#at least i have a little more canon to work with now

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Okay I’m gonna drop an unpopular opinion here

I really

Really

Really

Hate the Jason and Damian met in the league and have a close brotherly relationship

I honestly think it detracts from BOTH of their development and makes both the characters a lot more 2D and boring.

And also I think it disrespects my GIRL Stephanie brown. Bc that close personal bickering, anything goes sibling shit? Yeah that’s Damian and Steph all the way.

And yeah I tend to credit Dick Grayson (bc he’s my boy) for a lot of the Growth Damian goes through. But Stephanie brown and him have the funniest sibling relationship in history

And I think to have as interesting of a development as Damian has had you needed characters like Dick and Steph to be his Batman and Batgirl.

Dick who I think we can all agree is objectively the least violent of the bats at a baseline (Richard crash out Grayson moments notwithstanding) as well as Steph. Both have angry moments of doling out justice but BOTH prefer rehabilitation methods and tend to be more mouthy and loud about their thoughts during a battle

Steph CLAWED her way up into her position, she fought for that and held on with an iron grip that left indents. She wasn’t as good as, Dick born acrobat Grayson, Barbara prodigy Gordon and Tim genius Drake. So she worked her ass off and FORCED people to pay attention to her and got good enough that she matches the rest of the bats on the field.

Dick HAS the experience of working with difficult cases. He’s lead teams his age filled with drama, infighting and death successfully, he’s trained kids younger than him successfully on panel.

He’s canonically a very adaptable teacher, who has strength in meeting you where you’re at and getting you to move to where you want to be.

Both these things helped Damian exponentially

Now let me be so clear.

Damian did the work.

Damian put in the blood, sweat and tears into changing his beliefs and perceptions of the world. But that would not have been possible if these two didn’t at least make it known that “hey you can be the kind of person who cares and still have value and not be weak and pathetic”

Damian going vegetarian/vegan bc of his morals, Damian choosing not to kill, Damian choosing to leave Robin, Damian making choices unrelated to mantles, regrets and vengeance. Is due to the fact that he had Dick Grayson and Stephanie brown as examples (now ofc Alfred was also very very very imp but I feel like no one ignores his significance so I don’t feel the need to add him here)

And Jason?

It also imo, FUCK UP JAYS DEVELOPMENT.

Bc if Jason could be this kind, empathic older sibling to Damian? WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK WAS HE DOING WHEN HE FIRST CAME TO GOTHAM? the way he treated the bats and the rogues gallery? Slaughtering all of blackgate to end up in Arkham, making dick watch him fall to his ‘death’.

No absolutely not

This is the ‘pit madness’ nonsense all over again

Jason had to see the world outside of Gotham and work with other people who were anti-heroes who fall into the category.

Bc Jason didn’t start out as an antihero

Jason was a full on villain with a grudge against other villains, he worked for the place he’s in. It’s bc of characters he interacted with, it’s bc of realizations he’s dealt with. It’s because he’s been a little too trigger happy in the wrong place and ended up looking at the grief he caused others and realizing he didn’t want to do that.

It gets rid of Jason realizing HE CAN work with his family.

It gets rid of Jason BECOMING a solid older brother to Tim and erases the Jason who WANTS to have a relationship with his family.

It erases all of the times he’s tried and failed and still got up and tried again

Both of them have grown bc of the people around them and I think if they had each other at that time it would’ve gone 1 of 2 ways

1) a toxic loop re-establishing bad beliefs and practices that damage both of them and leave them more resentful and stuck in their ways

2) they would’ve hated each other and tried to kill each other

In summary

-both these characters didn’t show up nice, they worked for it, don’t erase that

- don’t erase the characters that helped them grow (my girl Steph Brown being left out of conversations she started will kill me)

- Jason can have close relationships with the family im not saying he shouldn’t. I’m just saying that Jay is the cool older brother who very obviously loves you but was at college when you were a kid and now doesn’t really know how to interact with you and it’s awkward but you know you can go to him even if he isn’t your first call in most situations

- Damian was not a good person, he CHOSE to be that’s important to his growth. And with that growth came the ability to form the close connections he now has in canon. Without the growth he undergoes he wouldn’t be able to form the protective loving group of family and friends he has around him

- STOP IGNORING STEPH, I AM LITERALLY A DICK GRAYSON STAN ACCOUNT AND I AM OVERHERE TRYING TO GET CRUMBS OF MY GIRL OHMYGOD

- I would highkey love a short miniseries of Jason and Damian working together and developing a nice relationship both in and out of the masks but until we get that. I’m sticking to awkward brother that loves you but doesn’t get you at all

Also if you disagree/ have more nuanced takes on the Jay Damian sibling arc please leave in the reblogs and comments, I like hearing more nuanced takes and discussing just please don’t be a dick (hehe) about it

[pixel7777]

The First Worshipper: Ch. 1

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

What if Astarion, grieving and haunted by the passage of time, became the first worshipper of the newly ascended God of Ambition, Gale, in a strange bid for connection, purpose, and perhaps just a little bit of chaos?

Story Completion: This work is fully written (~60K words) and mostly edited. I'll be posting at least 2 times a week, maybe more if the fancy strikes me.

Read below the break here or on AO3!

Work Content Tags: Post-Canon, Vampire Spawn Astarion, God of Ambition Gale, Immortality, Grief, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Endings (despite pretty much everyone dying), Explicit Sexual Content, Dual POV, 1st Person Astarion, 3rd Person Gale, Epistolary

Chapter 1

16 years "After Netherbrain" (AB)

[A letter written in elegant script on expensive parchment, waiting to be burned]

My dearest, most infuriating Tav,

I failed. Our little thief, our Mol—she's gone. Just like that. A knife in the dark, they tell me. Quick and clean, as though that's meant to be a comfort. She didn't suffer, they say. As if that makes it better. As if anything could make this better.

Where are you? You should be here. You should have been here to stop this. To warn her, guide her, protect her—all the things you were always better at than me. Instead, you left us. Left me to fumble through this alone, and look what happened. I didn't keep her safe. I couldn't...

Do you remember how you'd scold me for being overprotective? "Let her spread her wings," you'd say. "She needs to learn." Well, I did. I let her take over the Guild, let her play at being Nine Fingers' successor. I tried to trust in her abilities, just as you would have wanted. And now she's dead.

I should have locked her in that tower like I threatened. Should have forbidden her from the Guild entirely. Should have been the monster everyone already thought I was, if it meant keeping her alive. But I wanted to make you proud. Wanted to prove I could be the father she deserved.

I hate you for dying. I hate myself more for failing her. Our daughter deserved better than both of us—better than a dead hero and an immortal fool who couldn't save her.

The funeral's today. I don't know how to do this without you, Tav. I don't know how to say goodbye to our child alone.

Forever yours, even in my anger,

Astarion

* * *

I adjusted my black silk cravat, adorned with an obnoxiously large amethyst brooch, and swept my cloak back for maximum dramatic effect. The gathered mourners shifted uncomfortably in the grand hall of my estate.

"Friends, enemies, and those of you still unsure which category you fall into—we gather here today to honor our beloved Mol." I raised my arms skyward. "And what better way to commemorate her life than by dedicating it to our newest, most ambitious, and might I add, most absent deity?"

Karlach's jaw dropped. Shadowheart pressed her fingers to her temples.

"Oh great and powerful Gale, God of Ambition and Spectacular Fashion Failures, hear my prayer!" My voice echoed through the hall. "Your first and most devoted worshipper calls upon you to explain why you, in your infinite wisdom, allowed our precious Mol to die in an alley like a common cutpurse!"

"Astarion," Halsin warned, but I waved him off.

"What's wrong, old friend? Too busy rewriting the fabric of reality to notice one small death? Or perhaps you simply didn't care enough to intervene?" I spun in place, addressing the ceiling. "Come now, don't be shy. Surely the God of Ambition has something to say about this tragic waste of potential?"

The air crackled with divine energy, and Gale materialized in a flash of light, his expression thunderous. "This is not appropriate, Astarion."

Wyll muttered something that sounded like "here we go" while Lae'zel leaned forward with obvious interest.

"Isn't it?" I bared my fangs in what might have been a smile. "Then by all means, oh divine one, tell us what would be an appropriate response to your negligence."

Gale gathered his breath, but I wasn't done.  Not by a long shot.

"Oh mighty Gale," I drawled, prowling around him like a cat stalking prey. "Tell me, what offerings should I make to earn your divine intervention? Blood? Gold? My undying devotion?" I gestured to the gathered mourners. "Look at all these potential worshippers. Surely that's worth something."

