#how to tag this let me see... there are fics here for:

[ladyeyrewrites]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by @unhingedangstaddict

This is a snippet from my BuckTommy mpreg fic featuring trans Tommy. It doesn't have a title yet and I don't know when I'll finish it.

It seemed Tommy wanted to look anywhere but directly at Buck, which was just another thing Buck had lost. Buck blinked against threatening tears as Tommy glanced around Buck’s loft, eyes taking in the subtle changes that had taken place since they’d broken up, until his gaze settled on the mess that was Buck’s kitchen island. “You’ve been baking.”

Sure, Buck had baked with Chris before to help out with a school bake sale since Eddie was so culinarily clueless but he hadn’t really done it in his own time until he’d found out about Tommy’s sweet tooth. He’d been practicing to make something for Tommy’s birthday but then Tommy had to go and dump him. Bitterness spiked through him. “Yeah. Anytime I get the urge to call you, I just I channel the impulse into something positive, like baked Alaska.”

Tommy’s face twisted with regret, eyes growing glassy. Buck wasn’t sure if that had been his intention or not, but maybe it would be good for Tommy to really see how much Buck had been thinking about him. So, Buck walked over to the fridge and pulled out three loaves, making sure the fridge door was opened wide enough for Tommy to see the extent of Buck’s foray into baking and how often he’d been thinking about reaching out. “Here, you should take some.” He plopped three loaves into Tommy’s unprotesting arms. “Here’s a lemon loaf, and a walnut loaf, and a pumpkin loaf.”

“That’s a lotta loaf,” Tommy managed to say. “Buck, I—”

“Hang on, let me go grab those shirts,” said Buck because hearing Tommy call him by his nickname rather than his name made him want to scream and he didn’t want to do that, not when Tommy looked like anything could cue the waterworks at any moment. So, Buck might have fled his kitchen, jogging upstairs to grab the reusable tote bag of Tommy’s tee shirts and flannels he’d accumulated over their six months together. That bag had been haunting him every night as he lay in bed – alone – trying to fall asleep, wondering if Tommy was also alone or if he’d already managed to find a rebound.

Buck hefted the bag and his heart panged. Once he gave this stuff back, Tommy would well and truly be gone from his life. There’d be no excuse for Buck to reach out. No trace that Tommy had ever been in his life save for the indelible mark he’d left on Buck’s heart. So, Buck did something maybe a little impulsive and indulgent; he snagged one of Tommy’s flannels out of the bag and shoved it under his pillow. He was absolutely not going to bury his face in it and cry himself to sleep later.

As he was engaging in some of the most pathetic breakup behaviour ever, his kitchen timer went off downstairs.

“Buck, do you need me to do something?” Tommy shout up the stairs, voice carrying over the shrill timer beep.

“Yeah, could you just grab the baked brie out of the oven?” he asked. He snagged his favourite Tommy t-shirt out of the bag and stashed it with the stolen flannel too. If Tommy was allowed to unceremoniously dump Buck then Buck was allowed to steal his clothes and not return them.

Buck gave a satisfied nod and started down the stairs to join Tommy. He was halfway down when he heard Tommy gag. Buck looked up from his feet in time to see Tommy turn literally green before unceremoniously dumping Buck’s baked brie on the counter, bee-lining for the sink and vomiting down the drain.

Buck raced down the stairs, rushing to Tommy’s side and rubbing smoothing circles on his back before he even realised what he was doing. “Are you okay?”

“Are you sure that cheese is okay?” Tommy asked catching his breath. “It reeks.”

Buck frowned as he got down a glass and filled it with tap water for Tommy to rinse out his mouth. “Uh yeah,” he said. “And brie’s not a stinky cheese.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Tommy sagged, leaning against Buck’s counter. “But my sense of smell’s been really weird the last few weeks.”

A sinking feeling filled Buck’s stomach. This all sounded very familiar. They’d always been so good about using protection and between birth control and testosterone Tommy hadn’t had a period in well over a decade. But there’d been that little lapse before Tommy had found his new doctor and oh, god they’d definitely had unprotected sex that one time when they were both a little tipsy after getting back from babysitting Eddie. “You’re pregnant,” Buck blurted before his brain could send his tongue anything more tactful to say.

