#but i've been wanting to write this for ages!

[ms--lobotomy]

40k Lion being an an absolute freak. A slutty old man. A whore. Anything will do really.

Normally I don't answer requests while they're closed, but @kit-williams has a long overdue birthday gift involving Lion of either type. I was already going to do 40k Lion, but this is the kick in the ass I needed to finally write the fic. Thank you, Anon!

Summary: Lion reunites with an old lover.

Word Count: 649

Content Warnings: This one's real soft but like. Armor kink and breeding and vague NSFW

Image Credit: @squishyowl

You were going to become a mother. At least, that's what he had promised you. Before Horus lost his mind, before the man you loved vanished without so much as telling anyone where he'd gone. Ten thousand years had gone by. Despite your nature as a Perpetual, it was a long and accursed wait for something that might not even happen. Ten thousand years, and you'd not given up for a day.

Someone who'd been the lover of a Primarch would have had to go into hiding for the foreseeable future. So hide you did, moving from planet to remote planet and never staying for more than a few Earthen years. It was late at night while you worked. The noises you heard were like small earthquakes, but rhythmic as one thump superseded another. Right after the last one, you heard a knock.

"Shouldn't you be...?" you asked, words failing you.

"What in the galaxy do you mean?" you heard a familiar voice respond.

It all clicked in your mind. Perhaps the footsteps of a Primarch were so unfamiliar to you nowadays, so otherworldly that you'd mistaken them for something else. You hadn't looked out of any windows, but you saw a familiar shade of green. And you'd recognize the voice anywhere, if it was a little huskier and a little more worn.

"Lion?"

"Indeed," he replied, "now if you could invite me in, that would be quite welcome."

You tilted your head. He was never one to announce his presence, and the Lion you knew would open the door himself if he'd wanted to see you. Oh, well, you've reasoned with yourself. Most people change in ten thousand years. As you approached the door, you saw the familiar etchings in his verdant armor. You opened it and craned your neck up to look at him.

"You've aged," you said softly as he ran a hand along your cheek. His wrinkles were far more pronounced, and his hair was silver instead of the blonde you remembered. His forest-green eyes were the same, and he made rare eye contact with you as the crows feet grew deeper with his smile.

His smile widened. "You haven't," he replied, kneeling down. He slipped a hand behind your knees and lifted you up, his armor cold against your skin.

You relaxed. Despite the metal armor, his hold was as comfortable as your remember. He stood up. You hadn't felt that rush of air in a long while. You were now higher above the ground than you were tall.

He lifted you to his mouth, and you bared your neck as he pressed kiss after soft kiss into it. His whiskers were still rough against your skin, but that was a welcome feeling after going so long without it. Your eyes met again, and you let out a light giggle.

"I've missed you," he mumbled before resuming his activity.

"I've..." you started. How were you even going to begin to describe how you felt, those ten thousand years of sleepless nights waiting for him? That empty feeling of waiting, of not knowing whether your efforts were for nothing. Relief didn't even begin to cover how you were feeling. "I've missed you t-!"

He set you down and knelt before you again, pressing his lips onto yours and pressing you into the side of your house. The straps of your sundress were pushed up and to the side, and your eyes widened as his closed. After a minute, he pulled away.

"Too soon?" he asked, concern in his voice.

"N, no," you whimpered. You made no effort to pull the straps of your dress back up, thanking your lucky stars that you had no neighbors.

"Good," he said. "Now, help me take off my armor. I want to keep my promise to you."

"What-?"

"You're going to become a mother when I'm done with you."

Taglist: @bispecsual @justeverythingnothingelse @bleedingichorhearts @nekotaetae @historitor-bookshelf

[aerodaltonimperial]

okay, i am GENUINELY not trying to be patronizing or condescending right now, but the amount of pearl-clutching and freaking out that's happened in the past six months or so about the wrestlers you write about finding your fic has been quite high, and VERY GENUINELY, if you are one of the people panicking: how did you not factor this in as a possibility in the first place? i'm being serious. how did you, when you sat down to write about real people, not think that those very real people with internet connections and a metric fuckton of boring travel time were not going to find fanfics about themselves if they wanted to?

we are in an age where fanfiction is mainstream. back in 2000, when i was in high school, you didn't talk about that shit, but now? people are reccing fanfics on tiktok videos. publishing has figured out that writers here put out good stuff and are repackaging it for profit. ao3 is a hugo award winning fanfiction archive. y'all. it's out there. it's all out there. this is a fan space. it's still our space. you can't stop them from ending up here, but that's on them, not us. if you're freaking out, then maybe this isn't something you want to be doing. i'm being very serious. if this is causing you panic, you probably should not be part of this in the year 2024. but, like, i would bet a fairly substantial amount of money that at least 50% of them are well aware of what their number one pairing on ao3 is.

they're already here. they already know. they have always known lol. i'm, like, 75% sure i've had lines lifted from fics before, and honestly, that's not a panic moment, that's a fuck yeah i really nailed that moment. you're not doing anything wrong. this is a fan space. as long as you aren't putting it in front of them and they came here on their own? besties, you're good. you're great. it's fine. i'm being serious, please stop panicking. you gotta roll with it if you're gonna be here. you gotta assume that, at any point, someone involved could find what you're writing. genuinely, if you are not comfortable with that, then you're gonna have to just keep your fics to some google docs you share with a few friends. i know that not everyone has had a red alert level 5 the call is coming from inside the house moment, but it's one of those things. it comes with the territory.

we gotta stop freaking out every month lol. take the acknowledgements and laugh about them. it's fun when they give shout-outs! they know what's cookin'. it's cute that they keep an eye on fandom and what's hitting with us. don't put it in their faces, don't tag them on social media with it, just keep doin' what you're doin' here in the fan space and having a nice time. i promise you'll be okay.

