nat’s inner thigh. A torturous barely there touch that sets her alight. Fuck.  How did she let herself go so long without this? How did she get so lost in the business of people dying that she denied herself the chance to live? Nat lets out a breathy whine, already just this side of desperate.  The woman nibbles her ear, chuckling darkly. “Impatient, are we?”  “Y-yeah. Yes.” Corset moans, somehow holding Nat closer. “Goddamn, what a fucking dream you are. Bet you’re all wet for me, too, aren’t you?” Nat knows she is, can feel the slickness between her legs. All she’s able to manage is a nod in response.  Corset hums appreciatively, tracing an invisible path up, up, up.  The prospect of relief is so near, Nat buzzes with excitement, eagerly anticipating the moment she’ll finally be touched the way she wants. Short nails scrape along her skin, toying with the seam of her underwear. She’s never been more grateful for being low on clean laundry and being forced to choose a thong tonight.  Except Corset pulls away then and Nat whines. A high pitched undignified thing that should leave her drowning in shame if she wasn’t so turned on.  “Don’t you worry. You’re getting what’s coming to you. Just gonna make a few adjustments first.” Corset deftly unzips the back of Nat’s dress, allowing the front to drop, exposing her breasts. Sleek leather and ribbon presses into her spine while Corset grins salaciously, rolling each nipple between her fingers. Corset’s other hand brushes over her swollen, sensitive clit through damp lacy fabric.  Nat meets her eyes in the mirror, pleading for more.  “Christ, just look at yourself, baby. Look how beautiful you are for me.” Nat does and fuck. She looks as debauched as she feels. Tits out and makeup smeared, letting a complete stranger be in control of her pleasure.

np tagging @stereopticons @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @actuallyitsellie @apothecarose @barbiediaz @buddierights @chaosandwolves @diazsdimples @elvensorceress @epicbuddieficrecs @eowon @fortheloveofbuddie @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @say-bi-for-me @honestlydarkprincess @hoodie-buck @indestructibleheart @jesuisici33 @thekristen999 @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @lizzie-bennetdarcy @loserdiaz @loveyouanyway @monsterrae1 @rmd-writes @spaceprincessem @spotsandsocks @statueinthestone @steadfastsaturnsrings @the-likesofus @theotherbuckley @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @vanillahigh00 @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @welcometololaland @wikiangela @wildlife4life @your-catfish-friend @maygrantgf and anyone else who wants to 😘

[irregularcollapse]

wots all this then

[nonbinary-octopus]

I've been toying with a fic concept for a few days, and thinking about it in the shower helped consolidate my thoughts, and then rather than write it down I decided to use a voice recorder and tell my wife about it, and in the process figured out more stuff about it, and tomorrow I plan to write up at least the premise and an outline

what I shall tell you for now is that it is sanders sides and it was inspired by this:

(I can't find the post I originally saw this on, but I was able to google this image again easily enough)

[freneticfloetry]

I'm trying very hard not to make this split snippet thing A Thing, but it's difficult when your ADHD brain won't settle. So it's yet another dual fandom day, this one dedicated to Lim, because she has made me unspeakably happy with Knave-verse happenings.

Shocking no one, neither of these is actually seven sentences.

Thanks to @carlos-in-glasses @heartstringsduet @strandnreyes @welcometololaland @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad @bonheur-cafe @lemonlyman-dotcom and @liminalmemories21 for the tags.

First up, yet another slice of esta noche (which is so close to being done, damn adulting and my fickle muse):

TK takes his fiancé’s face between both palms and pulls him in until their foreheads knock together. “It’ll be okay,” he says softly, hoping Carlos can hear all the ways that he means it. “Now get out of here. The sooner you handle whatever this is, the sooner you can come back home.” They hang there for a moment, one with eyes wide open and the other’s sweetly shut, and there’s something suspended in the scant space between them, something precious and fragile and sacred. He’s close enough to count Carlos’ eyelashes. It’s still too soon when Carlos starts to move — brings his free hand up to squeeze TK’s hip, tips his head back to press his lips to TK’s temple. “I’ll text you.” “You better.” Throat burning, TK lets go. He musters up another smile, curls his fingers into fists and shoves them in the pockets of his sweats, just to keep himself from reaching out again. “Bye, baby.”