[hereforthehitsbaby]

Heya! I have a request with your angst prompt list number 29 with Cooper!!

Just anything that comes to mind with it. Be creative and have fun, no pressure❤

More Alike Than You Know | Cooper Abbott x F!Reader

Warnings: DARK FIC: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Angst, Reader has been kidnapped, language, Pervy!Cooper, Non-Con, Dub-Con, Choking, Cooper is a sick little freak, Grinding, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Over the clothes stuff, Drugging, Biting, Edging, Hair Pulling, Mentions of panic attacks, Mentions of fear,

Rating: E -  No Minors!

Word Count: 4.6k

Author’s Note: Thank you for this request sweetheart! I think this is a clear key indicator of why the prompt should not be left up to me because I made this dark, angsty, and somewhat smutty????

If you would like to be tagged, please fill this out

Trust is a funny thing, how are you supposed to trust? How do you know when to trust, or if it’ll be worth the time? We are born trusting; Our life is in someone’s hands – we know no other feat except that. But when in our lives does it switch? When does the light go off in our minds? Is it the first time we feel betrayed, hurt, scared? Is it when we have promises shattered and hopes ripped apart? Or is it when we realize nothing truly matters in life – what exists at the end of the day? It sucks away the trust you have for the world, for the universe. Why do some of us trust too much? Are we afraid that if we don’t, everything we have will crumble? It’s a blessing and a curse to trust, especially with those who only mean harm from the get-go.

That’s how you ended up in your current position, tied to an old wooden chair that creaks with each squirm you let out. Ankles bound down to the grain, wrists falling not far behind. The wirey texture scratched at your skin, causing a burn to invade the area. Your breath rough against the slight chill of the basement. The shiver running down your spine made you feel sick, at any moment you felt like you were going to pass out. Maybe it was the fear of not knowing? Maybe it was the fact that you woke up here? Maybe it was the drugs currently running through your system, on their last legs to keep you bound and complacent. Your head lolls side to side as the fluorescent lights above you buzz with anticipation; A headache focused behind your eyes pounding with the sound. A simple groan releases from your mouth as you try to bring your focus in front of you, seeing a figure sitting in the desk chair to your left, back to you as they type away.

The clicking on the keys does nothing but make you hiss, eyes finally focusing back in as your mind clears – the fog subsiding. Taking a deep breath, you felt a pain ricochet through your shoulder blades that caused a gasp, jutting forward to bend over your knees. The sharpness of it causing you to lose your breath for a moment, struggling to regain it. Unlike anything you ever felt before, this deep-set blast made you question what could’ve caused it, what could relieve it. Trying to blink away the tears threatening to spill, you caught the figure to your left spinning around – their booted feet now facing you easily. Ragged exhales left your parted lips as you started to straighten out, feeling the release of the tension in your back – the crack exhaling all the trauma you faced. “I see you’re up now, hi sleepy head.” The voice rang out in an echo, your mind reeling as you tried to place it.

Letting your eyes focused on the room, you noticed every detail. The stark white walls bare with any semblance that someone lives here. The table against the wall to your right covered in plastic, metallic tools glinting under the bright lights. Across the concrete floor sat a thick blue tarp, stains of what you hoped was rust at your feet – gliding across the entirety of the left side. Your heart started to speed up as your eyes panned closer to the voice, seeing the Victorian era desk pushed against the corner of the room, the antique chair creaking as the figure leans back. The clean yet worn boots they wore were industrial it looked like; They had to work a manual labor job. The crisp denim jeans were clean of any residue or dust – even blood. A plain burgundy cotton shirt sat across their chest, tight in all the right places whilst being loose in others. From the neck down they looked like everyone else, you’d never expect this out of someone like that. It’s when your eyes landed on his face that you threw everything you knew out the window, throwing away everything that made you scared in that moment.