[suzukiblu]

I've noticed that in various wips both Kon and Match have been the "younger" brother -- is there actually much of an age difference to them, or is it just both of them wanting to be the older brother? Either way, I am very here for your clonecest agenda, 10/10 A+ thank you!!

ngl I am thiiiiis close to doing a clonecest-themed WIP Wednesday (or WIP Not-Wednesday, maybe, hah), I am so so SO tempted by that idea. Like I'm sorry, I am just WAY too into the clonecest lately, haha. I have so much unpublished Match/Kon right now, like why do I have so much of that.

( I mean I KNOW why, but still, it is SO much. like . . . so, so much. I mean, it is in the realm of like, 30k at this point, jfc self hahaha. )

But yeah, the thing with Match vs Kon as the "younger" brother is a continuity thing, I guess? In the comics--at least in the OG run--Match was cloned from Kon within like the first . . . idk, six months to a year or so or his life as, like, the first run of a line of custom metahuman soldiers (back when Kon was technically just human and did NOT have any actual Kryptonian DNA, much less any of LEX'S DNA) that the Agenda was trying to design and mass-produce for, like, actual SALE. So in the comics, Kon is older and is Match's literal genetic template, but in the animated show, Match was cloned from CLARK as a first attempt at cloning Superman that was made before Project Kr produced Conner, and therefore is the older one--just in the cartoon he couldn't, like, actually be stabilized because said DNA was incomplete and unlike Conner, he doesn't have any human DNA to stabilize his build. And also in the comics, the process that the Agenda used to rip Kon's DNA to make Match actually UNZIPPED his DNA, and repairing it got Kon stuck at physically sixteen for a while, but comics!Match was aging normally during that time, so technically he's at least slightly physically older.

Also like . . . YJA!Match and comics!Match are VERY different, personality-wise. And looks-wise. And . . . everything-wise, basically, hah. Like their only real similarity is the name "Match", pretty much. So that's a thing too!

Personally I usually write more comics-based fic, so in most of my stuff Kon is LITERALLY a little older than Match while Match is PHYSICALLY a little older than Kon, adjusting for, like, interdimensional/time-travel/reality reboot/etc nonsense.

[bunnis-monsters]

Good morning, I hope you're doing well.

I've been a shy onlooker of your work for quite some time, however as of recently I've been noticing with a couple of the bee-hybrid ficlets that you've been writing, one or two of them that involved (specifically) child/infant characters were tagged with the 'monster fucker' and various such related tags..?

I love the bee stuff, I do! Please don't take this as a hate message because I really don't mean for it to come off as such. But if you're going to include infant/child characters under the age of 18 in your fics, please don't include them in NSFW scenarios, fics, or situations or put them in NSFW tags. I don't think that's entirely legal in some places and I say that out of the goodness of my heart for your protection and your readers.

There was a woman banned off Youtube who was criminally charged for breastfeeding her child and uploading it and I know this is in no way as severe but I honestly don't want to see you get banned and all your fics wiped off tumblr because you put 'minor characters' in NSFW situations/tags. :(

You could try maybe just not tagging the stuff with baby bees?? You have a huge follow base and a discord (that i'm too shy to join) so I'm sure people would still find that content if they're following you.

I'm sorry for bothering you, I hope you have a good day.

Uh.

I tag all of my fics as monster fucking… because that’s the genre. The baby bees are a result of said monster fucking.

I specifically use monster fucking on all of my posts so people who don’t like the monster fucking genre can easily filter my posts out.

I do not include any smut tags like I do on my other posts, and SPECIFICALLY tag them as “monster sfw” or “monster fluff” when I remember.

Not only have I never sexualized or plan on sexualizing the baby bees, if you or anyone else sees anything regarding them as sexual… idk what to say. They’re the most innocent posts on my page.

Read my REQUEST INFO so you can understand that I do not write for pedophilic relationships or situations. The baby bees are children.

I think you’re reading a bit into it. I’m not sure about that case of a YouTuber being banned for breast feeding, but that’s a real person with real children. These are fanfics. There could have been more behind that, and I know for sure there are cases where parents exploit their children on the internet in ways that are in the grey area, like for example, breastfeeding them and sexualizing it purposefully(breastfeeding isn’t inherently sexual, but it can be sexualized and sold as such to an audience) or having them do things that are suggestive for their pedophile audience to continue using them as a cash cow.

This is not that. The baby bees are fictional, and not once have they been sexualized. I am not interested in doing so. They’ll still be under the monster fucker tag because the baby bees are tied to the bee hybrids which ARE very NSFW. It’s a genre.

I use tags that relate to my post and can help them be easily filtered by those that DON’T want to see my content.

Never ask something like this again, it made me deeply uncomfortable.

[serialkilluh1996]

✆𝐌𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐇𝐋𝐄𝐑✆

Older-Crush-König x Younger-female-reader pt.1

You have an unhealthy infatuation with König. But where there is obsession, there are dilemmas. He's 35, you're 21. He's your colonel, you're just an assistant. But most importantly, he can't fucking stand you.

Warnings: reader has specifically the personality i wrote, use of ☆☆☆ in place of reader's name, age gap (14 years), König is kinda of an ass, contact me if I need to add more.

Proshippers, Comshippers DNI

¹ 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ➛

It's been almost a year since you fell in love with this man.

You were 20, looking for a reasonably paying job to live a reasonably affordable life, and Kortac had just the position.

A base level assistant. All you had to do was make sure everyone was in check, keep track of everyone's time sheets, and make sure all important files, including inventory, were safely stowed away in your computer supplied by the company. Who could turn down such an easy job? You didn't even have to do any field work.

Your life was going pretty damn smooth, if it wasn't for him. Him being König, your colonel and angel. He's a gorgeous man. Bright blue eyes, a firm muscular body, imposing height, his flattering accent. You were instantly in love with him, and he fucking hated it.

It started off small, with him politely hinting you away, but you were persistent. Bothersome. You absolutely wouldn't let him go, and that very fact would be the death of you.