And once again, a wild FirstPrince appears:

“I’ve never actually… done this before?” Henry raises an eyebrow, and Alex rushes ahead with more words, as he is forever wont to do. “I want to. In case that wasn't clear. Like, fuck, I’m gonna enjoy the shit out of this. I just, you know… need you to tell me if it sucks.” His grip tightens almost involuntarily, at odds with the wide-open earnestness on his face, and Henry sucks in a breath and fists both hands in the sheets. By his estimation, there's enough resolve left in him to either respond in a way that's calm and collected or refrain from coming in his pants, but not nearly enough to do both. “Alex,” he says, hanging on by a thread despite the fact that he has literally dreamt about this, “I cannot stress enough what a virtual impossibility that is. The mere act of you breathing in the general vicinity has already made my top three.” Alex blinks, struck seemingly silent for once in his life. Then he grins, slow and wide and bright as the sun, even as his eyes eclipse. “Pretty sure I can do better than breathe on it,” he drawls, “but hey, if that’s what you’re into, sweetheart.”

Tagging in @never-blooms @paperstorm @reyesstrand @rmd-writes @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @ladytessa74 @herefortarlos @three-drink-amy @walkinginland @orchidscript @carlos-tk @nancys-braids @whatsintheboxmh and @alrightbuckaroo !

[cbk1000]

@aemelia is standing over me cracking a bullwhip and forcing me to write about two morons having sex on a luxury train, so here's another little preview of that. The other two previews posted earlier can be found here and here.

But Merlin ruined it for him, by anticipating what had been a brilliant plan, and therefore one which ought to have been safely out of the reach of his brain. All morning Arthur avoided him by moving swiftly along to another car when he saw the dark head entering his, and answering Morgana’s Where the hell are you texts with, Sorry, you must have just missed me till she gave up even sending them. 

Then when everyone disembarked at the village, he hurried back to their room, and found Merlin sat on the scene of the crime. He froze. Merlin was fiddling the phone in his hand all round, but looking up steadily at him, with unrelenting eye contact. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Arthur stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just came back for a shower.”

“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I’m here. Thought you might not get off the train with everyone else, considering the fact that I haven’t seen you all morning even though we share a room and we’re on a train with very limited hiding places.”

Arthur shifted from foot to foot. “I wasn’t hiding, I was having a chat with that couple from California.”

“Oh yeah?” Merlin raised an eyebrow. “So you were stationary, in one spot, chatting to this couple, and I missed you every time I went through every car looking for you? That’s interesting.”

Arthur looked away.

Merlin sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. I can ask Gwaine if he’ll switch rooms. I could stay with him, and you with Morgana.”

“And how are you going to explain why we’re switching rooms?”

“I’ll just say you snore and I forgot my earplugs. Morgana has those earbuds that play white noise or whatever. She’ll be fine.”

“Well, I won’t; I can’t stay with Morgana. We’ll kill one another.”

“Fine, then I’ll stay with Morgana.”

“You’re going to share a bed with Morgana?”

“We’re both adults. We can platonically share a bed.”

“Yes, you certainly have a stellar track record of that,” Arthur pointed out, waspishly. 

“Well, Morgana’s dating Gwaine, and she’s a lot smarter than you, so I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Merlin snapped.

“What do you mean ‘smarter than me’, like it’s my fault, when it was your idea!” Arthur cried.

“Well, you could have said, ‘No, Merlin, don’t suck my dick’ like a reasonable person. I’d been drinking and I hadn’t been laid in a while, so you had our brain cell, and you should have used it.”

Arthur frowned down at him. “So you did it because you were drunk?” 