Gentle brown eyes watched you like a hawk – trying to evoke something in you to say you’re safe. It worked in a way, because you felt the fear lessen as you took in his facial features. The gentle tick under his eyes, the quirk of his lips, the soft stubbled grazing his jawline and upper lip. His hair the color of mocha, a few strands falling in front of his forehead like he had been adjusting it, the pomade no longer holding the professional shape. Every other white man you have ever known looked exactly like this; Wholesome, strong, prominent. They held importance in their everyday life, no wonder no one suspected him. It made your chest burn with undercover rage and worry as to why it was you in this position, what your purposes was, and where the actual fuck you were. Sliding your tongue across your teeth, you stared intently into his eyes, never losing a moment to back down.

“Why me?” It was a simple question that held so much behind it. Yet, it was a fully loaded question. The man pondered for a moment, brows creased as he contemplated your question. His right brow cocked slightly as he leaned his head to the right, taking in every angle of your face. A small chuckle released from his lips as he came to his full height, towering over you. “Why not you?” He didn’t blink for a moment, taking in your reaction as your brows went slack, finding what he said hard to comprehend. You were confused, and he found it endearing – cute even. A gentle smile creased across his bottom lip, slipping from one side to both in a second. Reaching forward, he ran the outside of his right first finger against your cheek, feeling how you shivered under the contact. The exhale he released was one of relief, contentment. How soft your skin was against the harsh interior of the room – now realizing it was a finished basement. You shouldn’t have liked his touch as much as you did – reveling in how warm it was against you. Reality set in quick, but not enough to contemplate what this is all for.

“I’m nothing, no one.” There was no hesitation in your voice as your words slipped out, like it was factual. It was bullshit, you are someone, you are important. It was the marketability that made you choose those words carefully. To this man, if you seemed like no one then maybe he would let you go. Shaking your head to push his touch away, you huffed as you struggled against your ties, gritting your teeth against the burn of the rope. “I-I don’t have cash, I’m sorry I don’t-“ you swallowed, thrashing slightly in your chair as you shook. It was a struggle to try and get your words out, finding it difficult to think coherently when your blood was rushing through your ears, your heart thumped in your stomach. As you tried to find your words to express what else he may have wanted to hear, the man held a finger up to you – silencing you as he shook his head. “I don’t want your things. I don’t need them.” It didn’t come out as a question nor a statement – but fact. He was so sure of himself, so sure of what he didn’t need from you, and that was terrifying.

Bile rose into the back of your throat, fear gnawing at your throat, threatening to spill over. Swallowing down the harsh lump wanting to make an appearance, you narrowed your gaze at the man, twisting your wrists behind your back to loosen the rope; Though it would not budge, you needed to try. “Then why?” It made no sense as to why he plucked you, out of everyone else he could’ve had, off the street. Was I walking home, or was I already home? The night prior was fuzzy, a black hole of mystery you were trying to break through – needing to know how he got you here in the first place. The man huffed as he walked closer to you, kneeling in front of your feet. The way the bright lights glinted off of his eyes, shimmering those golden flecks within, made your heart race – you knew it shouldn’t have. There was no denying how attractive this man was, but an utter fucking psychopath is all he would ever be.

Bringing his hand up to your face, the man caressed your cheek softly with his thumb again, sighing into the touch. “You were too perfect to let go,” he whispered, letting the pad of his thumb glide across your chapped lower lip. The way his pupils dilated when he said that made your stomach simmer, a pleasant ache wiping across the area. Seriously, right now? You cursed mentally to yourself, shamed that you were turned on in the moment. Nothing is sexy, nor exciting about being kidnapped and held against your will – but yet here you are, feeling your panties become soaked at the idea of what this man could do to you. You watched at his prominent nose twitched, his gaze slightly narrowing, his lip curling upwards. Mania laid dormant behind his eyes, threatening to spill over at the smallest of actions from you – it was then that everything made sense, as to who this was. Your breath got stuck in your lungs, refusing to release at the thought.

“You’re that guy, from the Lady Raven concert. Aren’t you?” You couldn’t believe it, all this time and only now did you make the connection. Your palms became waxy with sweat, chafing against the hemp rope as your body broke out in a cold sweat. The shiver in which ran through your body made you anxious, needing to get out of this chair and put a good distance between the two of you. Alas you could not, instead stuck to your chair, watching as his eyes grew darker. His smirk never faltered as he watched you with intent, trying to gauge what you were thinking – what was running through your mind. “Which guy?”  He asked, coyly.