Gale's divine aura flickered with frustration. "You know that's not how this works. The laws of—"

"The laws?" I laughed, the sound brittle as broken glass. "You're a god. What are laws to you? Or was that whole 'ambition' thing just for show?"

"Astarion—"

"No, no, let me finish my prayer." I dropped into an exaggerated bow. "Most illustrious deity, who watched our Mol grow from a street urchin to the finest thief in Baldur's Gate, who drank the wine she poured at Last Light Inn, who promised to keep an eye on her from on high at at her mother's funeral—where were you when she needed divine intervention?"

"I couldn't interfere." His voice carried the weight of celestial law. "Ao's restrictions—"

"Restrictions?" I spat the word like poison. "The great Gale, bound by restrictions? How disappointing. Perhaps we should find a more competent god to worship."

Divine energy crackled around him. "That's enough."

"Is it? Because I'm just getting started, old friend." I infused the last words with all the venom I'd been saving. "What good is having a personal god if he can't even save one little tiefling?"

"That's not how it works and you know it!" (Don't fucking tell me what I know.)

“You! You took her! And now you owe me, Gale. Personally.”

“I didn’t take Mol! She was mortal, Astarion. Mortality happens. It’s not some divine conspiracy!”

I waved dramatically at the crowd,“Oh, of course, just a coincidence that the only people I care about keep dying while you sit there glowing smugly in your celestial robes!”

Gale took in the crowd listening to all of this, and I gloated at his discomfort. Divine energy crackled around Gale, his celestial aura flaring with genuine anger. "You think I don't understand loss? I gave up everything I was! Everyone I loved looks at me like I'm a stranger wearing their friend's face!"

(Finally. There you are, old friend.)

"Oh, poor Gale," I sneered, circling closer. "Forced to become a god. How tragic." (Make it hurt. Make him feel it.)

"You're not the only one who's lost people, Astarion! You're not the only one who—"

"Do you know what it's like to have centuries stretching ahead of you, and the only thing you can count on is losing everyone? Do you? I stayed in Baldur's Gate for her. I could've left! I should've made them both leave with me! But no. She wanted to be here, and I—" My traitor voice cracked. "I stayed. And now she's gone. So yes, Gale, you owe me. You owe me this, you miserable excuse for a deity."

The divine light around him softened. (Don't. Don't you dare pity me.)

"Astarion." His voice carried centuries of understanding. "I'm here. I've always been here."

"Don't." (Please.)

"I know it's not enough. I know it will never be enough. But I'm not going anywhere."

I laughed, the sound raw and broken. "Until Ao decides you've broken too many rules and strips away your godhood."

"Then I'll be mortal again." He stepped closer, that insufferable compassion in his eyes. "And I'll still be here."

(Damn you, Gale. Damn you for knowing exactly what to say.)

"I hate you," I whispered, but there was no venom left in it.

"I know." He smiled, sad and gentle. "I know. You’re angry. You’re grieving. And, for what it’s worth, I am sorry."

Karlach's pointed cough broke through the tension. Right. We had an audience. How terribly gauche of me, letting genuine emotion slip through.

I smoothed my cravat, collecting myself. "Well. Since you did make the effort to show up, I suppose I can forgive your divine negligence." I waved a dismissive hand. "For now."

"Astarion—"

"On one condition." I raised a finger. "You must try harder at this whole godhood business. It's embarrassing, really. The God of Ambition should be more..." I gestured vaguely at his celestial form. "Ambitious."

Gale's divine aura flickered with what might have been relief. "I'll take that under advisement."

"Excellent!" I turned back to our gathered mourners with renewed theatrical vigor. "Ladies, gentlemen, and assorted creatures of questionable origin—in honor of our dear departed Mol, I hereby announce the founding of the First Church of Gale!"

"You what?" Gale's voice cracked in a most ungodly fashion.

"The Church of Gale," I repeated, savoring each word. "Dedicated to ambition, fashion disasters, and the memory of the finest thief Baldur's Gate has ever known. I think she'd appreciate the irony, don't you? Since it was ambition that took her in the end."

"You can't—"

"Oh, but I can. And I will." I flashed him my most dazzling smile. "After all, what's the point of being your first and most devoted worshipper if I can't cause a little chaos in your name?"

"And so, my darlings," I swept my arm in a grand arc, "let us remember my beloved daughter, my Mol, not as she died, but as she lived—clever, bold, and absolutely insufferable." A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. Good. She would have hated a somber farewell.

"She once told me that respect was overrated, but a good story was forever. So tonight, we'll gather at The Copper Crown—" I paused, savoring (hating) the moment. "Which, as of this morning, is officially mine. A gift from our dear departed troublemaker, who apparently thought it amusing to make me proprietor of a thieves' den."

More laughter now, genuine this time. Even Gale's divine aura flickered with something like approval.

"The first round is on the house," I announced, then added with a sharp smile, "Though I expect you all to drink enough top shelf to make me regret that particular generosity. It's what she would have wanted."

I turned to the ornate coffin, carved with the symbols of Mask that Mol had secretly worshipped. "Rest well, my little thief. Try not to pick too many celestial pockets." (Rob them blind, darling daughter.)

The mourners began filing out, heading toward the bar in the Lower City. I caught Gale's eye. "Don't disappear just yet, darling. You and I aren't finished."

He inclined his head, that infuriating divine patience still radiating from him. "I know."

"Splendid." I turned back to the ornate coffin, my hand brushing against the edge as if touching it could keep her closer for a moment longer. "Rest well, my little thief. The world is poorer without you, but the stars... they’re brighter now."

I straightened, adjusting my cravat as if donning armor. "Come, my darlings," he called to the remaining mourners. "Let us drink, lie, and fight in her memory. She'd want nothing less."

* * *

From within his divine avatar, Gale watched his old companions gather at their usual table in The Copper Crown. He hadn't intended to be here.  His business was no longer with these few friends.  He had a wider scope to learn to manage.  But Astarion was Astarion.

You always did know how to yank my chain.  It seems divinity has not lessened your pull on me.

Ao would not be pleased.  Yet, here he was.

The familiar weight of mortality hung over the mourners like a shroud, despite their attempts at cheer.

Halsin raised his glass. "To Mol."

"To Mol," they echoed.

Karlach leaned into Dammon, her new heart humming steadily. "The forge is doing well. We've been thinking..." She exchanged a look with her husband. "Maybe it's time to fill that empty room upstairs."

Lae'zel scoffed, but her eyes held warmth. "Your offspring will be fierce." She adjusted her armor, battle-worn from the Astral front. "Vlaakith's forces weaken. Soon, all will kneel to Orpheus."

The conversation drifted to the former Shadow-cursed lands.  Now known as Brightbough Vale, Jaheira and Halsin were proud of its prosperity and eager to share the newest developments, but Gale's attention fixed on Astarion. The vampire's fingers traced the outline of a vial in his pocket. His declaration of worship had been classic Astarion theatrics, yet beneath the performance lay raw desperation.

Gale recognized the maneuver for what it was: a challenge, a demand for divine intervention. For divine attention. Astarion was trying to force his hand, to draw him back into mortal affairs when he needed to focus on establishing his godhood.

Still, watching his friend's careful mask slip when he thought no one was looking stirred something in Gale's newly divine heart. Perhaps that was Astarion's real power – the ability to make even a god feel human again.

Gale watched Jaheira lean forward to draw Astarion into the conversation, her weathered hands curled around her cup. "What will you do next, Astarion? You could come to the Vale. We have room, and the children would benefit from your... unique perspective."

Oh, that won't work at all. He'd drive the initiates mad within a week.

Astarion's lips curved into that familiar, deflective smile. "Thank you, but I think I'll stay in the city. The Copper Crown needs attention, and someone has to keep these dregs in line." He gestured at the rowdy tavern crowd.

There it is. The lie wrapped in just enough truth to pass inspection.

Gale observed the subtle tells he'd learned over years of friendship – the way Astarion's fingers drummed against the table, how his gaze slid past direct eye contact a moment too soon.

"Running a tavern?" Jaheira's skepticism matched Gale's own. "That seems... beneath your usual ambitions."

"I'm tired of Patriar politics." Astarion shrugged. "Besides, the Lower City has its charms. More interesting characters, fewer tedious social obligations."

He's planning something. The bar's just a convenient excuse to stay in the city.

Gale wished he could pierce the veil of divinity and pull the answers directly from Astarion's mind, but even gods had their limitations. More than he had realized, if he was honest. He would have to do this the hard way, and it would be hard. Whatever Astarion was plotting, he'd wrap it in layers of half-truths and misdirection.

