#fanfic I am trying to write

[not-a-moose-in-disguise]

How do people decide where to set things that they write?

Is it weird to pick somewhere on Google maps that you’ve never been to but has a good layout?

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[shitpostingsterek]

credit

[angies-writing-blog]

Trapped beneath his weight is your body, every muscle tensed, but against his raw strength, you stand no chance. Sun Wukong looms over you, his eyes glowing with a dark, unforgiving light that brooks no dissent.

As he holds you mercilessly, your breath comes in ragged gasps. His claws rake across your skin, carving deep lines that burn and bleed. First, a gentle scrape, then a sharp bite—you feel his teeth at your neck, sinking into your flesh, wanting to take a piece of you, to mark you as his forever.

With a force that shows no regard for restraint, he thrusts into you. You feel him cross every boundary, as if he's forgotten that you're made of flesh and blood, fragile in your humanity.

Each thrust is an unrelenting claim on you; his claws dig into your hips, pulling you harder against him. Your body trembles under the intensity, and though you want to resist, you find yourself helpless in his grip, caught between desire and fear. Meanwhile, his teeth are everywhere—nibbling, biting, tearing at your skin as though he intends to possess you completely, as if every fiber of your being is meant for him alone.

The heat of his breath, the sting of his touch, the sharp claws piercing you—all of it blends into a whirl from which there is no escape. You are his prey, and Wukong hunts you to the brink of your endurance. His deep moans merge with yours, a wild, animalistic sound that makes you believe he would continue even if all strength left your limbs.

Then, after a final, deep thrust, he collapses over you, his body trembling with unbridled power. You feel him come inside you, hot and unstoppable, an ultimate claim on you that embeds itself in every fiber of your being. His claws dig deeper into your skin as his breath crashes against your ear, a silent cry that speaks of all his passion and power. Finally, his arms wrap tightly around you, as if he'll never let you go, and with every deep breath, you feel him claim you forever.

[thatstoomanysausages]

Does anyone ever think really hard about Grian's inability to team? To stick with the same people he'd allied with at first after it shows the slightest hint of going downhill? Or about everyone's knowledge to be weary with teaming with Grian as he's notoriously disloyal with his teammates?

Cause the gutting thing is, he isn't. He isn't disloyal. He doesn't have an inability. In fact, I'd argue he is one of the few people who are tragically loyal to a fault, at least in most cases.

In Last Life, although he killed both Jimmy and Mumbo, he still felt the need to return to his allies after he'd turned red, feeling betrayed when they threw him out for being red. After that, he stuck with Joel and didn't dare betray him.

In Double Life, although he cheated on Scar and constantly complained, he stuck by Scar almost obsessively. His aim to protect him, even if he said it was for his own benefit, was painful. He didn't try to leave Scar behind like Cleo or Scott, he didn't try to sever the bond between him and Scar, nothing. It was almost like he was desperate.

In Limited Life, he was beyond loyal to his boys. He was loyal until the very end. And although he immediately switched to join the Nosy Neighbours, he didn't try to team with anyone permanently until Jimmy and Joel were dead. His silence when he realised he was truly the last Bad Boy was deafening. He hid his grief by saying that he had a backup team, just to save face, even though he built a gravestone for both boys and grieved them meaningfully.

In Secret Life, it wasn't as if he was fine with having no allied, like someone would be if they truly didn't care for loyalty, he was desperate once again. Having no teammates later in the game would hurt him, yes, but his desperation felt lonely, not power hungry. He didn't dare betray Etho nor Cleo, and stuck by them until the end. He was losing his mind on his hill before he teamed with the two, he needed to have close allies to depend on.

Now, in Wild Life, Mumbo is out of the series and Grian goes to say he needs to find some more friends, even with Skizz still around. Now, I don't think this is a power play thing, it's a desperation thing. He's hiding his grief by pretending everything is fine because if it wasn't he'd be vulnerable. For the past couple sessions, he had been working tirelessly to help get Skizz a kill so he could get off of being a red life, even to his own detriment.

Grian doesn't half ass teams. He will not team with everyone. However, he gets vulnerable when the ones that he connects to die.

Because that's how it went about in 3rd Life. He allied with Scar throughout the whole game, it starting simply because Grian felt guilty about what he'd done to Scar. He felt guilty. He stuck with him the whole game, undying loyalty, and all it ended in was him standing at the top with his best friend's blood drying on his hands.

To him, being loyal to someone like he was in 3rd Life ended badly. So, to avoid that, he found a way to still stay teamed with people, but not be left at the top of that mountain again, alone, even if his teammates die.