“The Butcher.” You remembered what happened last month; The Lady Raven concert wound up being a giant trap to catch him. He kidnapped her, she escaped. He tried to kill his wife, he was arrested. He broke out of police custody and was on the run. It had been almost a month since that happened and yet – he was still perusing around. He was like a ghost, seemingly never existing after that whole debacle. And yet, even you questioned if you made the right call by saying that. Was it really him, could it really be him? He looked intrigued, curious as to how you made the connection, without him ever revealing it. “You think I’m capable of that?” He shot back with a smile, one that would put anyone else to ease. It was sweet, generous and kind – everything a charismatic serial killer aspired to be. He was unassuming, until you got too close. Shaking your head, you turned away from his grip to stare at his desk, trying to keep your emotions level. “I don’t know what you’re capable of.”

He seemed to have won this time, considering the grin that pasted itself onto his lip. A dark laugh seeped from his parted lips as he watched you, his grip on your face getting a bit stronger; Possessive but not enough to hurt you. It was enough to keep you in your place, to silently berate you if you even tried to do anything. Enough to show you the lack of control you had over the situation. You were trying to wrack your brain for his name, what the news had called him outside of The Butcher. It was on the tip of your tongue and yet, you lacked the capability at the moment to remember. C, it was a C. Carter. Cameron. Conner. Cooper. “Cooper. The news said your name.” A smug tone laced your words as your eyes met his; His cool was lost in that moment. That once calm demeanor he put on, the control over the situation was faltering as you said his name. You could see how his eyes grew wider, his smile tucking into a thin line. “You think we’re on a first name basis?”

Anger was prevalent through his words, the nice-guy act falling to the wayside. Pulling back from you with a blank stare, Cooper stood straight up, glaring down through his lashes at you. It all made so much sense now, he was hoping you didn’t know who he was. A triumphant snicker released from the back of your throat as you grinned, watching him. You were not going to back down, you weren’t going to give into him or what he wanted you to be. At the end of the day you are your own person, there was no fucking way you were letting him have the upper hand. Pissing him off as your goal, and by God you were going to do it. “Of course, no one would suspect you,” the words slipped out of your mouth before you could have thought otherwise. You didn’t purposely try to rile him up, it came naturally. Cooper’s gaze never faltered as he watched you, his face still blank, never letting you know his next move. “Typical trophy husband, savior to the town. God, how fucked up are you?”

Cooper began to move around you as you spoke, the last line made him stand directly behind you. Not being able to see him made you fearful, wondering what he could do to you if you did not know. Would this be the end, would everything just go black and you never have a chance to fight back? Bouncing your legs as you stared forward at the staircase, you felt your pulse thrumming against your neck, in your head, in your chest. "Your mind must be a horrible place.” You weren’t purposely trying to egg him on. You lost your sense of having a filter when you were afraid. It was a defensive mechanism for you when things got to be too much for you, and in this current situation it had a way of pissing Cooper off. Warmth started to spread across your back as Cooper got closer, the heat radiating off of him falling down the back of your neck. Letting your eyes close for a minute, you felt the hot pan of his breath over the shell of your ear, whispering: “You have no idea.”

You hated how your body reacted to his words, how close he was to you, how good it felt. Trying to focus on anything else in the moment was impossible, your mind reveling in the close proximity to him. Cooper’s large hands came to rest against your tank-top clad shoulders, enough force to keep you seated but not enough to hurt you. Enough for him to say I’m in control, versus you. Nuzzling his nose against the nape of your neck, Cooper let his hands run down to your arms, his calloused fingertips grazing your skin. “You want to know what’s on it right now?” There was a hint of possession and lust in his words, causing you to gulp down the pool of saliva in your mouth. Gripping your fingers behind your back, you inhaled sharply, licking your lips as you stared forward. “No.” You tried to sound intimidating, mean, enough to make Cooper fuck off across the room again. But to him, it was endearing. The little fight you had in you, he was intoxicated with. “Why? Scared you might like it?”