Just like old times, my friend. Though usually, I could be there to help untangle your schemes.

Gale watched Astarion deftly steer the conversation away from himself.

"Speaking of the Vale, how's that temple coming along, Shadowheart? Still insisting on putting up those gaudy moon symbols?"

Shadowheart's shoulders tensed. "Selûne's symbols are not gaudy."

As the others engaged in the theological debate Astarion had provoked, he caught Gale's attention with a slight tilt of his head toward a quiet corner. He produced a bottle of Baldurian brandy – Gale's old favorite – and poured two glasses.

"Come down here a moment, oh divine one. I have a theological question of my own."

Gale shifted his consciousness to join his friend. Strange, how the physical world felt both more and less real now.

Astarion swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Tell me something. Would Mol be like Tav? Turning down resurrection?" His voice carried none of its usual artifice. "Because I've tried. With Tav. Multiple times. But she won't..." He knocked back the drink. "Well. You know how she is. Was."

The raw honesty caught Gale off guard. In all their years of friendship, Astarion had never spoken of Tav's death so directly.

Gale weighed his next words carefully. The truth would hurt, but Astarion had earned honesty. "I see more than I used to, but souls... they're complex. Most who find peace resist returning."

"Ah. Annual attempts too frequent then?" Astarion's attempt at levity fell flat. "I should space them out more."

The admission struck Gale silent. He'd watched those desperate rituals from afar, unable to intervene. Each failure had carved new lines of grief into his friend's otherwise ageless face.

"Don't look so shocked. We both know you've been keeping tabs." Astarion's fingers tapped against his glass. "Though I suppose proper worship requires some transparency on my part."

"What are you planning, Astarion?"

"Nothing that requires divine intervention." Astarion refilled their glasses. "For now, could we just... sit? Like we used to?"

The pull of the celestial planes tugged at Gale's consciousness – duties, responsibilities, the weight of divinity demanding his attention. But across from him sat his oldest friend, mask finally lowered, asking for nothing more than company.

Gale settled his divine presence more firmly into the moment. "I suppose the pantheon can wait."

Astarion tilted his glass, a sharp grin cutting across his face. "To making gods wait."

Gale shook his head, a trace of amusement softening his features. "And vampires who never change."

[yingdu-lover]

We should really be more empathetic to Lu Guang from every perspective

Started my proper season 1 re-watch just now and suddenly I realised something.

Every time Lu Guang repeats his rules to Cheng Xiaoshi or he reminds him while the latter is diving, there is something in his voice (I felt it personally) that tells me he also repeats to himself (It is same as him repeating "I am okay" in Yingdu ep 1, but this is more cruel) It is not a question of hypocrisy, rather its Lu Guang implicitly trying to remind Cheng Xiaoshi that "Do not change the timeline, do not change the past, I can't let you suffer the same fate as me. I cannot, by any chance, let you face the consequences. Let it only be me who bears the sin. I can't afford YOU to suffer."

Before someone says that Cheng Xiaoshi suffers in every episode one way or another, let me tell you, it is still better than the situation Lu Guang is in. Remember, season 1 Cheng Xiaoshi is our Yingdu Cheng Xiaoshi. It's needless to say how much Cheng Xiaoshi cares for Lu Guang.

Cheng Xiaoshi getting suicidal/angry with Lu Guang because of the secrets Lu Guang kept from him is a popular theory. But...what if it's the other way around? What if Cheng Xiaoshi actually feels guilty because it was his past self for whom Lu Guang actually had to dive back ("Sorry, Lu Guang, save them"), leading to this painful fate. It is, in a sense, Cheng Xiaoshi's fault. Cheng Xiaoshi is capable of this reasoning.

And Lu Guang...every time he utters the rules (just put yourself in his shoes. How terrifying is that? Past or future let them be. Bro someone's whole existence can't be hypocrisy that's called existential crisis) he dies a little inside. As Lu Guang confesses in the beginning of Yingdu, he doesn't know how the timeline works. It's not his elaborate plan. He is taking actions carefully, one by one. One incident decides his next action. Lu Guang has been hurting since the first episode, I could feel it before, now we have canon to prove it.

Lu Guang's voice actor while asked about his favourite line stated that it's those three rules in Yingdu ep 5. "Past or future let them be" is a rule meant to be broken. In a time travel story, if they do not break the rules, I don't think the predetermined future can even be achieved. Lu Guang always lives with the ghost of the past or the anxiety of the future, but never in the present. It breaks my heart really.

Another thing I want to say. Um. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't really inherit the very core emotions of his hosts (means he pretty much acts on his own). At least this is the impression till now. He goes berserk in those cases where he is the son/daughter/student figure. Where his own overwhelming abandonment issues (due to parental trauma) overpower his host's personal emotions.

1. Emma's case : The reason Cheng Xiaoshi can't let go of Emma's death is because Emma's happy ending would have given him a solace. The happy ending he could not have with his own parents, he wanted to make sure that someone else gets it. Emma fits that figure. Emma would not leave that of a heavy impression on him if Cheng Xiaoshi didn't talk to Emma's parents. (For example, Cheng Xiaoshi didn't care for a second in Vivian's case and fled the place asap with Lu Guang. His priority was to protect Lu Guang. Vivian offered him a choice and for Cheng Xiaoshi, Lu Guang's safety comes first. If Cheng Xiaoshi dived into Vivian and had her parental issues experienced first hand, the arc would have been totally different.

2. Earthquake episode : Well... again. The mother figure. Cheng Xiaoshi again dreams of his mother. He wanted to save the client's mother to get one part solace for himself (I completely understand him. It is human to do. I would have gone more insane). The way he was pleading to Lu Guang to let him save her, I don't think Cheng Xiaoshi was in a state of mind to listen. Cheng Xiaoshi is also traumatised. Not all action he takes is rational (especially if the host is the 'child' figure having parental trauma). Lu Guang knew that he couldn't reason with a man who was functioning on a trauma response. He was ready for the consequences and calmly explained to Cheng Xiaoshi during the Doudou episode.

3. Wang Qing : Welp. Yeah. It was probably 90% him and 10% Wang Qing at that point. While meeting Cheng Weimin.

The very photo which was enough to traumatize Li Tianxi and inherit Lu Guang's one of the most traumatic memories (Cheng Xiaoshi's death) and which got transferred to Qiao Ling was the photo T A K E N B Y C H E N G X I A O S H I W H I L E H E W A S D I V I N G I N T O L U G U A N G' S B O D Y H U H

bro tf.

Cheng Xiaoshi didn't inherit shit. He dived twice into Lu Guang. I don't think inheriting core memories/emotions is his department. OR

Cheng Xiaoshi is way smarter than we think and Link Click intentionally left us with a narrative gap. Many things can happen so..

[bonnibelleangelica]

Ao3: 10 Tips for Getting More Hits on Your Fanfic

Disclaimer! Do whatever you want! This is unpaid labor and you're doing it because you want to, don’t suck the life out of it by avoiding things you want to write about. That being said, if you are losing motivation because you aren't getting enough encouragement or you want to know where you went wrong, keep reading...

1) Tags Tags Tags

Max out your tags with tropes, characters, content warnings, audience targeting and every single spicy action taken. Less tags makes the reader think less happens in the story. They might not even ready them, but they will think that you have a plan beyond the first chapter. Dont be too scared to spoil shit, thats what tags are for.

2) Description

Likewise, make sure you have a decently long description with correct spelling and grammar. Ao3 is rife with unreadable, un-paragraphed nightmares and if your description is riddled with mistakes, people won't bother with you.

3) Pairings

Sex sells, but so does romance. Either way, the most popular stories usually cover a lot of bases by containing multiple ships. You don't have to do that, especially since it tends to water down the story and leave everyone a little dissatisfied, but try to think about the way people search for fics. They usually have a ship in mind. Work with that, try to write about pairings people like at least a little. Or dont. Live yo dreams.

4) Chapters

2,000-3,000 words, trust me. More than that and you might as well cut it in half to get twice the traffic and twice the comments. Plus, people forget what happened at the beginning of the chapter and you’ll never get any praise for all that hard work.

5) Long-Fics

One shots are good, but theyre a gamble for every new reader. What are the characters like? Is this writer good? Should i be invested or will it end on a cliffhanger for no reason? Some people prefer to wrap everything up in one sitting, but if you want subscriptions, comments and bookmarks, write a long-fic.