König taps his pen against his desk, unmotivated to write his paperwork that was long past due. It wasn't anything serious, just a list of yes/no, if/and, where/when questions he didn't feel like reading through. Tap tap tap tap, the pen knocks against the table, abruptly stopping once König noticed you standing in the doorway.

He sighs, his entire mood shifting from unmotivated to irritated. "...why are you here, ☆☆☆..." he asks, sounding like more of a statement than a question due to his heavy accent and rough tone. Your name sounded like a curse coming from his mouth; a slur, even.

"I've done all my tasks." You explain to him, hands clasped together as you lean against the threshold.

"Und? Did ya want a cookie or something?" He teases. "I–I–" you stutter out, not sure how to respond to his sarcasm. "Don't worry about it." He fans his hand, looking back down at the paper.

He would've wrather been writing than dealing with you right now. You were so genuinely in love, enamored by him and his....qualities. but to König, this was all just some dumb hormonal puppy crush. He wanted a mature woman, not some silly girl like you.

"I...wanted to know if you'd go to the bar with me." You force out, your stomach churning with anxiety as you finally got the words out. "I'm not gonna be able to sneak you, Liebling, if that's what you're implying." He chuckles softly, beginning to scribble away at the paper.

"Sneak me in? I'm old enough to go to a bar, thank you very much." You look offended. It's almost humorous to him. Your anger is probably the only thing about you that made him smile, how funny and easy it was to piss you off. The younger ones typically did have a shorter temper.

"Oh, und how old are ya? 16? 17?" "...21." You said firmly, visibly irritated. You somehow managed to be the youngest in every group, so you were no stranger to being tease about your age.

"Oh...just old enough to drink. So, you want me to come and babysit you while you get drunk off your ass by some alcohol you're probably not even strong enough to handle?" "Why are you acting like this?" You folded your arms, frowning.

"What?" "I'm not inviting you as a chaperone, I'm inviting you as a date." You tilt your head slightly.

"...A date?" König almost bursts into laughter, stifling his chuckles with coughs as he covered his mouth. You could feel your confidence dropping with every hearty giggle.

"You're asking me out? Seriously?" "...yes." You mumble, no longer wanting to talk. "Why don't you ask Avery, hm? He's MUCH closer to your age." You frown at his words.

Avery was one his soldiers. A very kind young man, no older than 25, messy blonde hair. You loved having Avery around and he always made your moments memorable, but...he was practically a brother to you. You didn't see Avery as a potential love interest, you saw him as a silly best friend who had your back when you needed it.

"I don't want to go with him. I don't like him." You pouted.

"Well, that's too bad, Liebling. I'm far too old to be going out with someone like you. You're too young, und frankly, quite annoying. I want a woman. Not a puppy. Go ask someone else," he clicks his pen, leaning back in his chair.

"You're a very beautiful young lady and I'm sure there's plenty of men your age willing to kill to be with you." "I don't care what tuey want, I care what I want." You try to sound demanding, like you're standing your ground, but it comes out like a spoiled child whining, frustrating you further.

"Don't throw a fit, now." "I'm not!" You shout, now angry with yourself for being so openly bothered by his rejection. He couldn't help but exhale, looking at the sight of you. Your face was hot with agitation, eyes squinted with frustration as you stared into his eyes. He couldn't help but smile at your clenched hands. You were awful at hiding your emotions. It was almost precious to him

He felt himself becoming more tense, having to look down at the desk and put a hand to his forehead. "What am I gonna do with you..." he shakes his head. This wasn't the first time he'd rejected your advances; you've asked a myriad of times, being slowly but surely denied with more force each time.

"... I'll consider it." He offers, scratching his forehead, and you almost instantly rejoice at the idea. You suppressed a squeal as you bit your lip, trying not to make yourself look dumber.

"But not as a date." He interrupts, and you become nervous again.

"I don't want any unnecessary rumors about us spreading around. I'm not dating you and I don't want people to have the impression that I am. I'll invite a few others to go along with us and you will behave like a proper young lady. Understood?" "....Understood."

You can support me by liking, commenting, reblogging, and/or cashapping me @fundsbrownie. Donations are optional, but much appreciated. Have fun! And remember, take care of yourself.

[not-poignant]

Are there any fandoms you haven't written for yet but would like to in the future? Or future fanfic ideas/stories that have been on your mind that you want to do after you finish your other fanfics?

I love reading your replies 😊

There's...

There's so many, anon

You know how some people worry about running out of stories to write? Yeah, I'm out here begging my brain to shut the fuck up because I already have enough stories to write.

I don't have anything seriously on my mind. I have wanted to write for the Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji fandom, and the Bungou Stray Dogs fandom for a long time. I have another long Bull/Dorian/Cullen fic I want to write for Dragon Age but that might get superceded by the latest game coming out and new characters.

I also have quite a few original stories with completely original characters that I want to write.

And don't get me started on the amount of fandoms I want to write PWPs for because we'd be here all day. I've also written for additional fandoms and not ported my fics over from Livejournal and FF.net and other websites. So I'd say there's like another 10 fandoms I've written for where if you don't know my old usernames (no I'm not going to share them lmao), like...they're just floating out in the ether.

The ideas do not stop, and sometimes I am in bed like 'pls just...let me sleep' and they fall on me like when you open an overstuffed ADHDer's cupboard and everything falls on top of you at once sdalfkjdsa

[dustdeepsea]

Writer Interview

Tagged by @my-favourite-zhent nearly 3 weeks ago and I've entirely missed the wave.

I've enjoyed reading so many interesting ones by my mutuals! Tagging (only if you're keen) @graysparrowao3 @coreene @say-lene @luvwich @grossestjay —and if I've missed your interview somehow, tag me in the comments!

Q&A after the cut—

When did you start writing?