You had to give it to Cooper, he was cocky – he knew he was attractive and knew how your body reacted to him. Never would he seize the opportunity to exploit that. The dark chuckle that rang out behind you made your skin feel tight, an electric burn radiating down your spine and across your brain at how sexy it sounded. You loathed how much the sound excited you, how even if this situation you found yourself aroused. The brain rot of dark romance ruined the situation, making this out to be a dream versus reality. Trembling under his touch, he nipped at your earlobe with a groan, pulling back slightly to run his fingers over your hair, gently twirling a few strands framing your face. “I’m picturing all the fun I’m going to have with you.” You didn’t miss the groan he released at the end of the sentence, nor did you miss how his hips jutted against the back of your chair. The harsh denim of his jeans rubbing against your exposed skin. “No one around for miles, they won’t be able to hear you scream.”

The quivered whimper you let out was supposed to be inaudible, only for your ears versus Cooper’s. But alas, your body betrayed you. Hearing that made him sigh dreamily, his body dripping with arousal. Cooper’s hand that was exploring your arm came up to slide up your front, between the valley of your breasts, and settling right against your neck. His thumb and forefinger caressed your pulse points, gripping enough to where you could still breathe but, still cutting off the blood flow to your brain. You couldn’t do much except lean back into him as he did so, his lips caressing over your ear. “I bet you are so loud, I bet you beg and beg until your voice gives out.” He let out huskily, using his teeth to nip right behind your ear. The small jolt of pain caused your eyes to close, your body rolling against the chair. Cooper took this as a sign of your submittal, pressing his lips to that sweet spot on your neck, his tongue rolling over the skin. “Just taking everything I give you, such a greedy girl.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” you thought, trying to hide the fact that it was turning you on. His possessive grab over you, the way he was grinding against your back. You felt so fucked up for being turned on in this situation, you felt grimy even thinking about it. Letting your eyes fall shut, you tried to calm yourself down by thinking of anything but the predicament you’re currently in, trying to regain your mental strength if you were going to get out of this. “Call me that again, baby,” Cooper rasped, causing you to break out of your dissociation. Your eyes flicked open quickly to look at the wall ahead of you, creasing your brow as to why he said that. How could he have heard your internal thoughts? “Fuck, say it again.” Only this time you realized you had spoken those words aloud, causing Cooper to thicken in his pants at your degradation. You shouldn’t have found it intriguing at all, or played into it. But sometimes, the mind wanted to do what the body desperately hoped.

“You sick freak, fuck you.” Cooper whimpered into your ear as he grasped your neck harder, pulling your head back into him as he used his other hand to grab at your clothed breast. Through the thin, ribbed fabric of your tank top – Cooper tweaked you peaked nipple, the cold making it stiff. You hated how easily it was to elicit a moan from you through one simple action, a flow of arousal coating your panties. He wasn’t a gentle man in the slightest – in fact he was quite rough. Pulling at your nipple sent a shot of pain through your body, you couldn’t help but whine. Cooper used his torso to push you forward in the chair, removing the back easily as the wood crashed to the ground. The rickety chair made sense, but you never expected such a modification to it.

“I’m almost there sweetheart, keep going.” Cooper sobbed into your neck, biting the gentle skin around your shoulder.

His hips worked in tandem with his hand; Slipping from your nipple to the front of your leggings. Your body opened up for him, your legs falling quickly so he could slip his hands between. The plushness of your thighs made him quiver, his fingers molding to the covered flesh. He was so desperate for you, grinding against your back as he rubbed over your cunt. He could feel the hotness radiating from it; His self-control waning. The elegant sound of your small cries filled the air, your hips moving against Cooper’s hand. His thumb finding your clit through your leggings, pressing harshly against the bud to elicit a loud sob. “I said keep going,” he growled against your neck, biting tenderly at your flesh.