6) Launch

Post at least 3 chapters as fast as you can (quality is important tho). Too many long-fics claim to be 1/20 chapters, but you never see them again, orphaned before that even started. A big drop also allows your readers time to get hooked. They get comfortable just as the well runs dry and THATS when you get comments begging for more.

7) Story Ideas

Try to stay within the realm of the fandom. AU’s are fine, but make sure to stay close enough to the canon in your initial pitch to still make sense. Let your audience have a chance of guessing roughly where you’re going with this idea. Age them up predictably, exaggerate established character traits, use the butterfly effect to change the canon storyline in a way that makes your audience go “Oh my god, that would be so cool! I wish that had happened!” Dont throw a bunch of random shit at them with nothing but the character names intact, it pisses people off. (trust me)

8) Cliffhangers

Hear me out, neat and tidy leaves people satisfied... too satisfied. Don’t play keep away constaintly, but every now and then, end a chapter with a cliff hanger. This gets you a lot of comments and demands for updates. Dont frustrate people too much, but also dont leave every chapter on happiliy ever after. Dont let them sleep at night.

9) PROOFREAD

Oh my god I will immediately close a tab if I open it and it's nothing but typos. Use Grammarly, it's free, and learn how to paragraph. Ao3 is starved for legible stories so if you can write a generic smut fic with proper punctuation, you’re at the top of the food chain.

10) Create a portfolio

Give people a nice collection of stories to go through. If you impressed them, they’ll often go through your page to find more since now they know you can be trusted. This is where one-shots are good page fillers. So many of my Kudos emails are back-to-back readers who read my whole collection. They’d rather that than more typos and broken dreams.

(Bonus Pro-Tip: Ao3’s paragraph double-spacing is weird, but dont go through and delete the extra space, its become a standard for the website and it looks weird if you change it. Just make peace with it.)

Oh and btw, if you use italics, copy and paste in your story under Rich Text, not HTML.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Phraseology

Fem!Reader/Demon!Sabo/Mythical Beast!Marco >.>

Summary - Urban fantasy vibes. Reader is a smut writer who does an impromptu book signing at The Archive, an old as balls library that the city has grown up around. The decision changes her life, and shenanigans ensue.

CW: Canon levels of violence, lots of sex, Sabo likes to watch, Marco likes to make reader sing. I'll add details as they come along but right now that's the best I got for you.

@mfreedomstuff

Chapter 1: Book Signing

Nerves twist your stomach as you stood outside the doors to the old library. The Grandline Mystoria Historical and Linguistic Archive, more commonly called The Archive, was an old library. The city had effectively grown up around it over the centuries, but you were pretty sure it pre-dated the void century. There was a school field trip that had brought you here once before, but otherwise you hadn’t been back.

You were here now because your friends, the same ones who had nearly shoved you into publishing your writing in the first place, had suggested it as a good location for a book signing.

A book signing for a vanity press seemed silly, but you had put everything you had into it, and so had your friends. They helped you fund-raise for the cover art, and even gifted you the funds needed for a full and proper editor. The only thing your book lacked at this point was the backing of an agency’s marketing tools.

But you weren’t trying to make this your full time job, at least you didn’t think so, you had just wanted to put your words to paper and hold them in your hands. Even if it was just once.

The Archive was solid neutral ground, however, and as you stepped inside you could feel yourself relaxing. Something about the smell of old books, and the way the city was immediately muted when the door closed and set you at ease. This wasn’t the hustle and bustle of the Grandline Metro, this was the calm stillness of a safe space.

Perfect for you and a dozen of your friends and family to use to satisfy your little fantasy.

Stone walls and floors, heavy and immovable wooden shelves that seemed almost melded into the stone work, it was little wonder this building had stood the test of time. It felt as sturdy and inevitable as a mountain, though at a mere three stories, it was hardly as tall as one. Seeing signs set up guiding people toward your book signing, beginning at 2pm this afternoon, made your stomach knot a little bit again, but not so much you couldn’t push it aside.

You had no idea what kind of traffic The Archive received on a daily basis. You only know that the gentleman who helped you set everything up over the phone a couple weeks ago, had recommended the time. His voice had been relaxing, and it was so easy to talk to him you’d thought the library must host book signings every other day.

Drawing closer to the location of where you were going to sit, you notice copies of your book set in view around the area, neat hand-writing on small cards reminding visitors about the date and time of the book signing. You’d only sent the books a few days prior, but you were getting nervous about how many people might end up showing up.

You hadn’t expected any advertising, and you’d almost picked a local bar because you figured at the very least you could have some drinks and hang out with your friends if nothing else. It would be much easier to accept a lack of interest with a few drinks and some socializing.

The table where you’re meant to sit has a few more well-written signs on it, with a couple small stacks of books. The side shelves of the racks nearby had more copies of your book. It was a little embarrassing in the end, but a young man fussing with one of the displays catches your attention.

Wavy blonde hair falls down loosely, almost like inverted fire swirling around his neck, but not quite reaching his shoulders. He looks over-dressed; suit, vest, jacket, and matching shoes. They fit him well, the white suit is clearly tailored, and impressively crisp and clean. Blues and golds accent it, but nothing overtakes the snow white fabric, even his shoes are unmarred and a soft snow white.

He turns toward you, red - wait - blue eyes taking you in with a charming smile on his lips. His face is scarred over his left eye, slipping beneath the loose mop of hair and under his collar. Compared to the rest of him it’s barely noticeable, and you find yourself smiling back at him.

There’s a beat of awkward silence, but he breaks it easily.

“Ah, may I help you find anything?” He offers and you can’t stop a nervous chuckle.

“I’m (Y/N),” You reply, holding out your hand. “Here to sign the books.”

His face brightens, and he shakes your hand. The leather of the glove is warm and supple, if not for the seams against your fingers you might not have realized he was wearing them.

“The lady of the hour, perfect!” He turns toward the table with the books on it and you shift that way as well. “We have everything set up for you and ready to go. The head librarian organized the majority of it as we don’t often host something like this, but if there’s anything you need please let me know.”

He grabs his top hat from the nearby shelf and puts it over his heart before bowing deeply. “Sabo of Goa, at your service. I’m merely the sponsor of this fine old building, but it is always my pleasure to lend a hand when I can.” When he straightens back up he puts the top hat on, leaning on a black cane you hadn’t even noticed before now.

“Well, thank you for all of this.” You say, walking over to the table. “It’s more than I expected and I’m… a little overwhelmed, but very grateful.”

“Certainly. I can fetch some water if you like, or perhaps a different style of pen.” He offers, looking down to see a few simple disposable pens laid out.

“Oh no, I…” You reach into your shoulder bag, rummaging around for a moment before holding up a couple pens. “Brought my own. I thought if I ended up signing more than I expected I should make sure the pen’s comfortable.”

“Are those Alabastian fountain pens?”

“Huh? Yes, actually. I’ve never had someone recognize them before.” You admit, holding one out to him. “My mom gave them to me a few years ago when I turned eighteen. I’ve heard they’re expensive, but I’ve never looked up how expensive. I didn’t want to get scared away from using them.”

“Well, value is often found in the use, not the cost.” He replies, handing the pen back, a soft smile on his face. “I think it’s wise to decide to use them and not worry about anything else.”

Sabo chats with you for a few more minutes until your friends arrive, and then excuses himself quietly. You and your friends gush about The Archive and how cool it is. How old it must be, how interesting the old books must be.

You sign and chat for a couple hours, surprised at the number of people who you don’t know that come through and buy a copy, asking you to sign it for them. Some ask for a synopsis, some for just a one-liner. A surprising number of people buy it as a gift for someone else, and two people you end up talking out of buying a copy, because they didn’t realize how graphic it was going to be.

If you knew how many strangers you were going to have say the phrase “it’s a monster fucker romance” to, you might not have agreed to the signing. You were certain your face was lighting up like a christmas tree, every time you had to explain things with as straight a face as you could desperately maintain. Fortunately, your friends sang some of the praises for you, talking at length about other stories they’d read, and what they liked from yours.

It wasn’t nearly as horrifying as you were worried it was going to be, and by the end of the entire thing you’d sold almost every copy you’d brought with you. Taking off the cost of buying the books yourself, you’d still made a profit by the end of it.

Taking a drink of water after the last of the customers and your friends left, you froze, and looked down at the glass you’d so casually drank from. Your eyes shifted to the nearly empty glass pitcher nearby and your brow furrows.

When had someone brought over water? Why were you drinking it so casually? You don’t even remember asking for water or telling anyone you were thirsty. You hadn’t seen Sabo, or any other library employee during the signing, and while you’d been too distracted by friends and such to think on it earlier, now it was sticking in your head.