But so far, the curse keeps following him. He will always outlive his teammates. And this season is following the pattern, again, Mumbo dying right in front of his eyes, so close, yet so far. Always in a distance where he could've done something different, and he'd still have a teammate.

He may move from person to person, but only when they are dead or reject him. He is the forever Widow, cursed to always face his consequences, over and over and over again.

[nothingbizzare]

To be a sunflower looking at the sun

[starry-bi-sky]

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well: 

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.  

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents. 

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill. 

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.) 

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one. 

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself. 

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.) 

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.) 

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.  

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe. 

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.  

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal. 

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking. 

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter. 

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind. 

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous. 

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own. 

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t. 

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward. 

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”) 

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)  

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell. 

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his. 

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it. 

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.   

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now. 

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own. 

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)  

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother. 

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten. 

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands. 

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely. 

It is a fast dream. 

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods. 

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him. 

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal. 

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train. 

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.) 

—---  

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again. 

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person. 

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.) 

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)   

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird. 

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is. 

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off. 

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom. 

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.) 

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

-----------------

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

[swordsandholly]

Having a thought:

Twilight AU where Bella actually dies at the end of book one. A new protagonist enters the scene, hearing whispers about this girl who went missing after getting close to the Cullens as they zero in on her.

Alternatively, set in a new town in Alaska (since the Cullens go there a lot) and this new protagonist gets close to Edward during class. Things are weird, she starts researching, finds out about a case where this girl from a place called Forks died and the Cullens have some shady involvement.

Idk the twilight fixation is beginning to resurface as the weather gets cold.

[gale-force-storm]

He refuses to fall for the first person to show him kindness. He may be feeling sorry for himself, but that's a bridge too far.

Even if they are beautiful. And kind to everyone, not just him. And brave. And clever. And strong. And they love animals, and reading. And they have a wry sense of humour that he adores.

He won't. He can't. Besides all else, this is decidedly not the time. A bomb in his chest and a worm in his head and a weight on his shoulders and a shame in his stomach and a shattered heart he's still trying to gather the pieces of. Desperately clinging to the cloak of his past, wrapping himself in his former confidence, pretending it hasn't been worn threadbare with time in isolation and eaten ragged by the moths of doubt and fear and past mistakes.

He fell from grace so far so fast, but he cannot beg affection off the first hand to offer him help up, even if it is the first time he's touched another person in months. Even if that hand did send a sudden warmth through him and feel so right in his own he could almost cry from it.

...This is getting out of hand.

He can just be friendly with them, surely. How does one make friends, again? Shared interests? He mostly just has the one, so he'll share what he can. They pick it up quickly, and the warm magic that surrounds them is a balm on his soul. Right up until they imagine kissing him, and his heart skips a beat. It can't be. It can't be. They can't want him back. It's not possible. And how, after it all, after everything, is he meant to resist the overwhelming temptation of being wanted?

They don't let up, either. Lingering glances. Warm smiles. All but propositioning him at the tiefling party. If there is a single positive thing to be said about his year of orb-imposed abstinence, it's that the willpower he had to build up and the practice denying himself were the only things that enabled him to decline their advances.

Well, that and the risk of blowing up the both of them, along with everyone else in or near the camp.

The warm smiles and lingering gazes and casual touches still continue, though.

This is fine. He's fine. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, someone cared for him like this, and he can't do a damn thing about it, but he's fine. Everything is fine. As fine as it can be, anyways, given everything else about the situation.

He supposes he should probably be more upset about Mystra's orders. At this point, though, it's hard to feel like it's anything besides a way out. A relief that he can be good for something. One more miserable experience, and then he's done with it, and all their problems are solved. There are worse things.

Except.

They're so angry about it. Everyone is, but them especially. Arguing with both him and Elminster the entire time, insisting there's another option. That they'll find or make one. Whatever they have to do to keep him around.

Gods help him, but he does want to stay with them. Stay for them.

He sleeps that night, and awakens with a jolt, a groan, and a realization. He's glad that prestidigitation exists to clean himself up without leaving his tent and risking the others' notice. His body had, apparently, caught up with certain implications before his brain. Though from what snippets of his dream he remembers, maybe it was only his waking mind that had been lagging behind.

He wants them, and he can finally have them. Can give them as much of himself as he's able, in the time he has left.

He had refused, at first, the idea of falling for the first person to show him kindness. And he hasn't. He's fallen for someone who is so much more that that. And he will not, cannot, die without letting them know. If he has to leave them, and he fears he will, then he will not leave them feeling unappreciated, or uncherished, or unloved. Not when he can finally embrace the full depth and breadth of what he feels for them. Has felt for them for what can't have been more than a tenday or two, but feels like a lifetime and a moment all at once.