“Y-You’re psychotic,” you managed to let out, your hips grinding against Cooper’s hand. There were no thoughts in your brain, only enjoying the pleasure of which he was giving you. The fucked up nature of this, mixing with pleasure only made your mind reel at what you were feeling. “True evil.” The words fell out in tandem with Cooper’s moans, with his thrusts against you, with the fluctuating grip of your neck, with the deft circles rubbing between your legs, “horrible, horrible, man.” None of your words held any merit in this moment, they weren’t true slipping out from you. But you didn’t want him to stop, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to cum, needed Cooper to show you pleasure you hadn’t even been able to make yourself feel. In this moment you were submitting to him, letting him have his way – in hopes for a jaded orgasm.

“That’s a good girl,” Cooper grinned against you, kissing over the bite mark he left. With a few pointed thrusts against your lower back, Cooper let out a hearty moan against your flesh, a small bit of drool slipping down your skin. Each thrust he produced was weaker than the last, signaling that he had reached his orgasm, his climax rocketing through his body. The whimpers he was riding out with his orgasm edged you closer to yours, needing to feel him bring you to the edge. “You’re disgusting.” You were desperate to climax, to cum against your leggings, embarrassing yourself for him. You wanted to do anything and everything in your power to please him, if it meant he wouldn’t stop. Letting your hips work in the same motion his hips were, Cooper pressed the palm of his hand hard against your clothed core, placing a few hard slaps to your center. “Sshh, stop pretending to hate this,” he mocked in your ear, sighing dreamily as he stopped thrusting.

“I know your purposely left the door unlocked for me.” The declaration was like ice water, drenching you from your blissful state and bringing you back into your reality. Shooting your eyes wide open, you spun your head to stare at him, seeing the smirk on his lips as he chortled. “I know that you wanted me to catch you in the shower.” He was relentless, driven by his own post-nut clarity to humiliate you, but he had it all wrong. You didn’t purposely leave your door unlocked, your landlord never bothered to fix it when you complained. This was his retaliation for calling him lazy. In a way it was like he knew your manager never fixed it, taking advantage of it – and you. Shivering under his touch, everything felt like acid. His touch between your legs turned to be too much, causing you to try and pull back. The throbbing of his bite on your shoulder you’re your skin crawl. “C’mon, I know what you’re doing.” He was matter-of-fact with his statement, rolling his eyes to drop the act.

Pulling away from you, Cooper came back around to your front, squatting in a low position to stare at you. The reality of the situation came back to full light as you stared at him, the tears threatening to fall once again. Between the frustration you felt of being denied your orgasm, but also in knowing Cooper waited you out, made you feel hopeless. Turning away so you didn’t meet his eyes, Cooper grabbed your chin softly, not hurting you but needing you to look at him. The reluctance you gave him only made him grow harder for you, the softness in his body for you enhancing. “Just say it and I can make it come true.” He was so out of his mind he genuinely thought you wanted this, instead of it just being clouded by lust. It made you feel physically ill, the fact that you gave into him so easily, you should’ve felt shame…but you felt something else entirely. “Complacency isn’t my thing.” Back at it you were with the stone faced act, not giving him what he wanted. It was in that moment you saw the shift in his eyes, the twitch in his jaw, the tick of his nose. He wasn’t pissed, he was silently fuming at your sudden switch.

Pulling his hand away hard from your chin, Cooper stood up on cracking knees, huffing out in annoyance as he peered down at you. “Too bad.” It was monotoned, lacking any sort of empathy or emotion. He said it like it was an inconvenience, like he was too good for you. It made your body reel with anger and fury, the silent rage brewing beneath your skin. Cooper walked away from you and to the back corner, enough out of the way to where you couldn’t see him, fuck you could barely hear what he was doing. The faint sound of liquid being muffled by something made you feel worried, trying to clumsily work the knots in your bindings. You tried to hide your thrashing but it was no use, you were full blown panicking as his footsteps drew closer. It’s when the sound of boots hitting the concrete stopped, that you felt scared.