There had to be extensive staff here, the place was sizable. Three floors aside it commanded most of the city block it was on, with stalls and stores crowding around it, but nothing was going to dominate the space quite like the Archive itself. It would take ten people just to keep everything cataloged at the bare minimum.

You were starting to think the place might have it’s own magic, like the old fairy tales about how places that exist for long times get their own souls, or faeries move in, tending to the dust and keeping things organized. The mental image of Sabo being harassed by faeries makes you smile, just because the idea of him running after his hat while it floats away is harmless enough.

“It’s good to see a smile on your face.” Sabo says, nearly causing you to leap out of your skin. He smiles, and you’re certain there’s mischievousness at the corners of his mouth, but he doesn’t tease you further. Instead he holds out a copy of your book. “I read it during the signing, and I was hoping you were up for signing one more copy?”

“I - you - that’s - I mean… S-sure.” You stammer, taking the book from him. “I didn’t expect something like this to be up your alley.”

“Oh?” He hums and you wonder what you could possibly say. “The world building was solid, and the way you wove in history lessons for the reader without making them feel like a history lesson, was a testament to your skill at story-telling.” He grins when you look up at him, still unsure of how to sign the copy.

“The build up to the sex scenes was just as good as the concupiscence feelings they elicited. Your pacing made the emotional shifts feel quite natural.” He says it so easily you’re almost more embarrassed by the praise. “What really came through, however, was that you were having fun, and I find I appreciated that deeply.”

Grinning, you chuckle a little and look back down at the book, signing it easily. “Thank you for appreciating my joy,” you say as you write the words inside the cover, signing your name easily beneath that. You keep the cover open for a moment, giving the ink time to dry. “That was very kind praise, thank you.”

“I would say it was the least I could do, but, I was hoping to offer you something more.” Sabo says the words with the same ease as before, gloved fingers barely grazing yours as he pulls the book away. He seems to scrutinize the dryness of the ink for a second before closing it in satisfaction.

You tilt your head, brow furrowing slightly. He couldn’t possibly be hitting on you, right? He was handsome, and probably your age, and certainly he’d enjoyed your book, but he looked like he was a dozen tax brackets above your wildest dreams.

“I -.” You aren’t really sure what to say and he clarifies for you.

“I spoke with the head librarian briefly, but we’d like to offer you use of the Archive if you’d like. If you wanted to pursue a career in writing, we would be willing to help you. There are resources for finding an agent, publisher, and all of that rot.” He waves his hand, clearly unconcerned about the details. “There’s no pressure of course, but having read an innumerable number of books, I can say that I think it would be good for you to give it a try, if you so desire.”

“For… smut?”

You can clearly see amusement in his smile, but then it shifts to something more genuine. “Smut is but a small portion of the story you wrote, was it not? The descriptions, the world itself, and the struggles and joys of the characters within. You had nearly eight thousand words in that book, not counting the three pages of thanks, and of that a little over a tenth was smut. Even then there was emotion and story within the… sheets.” He grins, tapping your forehead lightly with the book itself.

“So no, not for smut, but also yes. Because the inclusion of it shouldn’t be given room to diminish the rest.”

“… I really don’t know what to say.” You admit sheepishly.

“Then for now, say nothing. Sleep on it, a day or two, or even a week if needed.” He offers. “There’s no need to rush such a decision. You’re also welcome to come back tomorrow and discuss the details with Marco and go from there if you’d like. He has a much better head for that stuff than I do, and the extra insight could help you make a decision.” Sabo assures you. “He set up most of this on his own, and sadly only left the sign making to me.”

“Perhaps wisely,” he muses with an easy smile after a moment’s pause. Something in his tone or movement relaxes you, and the fret that had been building over the idea of becoming a full-time, actual professional author fades.

“I can do that,” you agree, turning your attention back to packing away what few books you still had left. “Come back tomorrow and talk with him, I mean.”

“Mm,” Sabo hums happily, watching you for a second longer before speaking up again.

“Do you want to donate the few copies you have left to the library?” You pause at the question and look back up him. “I could buy them, if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable, but you can donate them. We have half-a-stack for Sora Norberts novels, we can certainly keep a couple of these in stock without issue.” The look on his face leaves you with an impression that he’s not exactly a fan of Mrs. Norberts novels.

“I, yeah, actually. If I could donate them, that would be great. I’ve already given copies to everyone I know that would’ve been interested, so I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do with these anyway.” You admit honestly. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, I assure you.” He replies smoothly, walking with you to the front of the library.

You notice people milling about in the library, but no one looks at Sabo as you’d expect them too. His presence is striking, in contrast with the dark work and muted stones of the library, clean and while not bright, certainly brighter than his surroundings. The cane and top hat alone stood out against the more relaxed fashion of most of the city. It seemed rude to point it out, and maybe those who regularly visited the Archive were simply used to him.

Or maybe he-.

“Is everything okay?” Sabo prompts and you shake your head, scattering the odd thoughts that you were losing yourself to.

“Huh? Oh, yes. Everything is good. Sorry, I think I zoned out a little.” You give him an apologetic look. “This old library pulls me in and I think my mind gets a little too creative.”

“Not such a bad thing if you’re going to use it to help you write.” He offers with a smile. “Ah, that came out with more pressure than I intended. I’m merely excited at the idea, forgive me.”

You return his smile as you step back out into the city. “Certainly, and thank you again for letting me have a book signing here.”

He lowers his head in a slight bow, giving you a wink as the door closes. For a split second you swear you see something change, but you can’t even hold onto it enough to wonder what would’ve caused it. Despite your strange thoughts, you leave the Archive feeling light and good. The book signing went well, and your conversation with Sabo was an exciting prospect.

Tomorrow you’ll meet the head librarian and find out what’s involved in making the transition from where you are, to where you think you might want to be.

[derangedsynthpop]

so i've been thinking right? i've been thinking and thinking and thinking right? thinking why the fuck did what tommy said during the break up that totally didn't happen sound so familiar? and then i remembered. i fucking remembered. i remembered this part of a bucktommy fic i was working on back at the beginning of fucking JUNE. anyway, uh here i guess

[arttsuka]

Some past fiddlestan? (Like Ford just went through the portal. He gone now. Past. Yk?)

The mystery misery yaoi

[rexscanonwife]

Originally they were gonna be watching Krampus (2015) but that seemed a little too mean-spirited, but I really wanted to draw my s/i showing Arthur a...different kind of Christmas movie 😂😂

Taglist♡: @me-myself-and-my-fos @tiny-cloud-of-flowers @sunstar-of-the-north @dearly-beeloved @adoredbyalatus @changeling-selfship @crushes-georg

@cherry-bomb-ships @rosieaurora @rejaytionships @in-true-blue-love @tropicalgothships @little-miss-selfships

@cupiidzbow @frozenhi-chews @limey-self-inserts @candyheartedchy @space-sweetheart @halsinkisser @clancykisser @dearheartwitcher

[peppermint-whiskers]

Wait I just realized something. Alice is part of the God Possessed Pentious AU. However, she’s also a part of your Zestious fic “A Hundred Years and Many More”. Does… does that imply that, at least in your fic, Zestial had a crush on Pentious. Then Pentious died and got possessed by God. If so, I cannot WAIT for that reaction!

“The guy I had a crush on is, not only alive, but is also GOD’S VESSEL!!????!!!” [insert Catholic Guilt here]

Hi, thanks for the ask! "A Hundred Years and Many More" was more of a test run for the backstory, and the backstory (with Alice's glorious presence uwu) is actually part of the au

BUT

I think it'd be hilarious if Zestial and Pentious had this lingering crush on each other the entire time XD Maybe Zestial's was born out of intrigue more than romance, but they both had CRUSHES

And now god's over here like "what's with you and crushing on people who could destroy you??? what the fuck, man???" because he knows. Pentious can't really hide his massive crushes because he can't hide shit XD

[deus-ex-mona]

ok yk what. now that i’ve had some time to process nghy canon, considering the current pacing of gen retcon, i think their next step is as ✨clear as day✨

i really like seeing them happy together, but i truly do think that they should divorce and either live the rest of their lives as single besties; partners in hero/heroine-isms, but better off as just friends, or go their separate ways for a bit and get back together when they’re a little older and wiser, staying together for good this time around, as each other’s first and last boyfriend/girlfriend

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

parker casting assassin's approach 🤝 arthur casting unseen form. two sides of the sneakery coin. together they can become totally undetectable

[cottageivy]

some ava outfits ive done recently (with a mini lore? dump? ish? about fucking CLOTHES in the tags lol)

[villainsidestep]

got sad abt fawn’s little motel room again 😞

[xervn]

melatonin

two-shot | enemies to fuckers sevika x reader

pt. 2

ao3 link

summary: you're forced to go on a business trip with your least favorite coworker and share a room with her. now you can't sleep.