I wrote my first fanwork at age 12. It was self-insert fanfiction with me and 2 of my friends in the Slayers anime universe, which meant it was several comedic sketches strung together with with lots of actions denoted by asterisks and emoticons. You know the ones ^_^ ^____^ @_@ T_T *slaps you gently with a trout*

We printed it out on someone's home printer and bound copies in plastic school folders with a two-hole punch. I've lost the original file ages ago, but I would love to read it again.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

When I was younger, I actively sought out "difficult stories" because I wanted to experience things beyond my day to day life. I read Nabokov at 16 because everyone kept saying Lolita was a dangerous book. I also read a lot of Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis without really understanding them.

My pretentiousness definitely peaked in my university days. My dating profile at the time listed: Herman Hesse, Kazuo Ishiguro and Mikhail Bulgakov.

Now that I'm older, I read and write stories primarily to make myself happy.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I'm not remotely at the level where I get compared to any published writers.

My favourite contemporary writer is David Mitchell (of Cloud Atlas fame), and my favourite book by him is The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

My favourite "classic" novel is The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I type at my desk, in a study shared with my partner. Sometimes if the scene is particularly spicy or they are gaming too loudly, I take the laptop to the living room.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Bouncing plot bunnies off others on Discord, talking a walk or a long train ride, playing an immersive video game and rotating characters in my head for hours afterwards.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

According to my lovely readers:

"Romantic and sweaty"; "two silly sausages frying in a pan" (thanks to my long time beta-reader @littleplasticrat)

"Purity, temperance, glimpse of [the] ability for real love / real forgiveness" (thank you @tellmeallaboutit!)

These did surprise me a bit when they were first pointed out but it makes sense—I've been accidentally writing Regency romances and repressed idiots in love without setting out to do so explicitly.

What is your reason for writing?

I put aside hobbies for many years because of my work (no matter what advertisers want you to believe—doomscrolling is not a hobby). Started doing more creative things during my sabbatical last year, and writing was one of the things that saved my broken corpo soul.

Nowadays I'm really into bread making and cooking in general. I'm trying to balance work and creative pursuits and I'm much happier overall.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Any and all comments are received with love <3 <3 <3 I really enjoy it when people let me know what lines really resonated with them or point out motifs I'd snuck in.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Friendly and approachable! Not entirely hyperfixated on That One NPC from a Video Game with Five Lines (that one might be harder now...!)

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

A fairly broad vocabulary, including anachronisms, which is useful for fantasy story settings. Writing characters who are actively lying to themselves (thinking one thing and saying/doing another).

My writing tends to be on the more contemplative side and a bit sadder and slower paced, so if you enjoy A Great Deal of Yearning along with your smut, then it would appeal to you :)

How do you feel about your own writing?

I'm pretty happy with it! I write very, very slowly, with constant edits as I go, and would probably starve if I ever had to rely on my fiction writing to be paid. Luckily, I get to do this as a hobby.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I write for myself, but I am also super blessed to have a very small but vocal audience that I can interact with directly. I guess my best advice is: Write for yourself and your 10 friends who want to read your hand-bound home-printed self-insert fanfic <3

[baronessblixen]

Mulder says yes when asked if he's the husband in order to stay with scully....go

Together with this prompt: Scully wakes up in Empedocles to see Mulder laying his head on her bed holding her hand. She asks how he managed to get in her room. He replies, “Well we might be married now.” Set in "Empedocles", obviously.

Fictober Day 11 | Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2022 | Wc: 1,224

Everything Will Be Just Fine

“Who are you? The husband?” Mulder makes his decision in a split second, looking at the ER nurse, seeing Scully being wheeled away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Agent Doggett rush toward them. What is that guy even doing here? It doesn’t matter. What matters is Scully and that one question. Who is he, really?

“Yes,” he says, hoping she won’t have time to check Scully’s paperwork. “I’m her husband. I’m the- the-” How easy it is to lie about being married to Scully, and how difficult it is to spell out the true words. Who he is. To her, to the child she’s carrying. Who might be in danger.

It’s enough; the nurse pushes him through the double doors and into a whole new world before Doggett can speak to him.

Mulder’s only job in the ER is to hold Scully’s hand while they work on her. He picks up a few things here and there, not understanding much. Scully is the medical doctor, and she’s just lying there, with her eyes closed.

“You’re going to be okay,” Mulder mumbles, half to himself.

“You’re here,” she says weakly, trying to turn her head to look at him, but then another nurse steps in between them, making him let go of her hand.

“Sir, you better wait over there.” She points to the corner. “We need to make sure your wife and baby are okay.”

With one last look at Scully, who’s anxiously staring at the monitor, Mulder does what he’s told. He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, feeling useless. He watches the doctors take care of Scully, talking to her. He sees her nod. Was that a smile on her face? He wants to know what’s going on, too. Later, he’ll ask her and she’ll explain it to him. Once they know the baby is fine.

The baby.

He’s seen it before. There were several sonograms pinned to Scully’s fridge. He observed every single one of them. Then, one night, he found one in his own bedroom. He stared at it for a long while, his finger tracing the tiny shadows again and again until tears fell from his eyes.

But today is the first time he’s really seeing it. Over there on the monitor is the baby – their baby – and its heart is beating. One beat after another, never stopping. Their baby is tough. Mulder finds himself drawn to it, wanting closer. Needing to make sure this is real.

“Your baby is okay, Mr. Scully,” a nurse says and he needs a moment to understand that she’s talking to him. Mr. Scully – that’s him. He’ll change his name, be anyone, if he gets to be here.

“My- my wife?” The word should feel wrong from his lips, but it doesn’t. Not even a little bit. It comes easily to him, like the most normal thing in the world.

“We’ll put her up in a room now. Everything is going to be okay,” the nurse says with a smile, and Mulder is so overwhelmed with relief that he almost hugs her.