Merlin rubbed his face with both hands. “I wasn’t drunk drunk, but do you think I would have done that sober? When you said you’d never come from a blowjob, the alcohol took over my mouth, and I just blurted that out, and then when you didn’t tell me to fuck off like a sane person, my dick took over from there.”

“So you’re saying that you, an entire, whole, adult man, are not in charge of your own actions?”

“When I haven’t had sex in over six months and someone offers to blow me, no, I am not in charge, my penis is.” He was striving for a light tone, but must have seen on Arthur’s face that it was not landing as he had meant it to; that he was doing more harm than good: all of which was being done to Arthur’s throat, which felt suddenly as hot, and tight, and tremulous as it had in the dining car. He rubbed his face again. “Look, you have to stop avoiding me. We’ve been mates over a decade, and we’ve never let being dumbarses fuck it up before. So either we switch rooms, or one of us kips on the sofa, but we don’t tiptoe round one another, or duck into another car all week every time we see the other one coming, because we were horny.” He clasped his hands between his knees. “It’s just getting off. Stimulation is stimulation and all that. I mean, it was a bit gay for you to blow me, but other than that, you’re fine.”

Arthur scowled at him.

“You kept your socks on, and that’s the first rule of ‘no homo.’”

“Oh, is it?” Arthur snapped. “Well, you had yours off, so what does that mean?”

“That I’m comfortably bisexual and I don’t have to have a crisis about getting a blowjob from a man.”

“I rather think the problem is specifically which man gave you the blowjob.”

[charmsandtealeaves]

Mood board for an as yet untitled fic.

It's been sitting on my backburner of ideas for a while but I hadn't really fleshed it out and didn't think it'd be something people would find interesting to read. But @kay-elle-cee said she'd read it so.... it's happening!

[stergeon]

🦈❤️ (for that writer ask post)

�� Which character is the toughest to write?

i’m lucky in that most characters flow pretty easily for me, but i’ve struggled the most with writing ferdinand and bernadetta.

ferdinand’s voice is more challenging to execute than i ever anticipate it will be. i barely featured him in chapter 1 of muscle memory, but it was enough to stress me out. he has this particular tone i can’t seem to nail—he’s overly confident and sunny in a way that can come off as oafish, but that oafishness is usually hiding a clever and thoughtful truth.

in general, i like bernie, but she’s not my favorite lmao. pre-timeskip, i find her to be so tough to write as she spirals for nothing and can easily take control of a scene. it’s hard to keep her on task, and i worry about her coming off cringey. i’ve only made an attempt at writing her in echoes of zanado and i’m not sure i’ll do it again, though i’ll definitely give post-timeskip bernie a chance to shine at some point. gotta reward her for all that growth.

i’ve also taken a few stabs at writing locked tomb fics, but i simply cannot get harrowhark’s voice quite right, so those have yet to see the light of day. alas. maybe i’ll finish one eventually!

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

hmmmmm. i don’t feel like i’m particularly skilled at crafting one-liners that stand out or are all that witty. i tend to either be partial to parts of sentences or entire passages that flow well. for whatever reason, i was pleased with the line in muscle memory chapter 2 about kissing the “soft plateau below her navel” even though it’s just describing a tummy lol. the words feel nice together.

i’m gonna cheat and throw a few out here. edelgard’s rant about the cats’ names in her majesty’s favored felines was so fun to write and still cracks me up. she’s so high-drama smdh. love her. there’s also a really stupid sex joke early in that story that’s not even a joke, per se, but also makes me laugh.

i think like you mean it contains some of my most primo navel-gazing angst, and i’m especially fond of the very last paragraph:

She held her like she was the other end of the tether, like she was the only thing keeping her here, like holding her could save her, could give her purpose, could make her worthy, like the heat-on-heat of their intertwined bodies could make meaning of all the things that didn’t make sense in this world. She closed her eyes, and held her, and begged the favor of an absent god, praying that she—that this—could be enough.

i also like this line from chapter eight of at the edge of the void:

And even without her love, he would still choose to make himself a planet and remain in her orbit, knowing full well he would be eventually swallowed by the gravity of a dying sun.

unfortunately, my neuroticism doesn’t let me like it that much because i’ve not put enough thought into whether anyone in fódlan, especially edelgard, has a concept of what gravity is or that suns (plural) can die. i won’t let me have any fun.