18+ MDNI | 4.1k words | tags; canon divergence, sevika is a little mean, sevika is nonchalant fr, reader is a brat, very light sub/dom, vaginal fingering, scissoring, begging kink, praise kink kinda, porn w/ plot-ish, no use of y/n

new record; took me 4 days to write. i don't know who possessed me. i love enemies to lovers so bad FUCKKKK!!!

“One room.” The motel owner, an old, short, and grotesque-looking woman with a thick accent, says. 

 “One room? Clear another one out then?” You insist, mildly threateningly. The woman’s eyes glaze over as she blinks. She’s not moved.

“There are two beds; who cares?” Sevika grumbles, clearly over your antics.

You shoot a glare in her direction, lip forming into a scowl. “I’m not sharing a room with you; you look like you snore.” 

She tells you something along the lines of go fuck or kill yourself (you weren’t really listening) before pushing past you and replacing the room keys on the counter with a stack of silver cogs. 

The owner collects the cogs with a grunt before adjusting her small reader glasses. Sevika strides off towards the rooms, and you quickly turn after her.

“Couldn’t you have tried to help?” You ask. Your eyes burn a hole through the side of her face.

She doesn’t spare you a glance. “You’re dramatic, and I don’t have the patience to deal with your bullshit right now.”

You hate her. You fucking hate her. You’ve been working alongside Sevika for two years now, yet you can’t shake the feeling. It started when you first met; Sevika was cold and critical, reprimanding you even though you were young and starting out. That’s not even what drove you to hate her, though; at least back then it felt like she was looking out for you, but you were painfully mistaken when you got promoted within the year. 

You don’t know what it was; jealousy, doubt, but her distaste for you only grew more apparent. There were fewer critiques and more insults about how you work or about your intelligence. Insufferable. She was insufferable.

There hasn’t been a day she’s been likable since then, so imagine your reaction when Silco tells you and her to go on a little business trip to Bilgewater. No matter how much the both of you wanted to protest, you didn’t. Instead you two argued amongst yourselves the whole trip there. 

Why would you want to spend even more unnecessary time around her?

The minute you guys enter your room, you don’t speak a single word to each other, let alone look each other’s way. You take turns using the restroom to get ready for bed, and then you find a place for your belongings, and Sevika ejects her bionic arm for the night. Although you two definitely don’t like each other, it doesn’t mean you don’t trust each other. You know she won’t rob you; she knows you won’t (can’t) take advantage and kill her. That’s the only semblance of peace you share.

— 

A faint amber light soaks through your eyelids, and you blink them open to the popcorned ceiling. You toss and turn in your bed, rustling around, unable to find a good position, and it doesn’t help that the cheap mattress is, well, cheap. You can’t sleep. You’ve always had trouble sleeping, but it’s never been a real problem before; you’d just stay up. Yes, you have permanent eye bags because of it, but it’s not like you can choose otherwise. You‘re from Zaun; any aid for it is not exactly accessible. 

However, the meeting you have tomorrow is important, so it’s important that you find a way. You can’t afford to slack off or doze off during it; you’re the negotiator, and tomorrow makes or breaks a trade deal that will be most beneficial for Zaun’s income. 

You rustle in your bed sheets again, and Sevika immediately groans. “Can you stop? And turn the lamp off.”

You look at her and you’re about to apologize, but you hold your tongue when you remember who you’re talking to. “I can’t sleep.”

“Turn the lamp off and fucking figure it out.” She snaps, turning her back towards you.

“Can’t you hear?” You squirm around, making as much noise as possible to get your point across. “I’m trying.”

“Find a different way. Count poros. Turn the lamp off.”

You scoff, eyes back on the ceiling, “I’m not five; counting poros doesn’t work, and I’m not turning off the lamp.”

You can hear Sevika shifting in her bed. “I knew you should’ve stayed back,” she sighs, “and you’re scared of the dark? Grow up.”

“Wow, fuck you. If you had asked nicely, I would’ve turned it off, and what do you mean I ‘should’ve stayed’? You’re not my boss. I’m more valuable than you are.” You angrily rant. 

“Alright, you are talking way too much right now. Cut it out.” 

“…No.” You reply. It sounds unconvincing with your lack of words, but it was the best you could come up with.

“Do you need calming tea or something? What will get you to shut up, because I’m about to hold a pillow over your head and call it a night.” She growls.

“Nothing. I can only sleep if I get a concussion or if I drink my pants off.”

She says your name like a warning, “If you ruin this deal, I’ll make sure to see you off myself.”

You bite back, “Sevika, if I could sleep, I would be sleeping. I don’t want to ruin it either, but your scolding isn’t helping.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, then Sevika grunts stubbornly. It’s followed by sheets moving and a dull stomp on the floor. You turn to look, and you see Sevika sitting at the side of her bed. 

You glance at her muscular thighs in those gray shorts—you couldn’t help it—before staring back at the ceiling. “Are you going to make me tea?”

She pushes off the bed with her one arm. “No.”

“Switching rooms then?” You ask as your eyes follow her shadow’s movement on the walls. 

“No.”

“Then... What is it?“ You turn, flinching a bit when you find Sevika peering down at you. 

She looks hesitant, timid; the first time you’ve ever seen it. “I’ll help you.”

Your defenses go off, and you quickly sit up. “Wait. You’re not going to kill me, right?”

“Over sleep? Are you stupid?” She pushes you back down, and not with much force, obviously.

You lay there, defeated. “So?”

“I said, ‘I’ll help you.'” She restates.

You stare up at her with slight annoyance, “Well, you have to tell me how?”

She has an indecisive frown before exhaling, “If you come, you’ll shut up.” 

Your head shakes in confusion. “Come? Where are we going?” 

“You’re an actual idiot.” She groans.

You gasp in offense. “You’re the one being fucking cryptic—“

“I’ll fuck you to sleep.” 

“What?”

“I’ll fuck you to sleep.”

“I heard you; I’m just,” you laugh nervously, “are you serious?” Your ears must be playing tricks on you. 

“We’re not close enough to joke around with each other.” She says plainly.

Baffled, you reply, “We’re not close enough to fuck either?” 

“Do you really care about shit like that? Sex is sex.”

You think about it for a second. You’ve never been in a proper relationship, and you’ve only had a handful of hookups, but you’ve never slept with someone you dislike, and you definitely don’t like Sevika. Even if she is hot. “Well, I guess not—“

“—Then what’s the issue?” Her eyes bore into you.

You gulp at the sudden weight of her stare, but you don’t crumble. “The issue is that I don’t like you. At all.”

Sevika scoffs, “I’ve seen the way you stare at me. You’re not subtle. At all. I saw you do it a few minutes ago.”

How embarrassing. It’s true, between all your hate are moments of admiration. Sevika is “cool,” she’s respected, she’s feared. She’s also full of herself, naggy, and blunt. Both things can be true. But on top of that, she’s hot to the point it’s frustrating. 

One time, while she was sitting in her designated booth at The Last Drop playing poker, she locked eyes with you after a big win. There was that sexy, satisfied grin she always gets after every win, and she had the audacity to lock eyes with you. 

Your thighs pressed together. You beat yourself up over it for the rest of the night and the following day; you couldn’t even look her in the eye without getting unreasonably angry.

Your face is turning warm, but there’s no point in turning away—you have to fake it until you make it. “Okay? What’s your point?” You ask, even though her point was very clear. You’re running yourself into walls.

Sevika already deciphered that; her face reads, ‘Where the fuck are you right now?’ “Listen, I don’t like you either, but if you want to sleep, I’ll help you, and if you don’t, I’ll get another room.” She explains.

You can tell it’s her final offer. You chew your bottom lip until you remember Sevika is still looking at you. Hiding your face behind your hand, you can’t believe you’re considering it. Sex with Sevika. Sounds mad when you repeat it in your head. It’s just sex, though, right? You knew she loved Zaun, but you didn’t know she loved it this much. Sleeping with you, practically her arch nemesis, for the betterment of society. That sounds insane. This is insane.

Sevika kisses her teeth, “Forget it—“ 

“—Okay,” you interrupt, “help me.” You’re unable to look her in the eyes. 

She looks at you dubiously, and her lack of doing anything unnerves you, so you continue. “Please?” You slowly look up at her, and you swear her eyes darkened. 