He will not leave without showing them the full scope of his admiration and appreciation and sheer joy at their presence. The full scope of how impossibly deeply he already loves them. Not while he has any say in it.

[lunalikestowriteanddraw]

Why does my brain only make me think of significant character moment while I’m at work—

Anyway, remember how Gideon had the fae love curse towards Kremy? Well, idk if anyone else caught it, but Gideon said “I love you” towards Kremy while under the curse (twice, I think? Counting Bumbo as well?). And I’m not talking about “oh, I loved your original form, but I love this form as well” or “I’m so glad we’re married”. I mean Gideon said, and I fucking quote; “Man, I love you.” While Kremy was distracted with something else.

And what really gets me is that they then did the fucking “what?” (From Kremy, probably realizing that Gid just said something) “what?” (From Gideon, who I think had a big dopey innocent smile as if he didn’t just fucking verbally say that he loves his best friend and ironic husband)

And then, after the curses wore off and before they met the king of Downfall, Gideon was quiet. Like really quiet. Frosty even pointed out that Gideon hadn’t said anything in a while, so it wasn’t just a meta “Mace letting everyone else talk” thing. And for the next few episodes afterward, he started acting kinda awkward around Kremy

Idk I think I might be overanalyzing literally every little thing. I mean, I know they’re basically end game at this point (god I hope they are), so it’s not like I’m looking for every scrap of evidence I can for a rarepair (*cough* frostbek *cough*). Im just. Hnngh they make me unwell.

[alexsoenomel]

Random Joel Miller Headcanons:

Joel was an early bird, always had been, so naturally he would wake up before you to make breakfast and coffee.

He liked taking care of you. He was a man of a few words; didn't say much, but his actions spoke louder than words.

He liked when you would play with his hair whenever he couldn't sleep and you liked the way his soft gray locks felt between your fingers.

He was not the one to tell you what to do, but he would sometimes get very protective, like a guard dog, to the point where he would forget you were in fact an adult. He would try to control you, tell you what you can and can't do, but it never worked with you. It would always end with you telling him to fuck off.

Joel loved teaching you how to play guitar. He loved watching you as you would get lost and bit your lower lip as you tried to play a simple note. He thought you were cute whenever you would get frustrated.

Bickering, lots and lots of bickering. He was twice your age and you enjoyed reminding him of that.

"Not bad for a man in his 70s," you told him once, panting and covered in sweat after multiple orgasms he gave you.

"I'm 56, dumbass," he told you, trying to catch his breath.

"Perv," you teased.

"Oh, fuck off."

He would wake up in the morning because of you, he would try to live and not just survive because of you. Everything he would now do, he would do it because of you.

You loved to snuggle with him, especially during winter, because that man was a walking, taking heather.

Music. He loved sharing his favorite songs with you. You loved how excited he would get, when you actually knew the song.

Showering together; the purest form of intimacy. You loved washing his hair and he loved washing yours. He loved feeling your body under his rough fingertips.

Night drives. You loved watching him drive and the silence of the night, so every once in a while you would go on a drive in the middle of the night, listening to music, eating junk food under the stars, or you would pull over to the side of the road and fuck. Handprints all over foggy windows were a regular occurrence.

Animalistic sex. He loved making you scream in pleasure to the point where you couldn't take it anymore. He loved making you his in every position, location and at any given time. Biting, sucking, scratching -- he loved everything. Age was just a number in his ID; that man fucked like he was in his 20s.

He loved hearing you whimper and fall apart under him. He loved the way you would forget everything but the sound of his name whenever he would fuck you.

Slow sensual sex. Even though he loved fucking you senseless he also loved making love to you. He loved worshipping every inch of your body, taking his sweet time, teasing you until you couldn't take it anymore. He loved the way you would look at him. He was aware how much he was loved by you, but still thought he didn't deserve it.

Kissing. That man loved to kiss. Your neck was his favorite spot. You loved to bite his lower lip, just to tease him, since he would always get hard from it. He loved the way you would play with his lip between your teeth.

"Stop biting me, we are in public."

"Make me."

The first time he told you he loved you was in the bedroom. His guard was down, he was pounding in and out of you slowly as you were digging your nails into his shoulder blades. He still had no idea why he said it, but there was something about you that day. You were completely lost in him, telling him how good he was, how handsome he looked and how he made you feel so so good. He couldn't help himself. He whispered a soft I love you into your ear before you came, moaning his name over and over. "I love you too, handsome," you told him before kissing him. He would never forget it.

Enjoy me being delulu y 'all. Still struggling to write and feeling like shit. Hopefully it will pass soon, it's quite annoying.