*

He doesn’t know what they gave Scully to sleep, but it must have been the good drugs. What is it about them and hospitals? They’ve spent half a lifetime between bad cafeteria coffee and uncomfortable hospital chairs. His heart hasn’t quite caught up yet.

They’re going to be fine.

The doctor confirmed it again when Mulder walked into Scully’s room, now set up more comfortably. She was fast asleep, her head rolled to the side, just the way she’s been sleeping lately. The sight of her filled him with love. Lately, she’s falling asleep everywhere, her head falling against his shoulder more often than he’s used to. He wants to get used to it. Mulder wants to hold her hand through all of it, the good and the bad.

That’s why he’s still here, hours later. Scully hasn’t woken up once. Skinner has called him a few times and he’s told him in no uncertain terms that he won’t go anywhere until Scully wakes up. Exhausted himself, he rests his head on her bed, right next to her arm. Just for a moment. He closes his eyes, and listens to her even breathing. It’s always been his favorite lullaby.

“Mulder? Is that you?” Fingers run gently but uncoordinated through his hair.

“Hm? Scully? Hey, you’re awake.” He lifts his head to look into her droopy face. He’s never been more in love with her. “How are you feeling? Do you remember anything?”

“A little bit… the baby,” she says, putting a hand on her stomach.

“The baby is fine,” Mulder assures her, putting his own hand next to hers. “The doctor said you had a partial abruption. You’ll know better what that means.”

She nods and says, “I do. I guess they’ll monitor me for a while but we’ll be… we’ll be fine.” She poses it as a statement, but he sees the question in her eyes, the hint of uncertainty. He takes her hand into his, entwines their fingers, and kisses her knuckles.

“You’re going to be just fine. The both of you. Trust me, I pestered every nurse and doctor.” They smile at each other.

“Do I want to know how you convinced them to let you stay with me?”

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “We might be married now.”

“What?” Scully asks, smiling in disbelief. How he missed that smile. He doesn’t want to spend another moment without seeing it.

“It’s family only,” he explains. “The nurse asked if I was the husband and I-”

“You said yes.”

“I did. You’re not mad, are you?”

“I’m too tired and too drugged to be mad. But no, Mulder, of course, I’m not mad. I’m happy you’re here.” She squeezes his hand. From the looks of it, he won’t have much time with her before she falls back asleep. Any questions he might have wanted to ask will have to wait. There will be a right time for all of it.

“I saw our baby,” he says, awe-struck. “I saw its heartbeat.”

“Hmm,” Scully hums sleepily, her eyes closing, but her lips are curled upwards in a soft smile. “Maybe,” she trails off, her voice slow. He watches her, blinking slowly, fully prepared to not hear the end of her sentence. Then she surprises him, his Scully. “Maybe you can come to my next appointment. Husband or not,” she says without opening her eyes.

“I’d love that.”

“But first,” she says with a sigh. “First I want to have a pizza.”

He laughs, his eyes filling with tears. His Scully. Their baby. They’ll all be just fine.

“I think we can arrange that.”

[tshortik]

I love you messy artstyle i love you visible brush strokes I love you textures and rough edges I love you imperfections I love you roughness and colour blobs I love you scratchy sketches and bold stylisation and dirt and imperfections I love you ugly and raw emotion!!!!! ❤️

[teainthesnow]

@somerandomdudelmao is giving me emotions again so time to give some back...

- - -

It’s over.

it’s finally over.

Or, he thinks, with a shuddering breath and numb agony, that it will be over soon.

So he lies there, breathing in the dust and ash, and the sour taste of all that was lost, of the embers of a dying world, filling his mouth.

It would...

It would all be okay now.

He inhales.

And tries not to be scared by what comes next.

But, vaguely, distantly, as he slips further and further into numb acceptance he feels a presence, a familiar warmth blanketing him. Warm hands touch his shoulder feeling fiercely protective but tinged with fear.

It’s okay, he whispers but he’s certain the words come about as nothing more than a senseless whisper, if they even make it out at all.

But...

It’ll be okay.

It’s time.

He’s ready for the next step.

To face his ancestors, friends, family, and brothers.

And hopefully that meant all three of them.

He exhales.

And falls into the darkness.

But the darkness parts around him.

His thoughts swirl into a blurry haze, slipping from him before he can truly comprehend them or the things around him.

All he knows is this is wrong... he shouldn’t... he thought...

Wasn’t it supposed to be over now?

Not... not this incoherent haze of a life where the only comfort his can find is in the soft fluttering traces of red and purple.

So he hides; feeling scared and alone and wondering why this is his fate, why he has been cursed to stay isolated and away from those he cares about.

He is so tired, so exhausted.

Barely clinging on to the last of his strength even though he isn’t truly sure why he does so.

There’s something whispering, begging, cheering for him to keep going.

To hold on.

Something – or perhaps someone – calling his name, voice laced with a pleading desperation.

But

all he can do

is

slip

further

down.

And then something shifts through the fog.

The world tilts on its axis.

The is a fire surrounding him, burning away the encroaching darkness that he had been so willing to accept.

No, he pleads, reaching a desperate hand outwards.

Let me go.

Please.

Let me go home.

The fire, the warmth, the two flames do not listen as they cling tightly onto him, dragging him forcefully along with them.

Please.

And then the fire vanishes just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him weak and fading once more.

But then the static clings to him, trapping him, keeping him from fading, from moving on.

There is a comforting presence within the electricity, similar to the warm flames, but slightly different.

Familiar yet somehow unfamiliar at the same time.

There is something within the sensation that makes him pause and hesitate.

All he can feel is a weird mix of worry, relief, and unwavering determination.

He almost stops fighting.

But he can’t.

This isn’t-

He isn’t home.

He needs to go home.

So he fights against the static, against the energy it gives him.

Against those soft thoughts of you’re safe, please stop fighting, let me- let us help you.

But that wouldn’t be fair, would it?

Did he really deserve peace when they weren’t here?