“Please?” She mimics. “Didn’t take you for the submissive type.” 

“No idea what you’re talking about.” You reply, although it comes out like a whisper.

“Mhm,” she hums apathetically, pulling up the covers draped over you. Her knee makes a dip in the bed. “Make some space,” she asks. You sit up, and you have no idea what to do. Looking left and right, you'd think you were trying to cross the road. She stares blankly. “Just spread your legs.” She commands.

You immediately do as she says, and she chuckles to herself at how you continue to prove her right. You’re clearly not a fan of that, your frown prominent. “What’s funny?” 

Sevika kneels herself between your legs, using her arm to help balance her in place. “Man, you love to argue.” 

You shrug. “I’ll stop when you fuck me to sleep. If you can... Don’t you think you’re a little overconfident?” 

Sevika slowly blinks at you, unsure of whether she should be turned on or irritated. You take it as the latter, and now it’s your turn to chuckle to yourself. But your self-satisfied giggling stops when she leans over you, inches away from your face, “You’re about to find out.” 

You never took the time to process Sevika kneeling between your legs, and now you can feel each exhale from her on your face. Your body starts to process it too: your breathing gets heavier and your heartbeat gets faster. You don’t have a crush on her or anything, but this is an unusual, unsurprisingly hot experience. Your eyes flicker to her full, uneven lips before they squeeze shut.

Sevika flicks your forehead. “Wh—ow?!” You whine, rubbing your head with your hand to soothe it. 

“I’m not kissing you.” She clarifies.

Your face warms with embarrassment, fingers gripping at the fabric beneath you. “How was I supposed to know you wanted a staring contest?” You grumble.

Sevika rolls her eyes, barely shaking her head in disappointment. Her face moves on from yours, and her lips attack the exposed curvature of your neck, licking, biting, and rendering you speechless. She gives you no time to regulate your emotions, and you let out a soft groan you would’ve otherwise swallowed down. Just what she wanted: less talking, more moaning.

Letting her guide the tilt of your head, you awkwardly rest your hands on her shoulders. You’re unsure of whether you can or should touch her. She pauses. “Sor— I… uh…” You stammer and put your hands up. You decide to just stop speaking to save yourself.

“Relax.” She tells you, gazing at you through her loose, dark hair. It stirs something below you. 

You place your hands back on her shoulders, albeit reluctantly, and try to maintain eye contact so you look composed. 

Sevika doesn’t buy it. She glances at your hands, very tellingly. “…Relax.” She repeats, softer than she did before, and your heart skips a beat like you’re in a cliché. 

Hesitantly, you slide your arms around her shoulders, linking your hands together. It feels intimate, too intimate, and looking at her is getting harder by the second. Sevika chuckles in a way that borders on a scoff. “You wanted to do that; don’t be shy about it.”

You huff, “I didn’t know I was being teased to sleep…”

“Is it working? It’d save me time.”

“Fuck off...” 

“You’d hate that.” She replies, as if it’s undeniable. It is, but she’s way too cocky about it. You look like you’re about to curse her out, but you’re holding it back. 

Sevika grins smugly, and for a moment, she considers kissing you. Your arms are wrapped around her shoulders, your eyes are yelling, ‘Fuck me already,’ lips practically begging to meet hers.

This is intimate, too intimate. It’s fucking with her logical reasoning—not that this is logical to begin with. It sounds stupid, but it’s worked for her so far; she casually fucks on the regular, and she doesn’t kiss them ever. Never really felt like it. Yet, here you are, making her feel new things. She knows there’s no going back if she makes an exception with you, and quite frankly, you still piss her off. It’s conflicting.

You impatiently perk a brow at her. You had to stop yourself from flat-out asking her to continue; your ego can’t afford you coming off as begging.

For a millisecond she looks like she got caught, then a millisecond later, she’s on you again. 

She attentively kisses the skin below the curve of your jawline, her tongue making frequent warm appearances. It’s much more fervent, but rough in a way that makes you tremble. She always makes sure you feel her teeth gliding over when she moves to the next spot. Your legs move on their own, one leg curling up against her side. You’re already pooling where you’re seated, but now it’s getting uncomfortable to sit this damp. 

Experienced is how you can describe her right now. You heard rumors of her activity, but you never believed it. There was no way her ol’ grumpy ass was getting laid, no matter how incredibly sexy she was. Then again, you never got along, which makes this situation, this fucking feeling, even crazier. 

She was being extra careful not to bruise you at first, but she seems not to care anymore, only driven further when she hears your little gasps or feels your arms tightening around her. She’s getting carried away, but she’ll figure out how to play it off some other time.

 Sevika pulls back. She throbs at your dazed and confused expression.  “Come closer.” She ushers as she transitions to sitting rather than kneeling on the bed. 

With no hesitation, you don’t let go of Sevika as you push yourself forward on your hips, sitting your ass comfortably on the edge of Sevika’s lap. Her hand lands on your waist. She says, “Lay down for me.” 

You nod shyly, removing your arms from Sevika’s shoulders and descending onto the mattress. Sevika tries to ignore how the loss of your arms around her made her feel. Her hand travels to the waistband of your joggers. “You’re going to have to move these for me too.” She asks, shrugging her shoulder that’s missing an arm as a reminder. 

She doesn’t move; she waits. Your insides do a flip. She’s waiting for you to remove them how you are now: legs diverged around her, hips pointed towards her. You think about how vulnerable you’ll look and feel when you slide them off, showing her the sopping mess she unknowingly made between your legs. You know she’s going to see it eventually, but from you doing the honors? That’s tearing you apart. She notices a shift in your demeanor, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. “Hurry up.” 

“Can’t you move back…?”

Sevika rolls her eyes. “No.”

You whine in embarrassment, briefly shielding your face in your hands before hastily pulling at your waistband. You wish you had turned the lamp off.

Sevika’s hand clasps over yours. “Slowly.” She scolds. Scolds. You’re fucking flabbergasted. She’s doing this on purpose, you can tell. She’s barely holding back another signature, smug smile. 

“You’re such a dick.” You curse. A direct juxtaposition in your actions that don’t defy Sevika at all. Hell, it juxtaposes your body because of how you’re aching for her.

“Yeah, yeah. Off.” She pulls at the band of your pants, letting it slap down when she releases it. 

You mutter out a few more curses that she fully grins at before you silently begin to remove your joggers and underwear simultaneously. You lift your hips for mobility, and Sevika’s eyes are glued to the fabric making its way down your thighs, and you’re forced to watch how intently she’s watching you. You can try to insist this is humiliating and cruel, but you can’t stop throbbing just from this; her eyes anticipating your reveal, like you’re a self-opening present.

The clothing starts to bunch at the middle of your thighs, and your arousal is halfway there to being exposed to Sevika. The scent is what hits her first; it makes her want to yank your pants down and give you what you want, but watching you do it so much better.

Once it reaches above your knees, she partially moves out of the way so she can help you remove them properly. While she tosses it elsewhere, you debate pinning your legs shut. 

Sevika looks back at you—your legs, actually—and you do flinch them closed. She tsks. “Don’t be stubborn. Not now.” She didn’t sound like she was insulting you, even though a small part of you wanted to be offended. 

You let out a shaky sigh and avoid her gaze, slowly parting your legs. Thighs slicked with arousal, folds glistened with the same, you’re undeniably soaked. You prepare yourself to look at Sevika’s shit-eating grin, but when you do, it’s nothing of the sort. Her eyes are low, shaded, and memorializing, and her bottom lip fully disappeared between her teeth. 

Then she grins; she even laughs, just as you expected. You groan, not at her, but at how wet you got from it. “I didn’t even do anything yet.” She teases, her eyes still locked on the ego-stroking mess she made of you. 

“Such a di—“ You cut yourself off to moan sharply. 

Sevika’s thumb came in contact with your swollen clit, the rough pad of her thumb making perfect circles; the rest of her fingers positioned in the patch of hair crowning above it.

“How fast do you think you’ll come? I’m thinking,” she pretends to, only to press her thumb over your clit. Filthy words flutter from your lips, and you instinctively grind into her touch. “Three minutes?” 

You look pissed between your bouts of pleasure; it molds together attractively. Sevika can’t wait to make it break, make you cry, and fuck the attitude out of you. “What? You should see how wet you are; you’d think I already fucked you.” 

She feels the way you twitch at her words, and it makes the pressure between her legs unbearable. She should just strip and grind her cunt into you, but she knows she won’t be able to stop there. Fuck her stupid life; she’s losing the plot. 