Cooper grasped hard at your hair, yanking at the root to pull your head back to him, forcing you to stare up at him. “Stay fucking still.” Cooper seethed as he pressed a cloth hard against your mouth, covering your nose completely. Panic radiated through your body as you were bound, a cloth covering your mouth and the ability to breathe taken away from you. The harsh grip he had on your hair made your tears fall, your lungs burn from lack of oxygen. Gulping hard into the covering of your mouth, the sickly sweet taste and smell coating your tongue like an ugly film – breathing in the chemical made your lungs burn. The corner of your vision started to blur, getting fuzzier the deeper your breathed in. Cooper’s face morphed horrifically above you – the evil smirk and glint in his eyes staring intently at you. You felt your body to limp, your muscles seizing to work, your struggles subsiding as everything shifted to black. The only thing you remembered before you passed out, was how Cooper stared at you. It was primal, waiting for his prey. You, were never going back home. That broken lock, cemented your fate.

-----

Tagging: @minedofmoria @lilly3434 @lunaluvsuu @rplver @kissofdawn666 @hibiskooks @fore45fore @lustskitty69 @rottenangel @anamiad00msday @livelaughl0ve3 @cxrrodedcoffin @greenparadiseperry @ochoag31 @theoraekenslover @fl4weriesworld @exhoism @solarmoonn30 @babygorewhore @amethystblackkchaos

[discordantwords]

Thank you so much for the tag @therealsaintscully!

How many works do you have on ao3? 48! 30 for BBC Sherlock and 18 for The X-Files.

What’s your total word count? 924,659 (whoa, that's a lot of words)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? (Never) Turn Your Back to the Sea White Knight Incidents with Dogs, Curious and Otherwise Another Auld Lang Syne The Dead Detective

Do you respond to comments? Why/why not?

I try to. I'm not always as on top of it as I intend to be. I find comments tremendously meaningful and I at times get emotional while reading them. They are important to me. I reread them often.

I often fear that I'm a poor conversationalist and overthink my responses, which can tend to freeze me up.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Most of my long fics have happy endings.

The Pillar upon Which England Rests is my ode to Mrs. Hudson. As she and John are grieving Sherlock's fall, she tells John all about how she and Sherlock first met. I don't think of it as a particularly sad story, but I suppose that ending counts as angsty, as Sherlock's eventual return is not addressed in the story.

I guess the shorter, more horrorish ones have angsty (or at least uneasy) endings.

Nothing Happened in Belarus has S4 Sherlock, in the throes of his breakdown, somehow briefly traveling through time and encountering S1 John, who cares for him. It's a brief reprieve for him in the midst of a personal hell, but there is no resolution. When he returns to his own time, he is still forced to face what's coming next.

At the end of Leaves, Sherlock and John have either successfully defeated the bloodthirsty plant that has invaded their flat, or they're being digested by it. I leave that decision up to the reader. :)

The Web has Sherlock returned from his time away and reunited with John, but there is a part of him that will always remain haunted and deeply paranoid.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Most of them, heh. I like to leave my characters in a good place after putting them through hell.

I guess I'd have to say White Knight? I still get a little giddy when I think about the way Sherlock proposes at the end of that one, and how happy and free they both are after the crushing weight of misunderstandings and grief has fallen away.

Whirlwind has a pretty joyful ending, too.

Do you write crossovers?

I haven't written a crossover, but I have done a few fusion fics. The Dead Detective is a fusion with Jumpin' Jack Flash. Whirlwind is a fusion with Twister. Out There is a fusion with The X-Files.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not really. Most responses on AO3 have been warm and supportive. I have gotten a few unnecessarily vicious comments on some of my ficlets here on Tumblr, but I do my best to ignore those.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Most of my smut tends to be of the R-rated variety, because I'm frankly just not very good at writing it.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes, sort of, but I don't believe it was done maliciously and I don't intend to call attention to it.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not. I'm open to the idea, but I honestly don't know if I'm cut out for it. I think my tendency to wing things and my utter lack of a consistent writing schedule would drive a potential writing partner mad.

What's your all-time favourite ship?

Mulder and Scully were my first true fandom love. I love Sherlock and John equally as much, if not more.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

There are quite a few WIPs on my hard drive that may never see the light of day. As far as posted fics, my Sherlock/Knight Rider fusion probably won't be finished.