He just wanted to see them again.

(Even though the whispers tried to convince him that they were already there because it didn’t make sense.)

So whenever he can he fights.

He runs.

But the static, the flames, keep finding him.

Keep holding him protectively within their embrace.

(keeping him safe)

Keeping him trapped.

(keeping him alive)

Keeping him away from home.

(giving him strength to keep himself alive)

In this fog-filled limbo that his existence has become.

And then.

Finally.

Something changes.

And.

He.

Falls.

Again.

He blinks open his eyes.

Confused and disorientated and still not quite fully himself.

He feels...

Empty.

Perhaps.

Nothing but a fragile reflection of who he was, of who he will be.

Hollow.

Lonely.

And lost in the vast empty darkness.

Empty, he realises slowly through sludge filled thought, but not silent.

There’s a voice shouting in the distance.

Muffled and incoherent but definitely there.

He looks around.

Suddenly desperate.

Overcome with the desire to find the voice.

To find-

He looks down at his reflection.

But it isn’t *his* reflection.

Maybe *he’s* the reflection.

Forced to echo, to copy.

He’s yelling at himself.

...isn’t he?

But then a hand reaches through the mirror and grabs hold of his scarf.

Pulling him upwards and through the once solid surface and the voice, the familiar and unfamiliar voice, becomes clear.

Becomes understandable.

And awareness washes over him.

The ‘anger’ leaves.

All he has left is a numb confusion and a growing hope.

And then he is falling again.

He blinks.

Awareness comes back to him slowly.

His vision slowly fading back into clarity.

And his first coherent thought is to be annoyed by a constant tap, tap, tap, of a keyboard being used.

He tiredly shifts to locate the source of the noise and sees Donnie tapping away, focused solely on his task.

Then that thought processes.

To See... Donnie... tapping away?

...Donnie?

And the tiredness immediately drops away as he reaches out desperately, hopefully.

And then he falls out of the bed with a thump.

But there are hands on him, gently picking him up, embracing him, words nothing but a murmured blur as reality drips into comprehension.

It can’t...

This can’t...

He is so overwhelmed, so utterly lost, he can only sit there as Donnie fusses around him, voice tinged with anger.

No... he realises, as a smile begins to creep upon his face and tears well up in the corner of his eyes, not anger.

Worry.

But he can’t let himself relax yet.

This is too good to be true.

Is this really truly real?

“D-Donnie?” He asks voice wavering and tinged with a fear he cannot hold back.

And when Donnie (and he hopes, really desperately hopes that it is) keeps fussing he reaches forward and takes hold of a flailing hand.

It’s... it’s warm.

The tears are there again, now dripping unbidden down his face.

“You’re real.”

The wrist within his grasp is solid and warm, and strong.

“You’re real!”

Not thin and weak and rattled with tremors.

But...

“Are you?”

He tentatively asks, scared for the truth but hoping against everything for the best.

That Donnie – his brother, his beloved twin is here.

And then Donnie soothes his fears, tells him the truth, the amazing, almost unbelievable truth.

He cannot stop the tears.

Does not want to stop the tears.

This is...

This is everything he had hoped for.

And the tears that drip, drip, drip down his face are no longer tears of pain and fear and utter sadness but those of hope and joy and the understanding that this is it.

There is a warmth surrounding him.

A hug, he slowly realises.

A hug he thought he’d never receive again.

The trickle of tears becomes a torrent. He cannot hold back, nor does he want to. The relief hits him like a sledgehammer as he clings desperately to the brother he never thought he would see again.

Crying loudly and unashamedly.

This is...

He chokes back the sobs once they calm slightly.

And cracks probably the best (worse) joke he’s made in a while.

And laughter is his reward.

There is a warmth swelling within him, a calmness, and a happiness he had thought unachievable as he and his amazingly alive brother share their joy with each other once again.

And then Donnie passes out.

Gently, carefully, he sets him down, noting the rise and fall of his plastron but he still presses a cautious hand to his brothers neck.

And sighs with relief at the comforting and steady

thump

thump

thump

of a healthy heartbeat.

He exhales in relief.

It’s okay.

A weight lifts off his shoulders as he raises a hand to his own neck feeling the very proof the he too is alive and healthy.

And that is when it really truly begins to sink in.

Despite his confusion. Despite having not even the smallest idea of how he got here, of how he’s alive.

Of how Donnie is alive when even his spirit...

He takes in a soothing breath, shakes the thoughts out of his head, and focuses on the good that he can find.

Because.

It’s over

It’s finally over.

But, he pauses, as he takes in his surroundings and processes what just happened.

To breathe in the clean air.

To enjoy the steady beating of their heartbeats.

To think he’s alive, they’re both alive.

So...

Maybe...

Hopefully...

...it’s only just begun.

[canisalbus]

can i write fanfiction about these silly dogs

I would love that. A couple of people have written about them before and I think of their fics on a regular basis.

[batfossil-fr]

wanted to share maybe my favorite thing I've ever commissioned, this wonderful skin by Yelloweye! they are so incredibly talented and amazing to work with, I could not have asked for a more perfect skin for this guy.

Xun

[witchydykebitch]

Okay, hear me out

I know everyone goes feral for femme vampire x butch werewolf (and rightfully so)

But consider: femme witch x butch werewolf

Like it's a full moon, a femme witch is doing a ritual in the woods wearing a cloak and nothing underneath in hopes that a big butch werewolf will stumble upon her and have their way with her 🤭

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

It became an odd habit.

“Will you accompany me, Harry?”

Harry was well past the point of complaining. Whenever Riddle appeared out of nowhere and knocked on his door, there was little he could say or do to get him to leave.

“Oh, do I have a choice this time?”

He didn’t laugh, per se, but the slight tilt of Riddle’s head and the suspicious gleam in his eyes were as loud as one. He held out his hand, palm up, in answer.