[not-a-moose-in-disguise]

I’m supposed to be working rn (because I’m at work) but figured I’d rather give an update on progress with the GF+TFP crossover I was trying to write….

I’ve worked out plot lines!! Not properly written yet but I’m happy with the start. Hopefully I’ll have a draft of chapter one done by this time next week. Also maybe a title. That would help

[ao3-crack]

(x)

[local-lover-boy]

"What's your problem?"

@celestialwrites for the prompt<3

What I'm listening to as I write this

Neuvillette was staring at you from his desk where he was meant to be going over legal documents. He had been staring for a few minutes now. His face remained completely blank, as if he was studying something. Which is in fact what you were trying to do, as you poured over textbooks to work towards your degree. You were quite accustomed to him watching you since he hadn't often spent time around people before you got together but with how hard he's making it to focus you decide to meet his eyes. Neuvillette flinched and made a surprised expression, you surmised that he believed himself to be more slick than he was. Giggling, you tease, "What's your problem?" "I um" he fumbles for a second glancing down, then takes a deep breath and meets your stare again.

"You, actually"

Before you could come back with a quick witted response, he elaborates, "And I mean that in no negative manner. Your presence simply seems more enticing than these cases, which could prove to be a problem." "Is that your round about way of asking me to leave?" Though you said it in an understanding and polite tone Neuvillette seemed as if you had just slapped him across his face. "No!" He said in a voice of panic. "Apologies, I don't mean to raise my voice. But I am honoured to have you as a distraction and I very much don't want you to leave, or ever feel like I don't want you here."

You give him a smile you know always makes him lose his breath. "Good, I didn't want to leave."

A/N: I keep checking all the Neuvi tags every few hours hopeing for new posts and unfortunately I realized that I, in fact, would need to post and contribute

[gentil-minou]

Wei Wuxian licks his lips and leans forward slightly, walking his fingers across the countertop aimlessly toward Lan Zhan. “You know, Lan Zhan,” he drawls, “A-Yuan says we’re both in the book.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan responds, tracking the path of his fingers intently, “I am apparently Hanguang-jun, the moral upstanding hero.”

“And I’m the devious Yiling Loazu, who led you astray,” he smirks, peering at Lan Zhan through his lashes.

Lan Zhan meets his stare, head-on, lit from within like molten sunshine. “No,” he corrects, “not astray, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head, waiting for him to continue. His fingers stop their dancing, resting just inches away from Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan shifts his own hand, bringing them even closer, their fingertips almost brushing.  

“The Yiling Loazu did not lead Hanguang-jun astray,” he says, eyes piercing as they flicker between Wei Wuxian’s. “They were partners, and…”

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian breathes, “the decent romance?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t answer, watching him closely. The pupils of his eyes have grown so large there’s only the tiniest ring of gold around the edge. He can see himself reflected in the black. He thinks he likes the version of himself that lives in Lan Zhan’s eyes.

They’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the other to take a step forward, bracing for a fall.

It should be terrifying, this sudden drop into something completely new, something entirely unknown yet so familiar. But Wei Wuxian is filled with conviction that no matter what, Lan Zhan will catch him.

It's as electrifying as it is calming, this certainty that here, with Lan Zhan, he is safe.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head to the side in a way he knows sets the unmarked skin of his neck on display. “I’m sure it was more than just decent, with a handsome hero like Hanguang-jun.”

Lan Zhan quirks an eyebrow, his gaze resting on the curve of Wei Wuxian’s neck, just as he’d hoped. "Handsome?"

“Well,” Wei Wuxian responds, tapping his index finger so it brushes against Lan Zhan’s fingertips. His skin is soft and perfect, just like the rest of him. “He isn’t wrong. You’re very handsome, Lan Zhan.”

“Really, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, voice quiet and deep.

“Yep, definitely worthy of being compared to the beautiful Second Jade of Lan.”

“Is that so?” Lan Zhan shifts closer, the smell of him filling up Wei Wuxian. He smells so familiar, like something he knows intimately. Sandalwood, Wei Wuxian realizes, with sudden clarity.

Lan Zhan continues, “I would love to hear more about your opinion on my beauty and prestige, Wei Ying.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Lan Zhan. Why would you care what I think?”

Lan Zhan tilts his head, only just. “Do I need to? To want to know how your brain works?”

I commissioned this lovely artwork by the wonderful @lotuslate of a scene from my fic, once upon a time, 很久很久以前 where the entire cultivation world is cursed to live in the modern world without their memories and abilities, but of course wangxian find a way to fall in love all over again.

[milfygerard]

i still posit thered be way less inter-swiftie drama if we all stopped writing conspiracy theories and started making short-form psychoanalytical fiction writing exercises like a normal fucking fandom