[monstersinthecosmos]

Hiiiii!!!!😁

For your ask game!

I would love to know anything you are willing to share about your number 1, the mael fic!

dfasjkl I'm working on a fic about the year Marius was held captive and like how he copes with the loss of his freedom and confronts his upbringing and the empty space of his mother :)

Since the fic takes place almost entirely inside his room I'm using a lot of memories/dreams to fill the space, his memory being a window to the world he's lost, something he can only think about and not change!

So anyway here's a memory he's having about a time he slipped and busted his chin open:

Sabina leaned back into the water, continued to soak as Junia took the towel, knelt at Marius’s side, inspected the cut on his chin. She pet his hair back and kissed him on the forehead and helped him up, lead him out of the room. And no scolding him for crying. No telling him not to act like a girl. Just the quiet understanding. She held his hand as someone sutured it closed, and rubbed his back as he hiccuped through the comedown. He sat on her lap for a long time afterwards, still sniffling here and there, comforted by the smell of lavender in her hair. His teeth had hurt for days after that, and it took months for the tinge of rust to come out of the grout.  And his headaches in the present are enough to permeate the half-there dreamspace of memory. Splitting his chin open hadn’t caused headaches like this, only just made it hard to eat for a few days. Even at five years of age he’d been afraid to complain about it, anyway, too embarrassed by the way he’d cried, and too shamed that Junia had been right.  But now, in hazy half-sleep, his memory of it is changed. The heat of his bed, cocooned in the furs, blisters around him, and he remembers the warm humid feeling of snuggling up to Junia. In the fog, he mistakes the sweet smell of the straw roof for Junia’s perfume. Even the crackling sound from the fire reminds him of his father’s kitchen, and how Junia had brought him there to find the slave who could do sutures. It was their cook, Leno, who laughed as he sat Marius on the chopping block and said he’d learned to cut meat the hard way. Junia used to make him feel thirsty sometimes. A tidy intellectual piece of him had always know that she’d nursed him as an infant, even though he doesn’t remember it, and if he took too long to ween, no one had ever teased him about it. He imagines it wouldn’t be unheard of, with his real mother dead. He’s always wondered if it takes those types of babies longer. But he knows about it, and he knows that sometimes he found himself staring at her breasts, trying to picture it.  Those crying jags were fewer as he grew up. Less cuddling to comfort him, but she always held him when he needed someone. He remembers sharing the bed with her, with his chin freshly stitched closed, the way it hurt when he moved his head, but he nuzzled into her belly anyway. Smelled her there. Thirsted, as if that was the thing that would really make it better. In the half-sleep he imagines her here, imagines drinking from her. Sugary even though his lips catch the hint of salt from her skin. The blood in his body creeps downward, heating his belly. It aches in his head like he’s stood up too fast, even though he’s still curled in the blankets. He opens his eyes, as the pain throbs around the wound, and he has one of those moments again. In the soft darkness,  the fire gone out but a little bit of afternoon light sneaking in through the slats of the tiny window. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and the reality sets into place the way the headache does.

[astudyinimagination]

I have no time or energy to write this right now, but imagine Leia in the Double Agent Vader 'verse, sent back in time to the Clone Wars. She knows the general history of the war and how it ended, but her father died before he could tell her anything significant she might need to know going forward. And maybe she doesn't really need to know that Count Dooku was a Sith Lord, but that's certainly something she wouldn't have learned on her own until someone mentions it in the past (it's Ahsoka). And Leia already knows that Palpatine is a Sith Lord.