Harry refused the offer with a shake of his head and sighed, “Lead the way, I guess.”

They never apparated to the same place twice. Their surroundings were always unfamiliar and remote and never inspired much confidence in the possibility of Harry returning home safely. But he always did. Riddle made sure of that.

Sometimes Harry wondered if this was his weird way of letting off steam, as though their time together somehow relaxed and revitalised him. It was an insane thought, but the fact remained that Riddle would show up tense and barely controlled and one careless word away from a fight, and he would leave loose-limbed and satisfied. Usually at the expense of Harry. 

This time was no different. Riddle’s fist was white-knuckle tight, and the location was a drab and dreary abandoned manor of some kind. Walls of crumbling stone and floorboards rotted nearly through, making each step taken a delicate dance. The dust in the air was enough to make Harry cough once or twice; the building had clearly been neglected for a long while.

“What is it today,” Harry asked. “Another potion? More rune work? If you try to teach me a dead language again, I will kick you in the shin and finally make good on my threats of moving to a different country.”

Riddle glanced back over his shoulder and raised a single brow. “Do you truly think distance will stop me?” He asked.

No. Harry didn’t even think being universes apart would stop Riddle.

Still, he scoffed and said, “Creep.”

Riddle simply smiled. “I will not subject myself to that again. You are surprisingly ungrateful for having the honour to learn from a being as powerful as I.”

Harry wanted to roll his eyes, “Yeah. So sorry for not appreciating everything you do for me. Oh, wait—I never asked.”

Riddle hummed, not agreeingly. Never agreeingly. “We will be attempting a discipline you’ve shown great promise in but one we’ve never indulged upon.” 

For the life of him, Harry couldn’t think of a single thing in which he showed great promise. He also couldn’t think of a time when Riddle didn’t indulge whenever he damn well pleased. “As vague as ever today,” Harry prodded. “Don’t hold back; share with the class.”

Riddle stopped so suddenly that Harry almost ran straight into him. With a careless wave of his hand, the double doors to their left opened.

And inside was a pristine duelling arena. 

Harry’s mouth parted, but he couldn’t find the words. This was damn impressive. 

The stone walls were just as decrepit here as they were throughout the manor, but their ruin spoke of wide-cast spellfire and magic dark enough to leave its mark. Of a frazzled mind with enough wherewithal to make it to the duelling room but not enough to cast a protective barrier. It had ample light from shattered windows, but not a single shard of glass could be found across the decorative tiled floor, its pattern still polished to a dull shine.

They walked in - or, rather, Riddle walked in, and Harry followed behind him, content in his rapture. He wouldn’t truly ever get used to wizarding homes and their larger-than-life rooms. Harry would have been none the wiser passing by those double doors; they didn’t look nearly grand enough to hide such a gorgeous arena. But that was magic, he supposed.

It was clear they’d stopped. Harry wasn’t sure how long it had been with as taken as he was by the stage next, admiring its long dark floorboards that came together in a sort of v pattern that repeated. Harry was so hung up on trying to remember the name of it (Houndstooth? Plaid? No, it was something with a C-) that he hadn’t realised just how close Riddle had gotten.

He felt a chill travel up his throat before he processed the movement. Riddle’s hand was just beneath his chin, ice-cold fingers a hair’s breadth away from Harry’s skin. With a muted gasp, he froze and locked eyes with him, which wasn’t very hard to do. Riddle’s were already fixated on him. 

Their silence was thick enough to suffocate. 

Riddle curled his fingers into his palm slowly and brought his hand to hover just before the round of Harry’s face. He could sense that creeping cold reaching out again with the phantom feeling of Riddle’s knuckles pulling a slow line down his cheek, stopping at the corner of his lips. Riddle moved back then and gestured at them, “Close your mouth, or you’ll catch flies, Harry.”

His teeth made an audible click, the sound making Harry wince when it echoed in the hollow space. To save himself from further embarrassment, he grimaced and blessed Riddle with one of his rarely used meaner smiles, “Come that close to me again, and I’ll bite that finger off.”

Riddle pulled back even slower and tilted his head to the side. He raked his gaze over Harry’s face, down his body, and on his pass back up, he shrugged and said, “Now, now. That’s no way to handle your disputes, is it?”

Like a static shock, Harry finally realised what was happening. 

All that anger brewing like a potion in his gut dissipated. His shoulders fell - he wasn’t sure when they’d hiked so far up in the first place - and he huffed out a laugh. “I know what you’re doing,” Harry said.

Riddle looked at him with all the innocence of a Nundu. “Oh? Am I doing something, Harry?” He asked.

Harry breathed through the kindling trying to catch a new spark. “You know what you’re doing,” he started backing away. Riddle’s eyes followed him keenly as his steps took him up the middle of the duelling stage and back down to the other side. He wasn’t running away, just trying to get some distance. “You always know what you’re doing. And I am not falling for it—you won’t manipulate me into this.”

“Surely I’ve no understanding of what you’re implying.” Riddle’s polished shoes tap-tap-tapped their way right after Harry, but he stopped on the stage. He looked down on him from above. “But if I did,” Riddle continued, “I’d tell you you’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

Harry shook his head, this man… “You can’t be serious?”

Riddle folded his hands behind his back. His smile was sharp. “When have I ever been anything but?” He asked, and Harry scoffed. 

He wavered for a moment, maybe two, and finally climbed back up the steps to the duelling stage. Riddle, the asshole, looked far too pleased. He turned to face Harry, and they were so close that he only had to look down ever so slightly.

They hadn’t been this close in a long, long time. It was just Harry’s luck that it was happening twice in one day. Fourth Year came to mind as the last time Harry was forced into this proximity. Forced because, unlike now, he hadn’t ever chosen to be in Riddle’s space. Or company. Or attention. 

They stood in silence. Riddle’s grin grew teeth with each passing second. Harry knew what he wanted, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to instigate it—invite it any more than he already was. 