Her thick forefinger collects your slick as she paths towards your entrance. You twitch as she slides it in, making you gasp. She chuckles as your walls clench around her finger, and she starts pushing it in and out, painstakingly slow. 

It’s not enough, yet you can’t bring yourself to beg her for more. It’s at the tip of your tongue, but Sevika was right; you are stubborn. She reads you like a book, and she can read you now. She angles her finger in a way that brushes against your g-spot, but at the same mind-numbingly slow pace. 

Your body doesn’t know what to do; you can’t find friction anywhere; you can squeeze against her finger, but it doesn’t change her speed; all you can do is writhe in place. “You look like you need something,” she says, almost like it’s a thought in her head, so condescending, so fucking hot. Your pussy tenses around her finger for the millionth time, and you almost, almost, cry. “You’re gonna cut my finger off at this rate.” You tense again. She chuckles. 

“Sev—Sevika,” you bite your lip to hold down a sharp inhale, but it fails miserably. “Sevika, you’re not helping.”

 “Should I stop?” She asks with the tilt of her head. Her finger does stop regardless of the answer. 

Your hands reach out for her wrist, weakly clawing at it. “No! No, pl...” You mildly cringe at yourself, turning away. 

Sevika’s brows lifted. “What was that? Pl...?” She begins her pace again, and you realize you didn’t appreciate it enough before. “You said it once already; come on.” 

Your lips tremble, “Plea—se—?” She barely lets you finish the word before slipping another finger into your drooling cunt. Her pace increases, and you let go of her wrist as you succumb to pleasure. 

 Your arousal coating her fingers makes the most obscene noises; she wonders if the entire motel can hear it. You try to suppress your moans with your hand, but you can never do it right, not with the way she’s fucking you. Sevika’s glad you can’t; having one arm would’ve been even more inconvenient otherwise. She needs to hear you sob out her name at least once. “Please what?” She leans over you as she slams her fingers into you, pressing them against your wet, ridged, gummy walls.

“You’re— fuck, you’re pushing it,” you groan, and just like that, she slows down. But you’re weak, and you crumble. “Wait, wait, wait—please. Please, fuck me... Fuck me to sleep.” You ramble loosely, back to scratching at her wrists again. There’s that smile you were thinking about earlier, the one she gets after a big win. She broke you, and she lost the plot ages ago. 

—

It’s been an hour, and you’re already on the brink of your third orgasm. Sevika folded and ended up, verbatim, stripping and grinding her cunt into yours. You should be asleep right now, but Sevika said you have enough time to catch up on it before the meeting. You hope that’s true, but you don’t care. You can’t get enough of her or her abs flexing with every desperate hump. 

So intent on getting her rocks off, practically using you for her own pleasure at this point—you already came twice now; any more is a bonus, just like the one building up right now. Your eyes are pressed shut, trying to envision your release so it comes quicker. “Just like that. Keep fucking me, please, Sev.” You beg through your teeth and quiet sniffles. Sevika’s fingers squeeze the meat of your thigh.

She murmurs, “You,” her movements get sloppier; you can tell she’s close, “feel so fucking good.” Now you’re close—no, you come at her praise. 

You’re shaking, grabbing at the sheets that have since slid off the mattress. You forgot how to breathe; all you can feel is your orgasm coursing through you. Your mind is turning fuzzy, and even fuzzier with Sevika still grinding into you. Your moans are pitchy and pornographic; you’re making sounds you didn’t even think happened in real life. “Sevika...” You sob out from overstimulation, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

She loves it. “Shit…” Sevika moans, followed by several more curses as she shudders out her orgasm. Her vision goes blurry for a second from how hard she came. She tries to control her labored breathing as she comes to, breathlessly calling your name. 

When she focuses in on you, you’re passed out, fucked out, and peaceful. Sevika’s pupils dilate at the markings she left on your neck, then to your lips, which she’s yet to have the chance to kiss. She lets the sleep weighing on her win and carefully collapses beside you. 

>

[starflungwaddledee]

oh. my god. oh my god. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD!!!!! i saw this and immediately started screaming "IS THIS REAL.. AM I STILL ASLEEP... IS THIS A DREAM?!?!"

DAS!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAA

what is blud yapping about

(based on @starflungwaddledee 's comic here.)

[muffinlance]

Consider: Post-canon Zuko wakes up in the body of his childhood self, the morning of That War Meeting. Would he still speak against the plans, knowing his fate? What do you think he would do differently the second time around?

"Turned away at the doors, Zuzu?"

"Shut up, Azula," her brother sulked. But sulked weirdly, after staring at her too long and too wide-eyed, not like she'd surprised him but--

But like he hadn't expected her to be there. At all.

He turned away. ...He turned back. "Hey, Lala? Do you think you could help me practice that one set?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

She narrowed hers. "Which set?"

"The one I'm bad at."

She scoffed. Pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against. "That's all of them, Dum-Dum."

He didn't shout or stomp or yell about the nickname. His lips twitched.

"It's okay," he said. "If you're afraid you won't be a better teacher that my instructor..."

It was the most obvious manipulation ever.

Perhaps if he proved an adequate firebending student, she'd work on his courtly survival skills next. Honestly, it was good that not even Uncle Gets-Cousins-Killed had been fool enough to take Zuko into that war meeting. She could only imagine how terribly that could have gone.

"Keep up," she said, and turned her steps towards the training grounds.

He did. There, and during the katas she ran him through.

Azula kept her eyes narrowed.

"Hey," he asked, "do you know how to bend lightning yet?"

As if he could have missed it, if she'd been able to get more than sparks. "I will soon," she said.

"You will," he agreed, and flowed through his next set. The one she'd only just mastered.

Father didn't notice how weird Zuzu was being. Uncle never noticed anything. Zuko ate dinner and asked a servant for seconds and didn't stutter or flinch or lose his appetite when father asked, coolly, what he'd done with his day. Azula's shoulders tensed, because one mention of how she'd squandered her own training time teaching him--

"Azula hogged the training grounds. For hours," Zuzu scowled, exactly like a petulant thirteen year old.

Exactly like he hadn't been acting all day.

By the time Father was looking her way, Azula had her usual smirk in place. "I'm sure there would be room for both of us," she said, "you're not afraid of a little friendly fire, are you, brother?"

Zuko sulked. And ate his seconds, like he was enjoying each bite. There was something in his eyes, like a joke no one else was getting.

---

Father died that night. A heart attack. There were the faintest of burns to either side of the treacherous organ; the royal physician hypothesized that he'd grabbed at his chest, fingers burning hot in his final moments; so hot they'd only exacerbated the problem.

The royal physician would never have been brought any victims of lighting strikes. Those that occurred in the capital did not generally require a doctor in the aftermath.

Zuzu ate a hearty breakfast.

He didn't order seconds. Azula gave him points, at least, for not being tacky.

---

The sages named Iroh as regent.

They named Zuko as Fire Lord.

"No," the tiny Fire Lord in his perfectly miniaturized Fire Lord robes said, sitting at the head of his war council. "We're not doing that. And I'll be reviewing all recent battle plans, as well. What's this I hear about a division of new recruits being deployed to the front?"

He did not mention how he'd heard of the 41st Division. No one asked.

"Prince Iroh, surely--" one of the generals tried to appeal.

The young Fire Lord's regent was looking as startled as the rest of them, for a moment. Then he sipped his tea, and smiled.

"Your Fire Lord is correct, of course. A change in our leadership--a change the other nations may mistakenly view as weakness--will necessitate a change in our strategy."

"Now," said their lord, "what, exactly, is our overall objective in this war?"

War, the new Fire Lord decreed, was not an end unto itself.

---

The new Fire Lord continued to have time, to pretend to be trained by her. Azula watched him. Adjusted her footwork. Did not tolerate, and was not offered, any commentary on who was teaching who.

"What did you do with my brother?" she asked, as they flowed from one set to the next. As her hands, poised to throw fire, just so happened to be pointed his way.

He missed a step. It didn't look like an act.

"I'm, uh. Right here?"

She didn't bother to dignify that.

He didn't bother to look worried about her hands, one movement off from a true attack.

He looked around, then grabbed her sleeve, and tugged her further from any walls that may hide ears. The royal family's private training grounds were wonderfully large, and wonderfully open.

"It's me," he said. "It's still me. Just. More of me? Longer of me?"

She narrowed her eyes. A familiar expression, by this point. "Explain."

"...I found the Avatar," he said. "And this is definitely his fault, but--but I guess it started at a war meeting, when I was thirteen."

Azula listened. It was a very Dum-Dum story.