And suddenly, she gets it. She understands the Clone Wars. Of course it destabilized the galaxy and allowed Palpatine to grab power — but with him on one side and his apprentice on the other, that has to mean that he engineered it. To destabilize the galaxy, give him an army, allow him to grab power, and kill off as many Jedi as possible in such a way that no one would ever suspect it.

Like, we already know this, but imagine Leia realizing it. Imagine her in her early twenties, first fighting Depur and his military with everything she's got and now helping in the Clone Wars in any way she can, and imagine her realizing just how much of her reality was engineered by one man. How much pain and death he's wrought, not as Emperor but before that, and when she's right in the thick of it. All the soldiers she's seen cut down, just to build a reality controlled by a monster.

Imagine Anakin Skywalker being the one to comfort her when she doesn't react well. The father of her best friend. The man who reminds her eerily of Ekkreth (and maybe, just maybe, he really is Ekkreth, just young and unfinished). And maybe it's her reaction to the revelation that sets things in motion, a cascade of revelations that will culminate in her being introduced, finally, to the woman she recognizes as her mother...

[maxmaxsupersupermax]

yes please to the red, white & royal blue lestappent au

pretty pretty pretty please

also your headcanons maybe? bc I can see charles as the prince & max as the first son

Oh yes, I'm gonna do it! Yeah my thought is Charles as the prince and Max as the first son. Max can have the shitty president for a father and a lot of eyes on him, looking for weaknesses. And Charles can have a loving mom and siblings, he's the spare, but very much the darling of the country. That's a lot of pressure on him though. I think I can make it work!

[vampireninjabunnies-blog]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @inafieldofdaisies @josephseedismyfather @direwombat @kyber-infinitygems @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook

Tagging @blindmagdalena @trench-rot @river-ward @poisonedtruth @voidika @aceghosts @v0idbuggy @strangefable and anyone else who would like to share. Something different this time. Not FC5 related. Thought I'd give another fic/ship/OC some attention.

On A Whim

He wasn't sure why he did it. He'd heard her scream echoing in the night as he flew above the city and had swooped down to her rescue on a whim. It didn't make sense. There were no cameras, no one would ever know he'd done it. Saved this tiny delicate woman from being assaulted in a dark alley.

Of course the lack of cameras meant no one would ever know he'd killed her attackers either. Which was probably for the best. Landing softly on the balcony he made his way into his penthouse.

Glancing at himself in the mirror as he walked past, trying to ignore the mocking look of derision on the face he saw reflected back. Both his face and not at the same time. Taunting him, questioning why he'd bothered to save her.

It's not like she was even all that pretty. Sure she was pretty enough, her skin a nice coppery tone, but her face was a little round, her hair a mousy dull brown. Too small and skinny, no real curves. Certainly nowhere near as pretty as Maeve. So why couldn't he get her out of his head.

What the hell was wrong with her anyway. She'd watched him laser her attackers basically in half and nothing. Not one ounce of fear from her toward him. Caution yes but not fear. The way someone might respond to a large dog they don't know.

He ran his fingers through his short blonde strands, plopped down on the couch. His mind still fixating on her, on the way her emerald gaze never left his, even when they glowed crimson as he briefly considered killing her too. No one to tell anyone that he'd behaved in a way that would reflect poorly on Vought. No one to potentially add fuel to Butcher's fire.

Her heart had been racing when he first swooped down, but it had slowed. Completely calm as she stared at him. Before finally smiling at him. Thanking him. No adoration or fear. Just a simple thank you. That she might've given to anyone who interfered. Like he was just...a person. It was frustrating and confusing to think about.

This was ridiculous! Who cares if she wasn't afraid? Or why he bothered? He was Homelander. He could whatever the fuck he wanted. Whether it made sense or not. And it was stupid to dwell on it, even if the incident had been...odd. He refused to dwell on it. He had more important things to think about. He was not going to fixate on this woman. This completely average, ordinary woman. Even if she did have really pretty eyes.