Then, Harry heard an echo of words, a lost encounter in the back of his memories. It pulled a smile on his lips, smaller than Riddle’s but no less there. “A wizard’s duel, then?” Harry teased. “Wands only — no contact?”

At the sight of Harry’s smile and the sound of his teasing, Riddle’s face fell flat. His eyes narrowed. “Your focus should be here, Harry.” He paused and said, “We wouldn’t want you to get hurt because of some minor distraction. Would we?”

Harry smiled a little wider, “Jealous? How very like you.”

Riddle sneered, “Do not speak of me as though I am predictable.”

Now Harry gave in to the temptation to roll his eyes. They, unfortunately, knew each other very well. Riddle was the most predictable person Harry had ever met, and he knew it—if only because Harry was the most predictable person he had ever met. 

“Fine,” Harry conceded. “Ten paces, right?” He turned to begin his count, but Riddle stopped him by the scruff of his shirt. 

Non too gently, he yanked Harry back. Cold breath puffed against his ear in semblance of a laugh. “And we bow, Harry,” Riddle murmured, causing a wave of shivers down Harry’s spine. 

Harry glared over his shoulder and spat, “Make me.”

[becca-e-barnes]

Sub!bucky is so needy for you after you denied his orgasm a few days (he is so whiny 😩🥵)

And at night he’s having a wet dream of you and he doesn’t know that’s part of you evil plan… while he grinds his clothed dick at your palm you whisper some sexy things in his ears. When he cums he wakes up and you made his look like he was not your good boy 🥵🥵🥵🥵

I've actually been thinking about something similar recently! I just really love subby men eugh 🤤

I like to think you could make it a little more intense though because I prefer to imagine that you've been making him edge for a few days. You don't let him edge inside you, you both know he'd struggle too much. Instead, you lube up your hand and stroke him for hours, letting him fuck your fist until he's dribbled so much precum over you, your hand is unbearably slick and then you kiss his forehead before you tuck his aching cock back into his underwear.

No matter how much he whines and begs and pleads to be allowed to cum, you don't give in. He's not just being denied his orgasm, he's being worked towards it until he's right on the edge and then you give him absolutely nothing. Repeatedly. It's torture but fuck, he gets off on knowing his dick is yours. He doesn't cum without your permission. You completely own him.

He breaks after the sixth night of being relentlessly edged. You'd stroked his cock nice and slowly for hours that day, swirling your tongue over his tip and reminding him that he's the best boy. He was practically shaking by the time you both made it to bed.

His little whine of "Oh fuck, please." was the first thing you remember hearing when you woke up, quickly followed by "O-oh, oh yes."

At first you thought he must be touching himself; giving in to his own slutty thoughts when he thought you wouldn't find out.

As your sleepy brain slowly wakes up, you realise he's grinding against you, rubbing his throbbing cock against your bare ass, gripping your hips like there's no tomorrow. "Gonna cum. F-fuck, gonna cum." He's frantic, his head tucked in against your neck, his breath hot and erratic against your skin.

You can't have that. Absolutely not. You shuffle away from him, determined not to let him have what he needs and the second the contact between your bodies is broken, you hear him whine pathetically.

"Did you really think that would work out for you?" You tease quietly, turning to face him but that's when you realise his eyes are still closed. His brow is furrowed, very clearly still asleep.

You can't help but pity him. He's so desperate to cum, he's grinding against you in his sleep. He's done his very best to do as he's told but his body can't take it. He's been the best boy for you all week. The least you could do is grant him a little relief.

"You're such a good boy, Bucky." You whisper, pressing him gently onto his back, grasping his cock and letting the tip glide between your slick folds. Nothing feels better than this. You've missed it more than you thought you would this week.

"Such a pretty little slut." You line his tip up with your entrance and ever so slowly lower yourself down. "You're a mindless little fuck toy for me when you're like this. So horny, you can hardly even think straight. You've been like a needy fucking puppy for me all week. You just let your dick think for you, isn't that right? You know I could tell when you were zoning out and daydreaming about fucking me? You're so cute."

As you start to really fuck yourself on him, Bucky seems to moan himself awake.

"Please." He begs, and it sounds so pretty when he says it. "Please, I'm so close. I'm gonna cum. I can't cum inside you. There's gonna be so much."

"Oh sweetheart, that's what I want. I want you to fill me. Stuff my cunt full of cum. I thought I told you how badly I want a baby."

[incorrect-koh-posts]

"[...] narrative interest in Kingdom of Heaven focuses not on the outcome of the conflict between the Crusader Kingdom and Saladin but on the way it was fought, on means rather than ends, performance rather than goals. In the end, how the hero performs is more important than the fact that he lost the battle and surrendered the city. [...]

"Scott perhaps best encapsulates the anxieties that surround hard-bodied masculinity and the mourning for its loss in his uncanny image of Baldwin, the leper king of Jerusalem, whose death precipitates the destruction of the Crusader Kingdom. Rather than focusing the audience's attention on the ravages of the disease of leprosy (at least until after his death), Scott depicts him in a funereal image of a male body swathed in white robes and veils, his face hidden by a beautiful but lifeless silver mask. Baldwin is beautiful but inanimate on the outside - a hard-bodied shell - living but hideous on the inside. His voice detached from his body, Baldwin becomes a ghostly acousmatic, despite his physical presence onscreen. His voice seems to issue from an inanimate shell, cut off from its origin in a human body. He is his own - and his kingdom's - funeral effigy. In this figure the hard-bodied masculinity of the crusaders in Kingdom of Heaven is exposed as a performance, a disguise that hides the rottenness within the kingdom beneath its beautiful but dead veneer. The image allows not only the crusaders but Scott's audience to mourn lost glories."

- Laurie A. Finke and Martin B. Shichtman, Cinematic Illuminations: The Middle Ages on Film, Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010, pp. 231f.