Whispering softly to himself.

"She really did have pretty eyes."

[proosh]

ficlet requests set aside because I am possessed and writing the most indulgent thing I think I've ever written but it's also deeply funny getting to write from Fran's perspective for once because like

normally writing from Gil's perspective means the audience can read his dissociative spiraling but Fran doesn't get to be privvy any of that so he's just happy being a neurotic obsessive body-worshipper while Gil gets stunlocked and internally processes everything

[its-all-stardust]

You can't help but notice when Joel Miller comes to town with Ellie at his side. It was hard to miss the commotion his and Tommy's reunion made. But the sight of a grown man traveling alone with a teenage girl leaves an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

Warning: implied/referenced sexual assault

Notes: I wrote this with a Female!Reader in mind simply due to the nature of the fic and being a woman myself, however the reader's gender is never referenced.

Fic Preview:

 Ellie doesn’t say anything, only looks back down at her plate. She doesn’t take a bite, just stirs everything around. “Are you okay?” you ask quietly, not wanting anyone to overhear. “I’m fine,” Ellie says before stabbing a piece of meat with her fork and quickly shoving it into her mouth. “If you’re fine, then what happened?” Because something obviously did if she’s acting like this. Ellie throws her fork down and glares at you. “Look, could you just piss off?” You sit there shocked, the outburst unexpected. The Ellie you met the other day, afraid of getting in trouble for petting a sheep, was much different than the combative girl in front of you. “Alright,” you say, grabbing your plate and standing. “We’ll talk some other time then.” She ignores you, instead picking up her fork to begin eating her dinner as fast as possible. Without another word, you get up and leave the table. You’re upset, but not with Ellie. You’re upset at whoever put her in this state. As you dump the scraps of your dinner into the slop bucket, you can't help but feel you know exactly who it was. Joel Miller.

[freneticfloetry]

I am so not ready for the weekend to end. Also, life is just a lot right now. In protest, we've got snippets squared. Thanks to @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad, @lemonlyman-dotcom, and @tellmegoodbye for the tags today.

First, a taste of Tarlos from the upcoming chapter of esta noche es de alegría:

But beyond that, selfishly, he had imagined watching the man himself. Sitting beside him while he slipped from planner to participant, and finally let himself enjoy the company. He loves the way Carlos consumes food whenever he’s with his whole family — he eats with his hands, in big bites and mouthfuls he takes tongue first, and he licks his fingers after, like he’s reverted to a time in his childhood before all his practiced, proper manners. It’s casual, and comfortable, and in it, TK can see a glimpse of the boy he must have been: youngest and only, all big eyes and shy smiles, precious enough to indulge him this way just long enough for it to stick. The first time Carlos had forgone a napkin in favor of sticking his whole thumb in his mouth and sucking stray salsa from his skin, TK had figured it was flirty innuendo. Now, the fact that Carlos lets him see that side is not just hot, it’s humbling.

And another little look at the FirstPrince that won't leave me alone:

All of Henry is in its perfect place, from every shoe and soft sweater in his small closet to every book in his floor-to-ceiling shelves, every straight tooth in his wide smile to every strand of his stupid swoopy hair. Alex has a head full of curls that cannot be fully tamed and a room trailed with testaments to object permanence, everything left exactly where it first landed until the next time he needs it again. He stays up too late and sleeps through alarms, then tries not to wreak havoc on Henry's set schedule. And somehow it works. Has worked. Until now. And it hurts, but Alex isn't surprised. It was only a matter of time, to be honest — he could only mess up Henry's life for so long.

Tagging in @never-blooms, @liminalmemories21 @paperstorm @heartstringsduet @reyesstrand @rmd-writes @herefortarlos @walkinginland @three-drink-amy @ladytessa74 @strandnreyes @whatsintheboxmh @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @nancys-braids @orchidscript @carlos-tk @alrightbuckaroo @bonheur-cafe and @welcometololaland .