What are your writing strengths?

I like to think that I'm pretty good at capturing character mannerisms, and writing from a perspective that lets the reader feel what the POV character is feeling.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm not all that impressed with my smut writing abilities.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I steer clear of it. Although Google translate can be helpful, IMO there are too many opportunities to make embarrassing or inadvertently offensive mistakes.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

The X-Files

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

I really enjoy the character dynamics between Hannibal/Will in Hannibal and Lestat/Louis in Interview with the Vampire. I think I'd have a harder time getting into their heads than I do with Sherlock and John, so I'll probably just continue admiring them from afar for now.

What's your favourite fic you've written?

This is such a hard question! I'm probably proudest of the work that went into Out There, but I have a huge soft spot for The Pillar upon Which England Rests and (Never) Turn Your Back to the Sea.

If anyone out there would like to share your thoughts on some of the things you've written, please do! I'll also tag @thetimemoves @arwamachine @raina-at @vulpesmellifera @iheardyou @totallysilvergirl @khorazir

[kybercrystals94]

Heya, I was sneaking in to see if I can make a 333 follower celebration fic request? I would love to read more of your Echo and Fives, they are my absolute favourites out of all the many fics you have written! You were my first friend on Tumblr and it's been so fun to follow you whilst we both write and you introduced me to the Bad Batch Fandom over here! I hope you continue to enjoy every single fic you write for our beloved boys (and girl!) from Clone Force 99 - I know I do!

:) <3

Thanks for the fun request! I always love writing these brothers 🥹

I decided to take a break from my usual Echo and Fives devastation stories and write something lighthearted and (hopefully) funny!

I hope you enjoy your special fic, friend!! ♥️

Tasteful

Read here on Ao3

Rated: G | Words: 333

“How about this one?” Fives turns the data pad to Echo.

“Ew. What is that?” 

“A rancor,” Fives says, pulling the data pad back. 

“It’s heinous,” Echo tells him. 

Fives grins. “Well, I like it.” 

Echo rolls his eyes. “If you get that tattooed on your face, I will never look at you again.” 

“Aw, c’mon, Echo. Don’t be like that.” 

“I like to be able to sleep at night, thanks.” 

Fives turns the data pad again. “What about this one?” 

“Somehow worse.”

Fives types something then gasps. “What about a skull over half of my face?”

“What about no?”

Fives groans loudly. “What about you being supportive of my impulsive decisions?” Checking his chrono, Fives leaps up. “Gotta go. My appointment is in a few minutes. Don’t wanna be late.” 

Echo rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because not getting a face tattoo would be a travesty.” 

Fives snatches the pillow out from under Echo and pelts it at him. By the time Echo sits up to retaliate, his brother is gone. Sighing, Echo puts the pillow back under his head and returns to his manuals. 

**

“I’m back!”

Echo wakes with a start and nearly throws his data pad across the room. “Maker, Fives! Do you have to yell like that?” 

“Always,” Fives says, perching on the edge of Echo’s mattress. 

It takes Echo several seconds to process that Fives is back from getting his tattoo. Fives’ face is shockingly empty for a man who’d been hounding Echo for the past week with examples of obscene, and very permanent, facial markings. 

“I thought you were getting a tattoo on your face,” Echo says, pushing himself into a sitting position. 

Fives huffs. “Wow. You didn’t even notice. Right here, di’kut!” Turning his head, Fives points to the crisp lines of the number five on his temple. 

“That actually looks good,” Echo says incredulously. 

“Of course it looks good,” Fives preens. “It’s tasteful.” 

Echo grins, relieved Fives did not get the rancor…or the half skull.

END

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list!!

Tag List: @followthepurrgil @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @ezras-left-thumb @maeashryver @baddest-batchers @laughhardrunfastbekindsblog @omegafett99 @heidnspeak @fionas-frenzy @dreamsight73 @royallykt @blackseafoam @illogicaalbraindump @skellymom

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel

Chapter 4: Affected Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he's alive. He's been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, low honor Arthur, NSFW content, vaginal and oral sex, spanking, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader and an allusion to slut shaming. Also a single grain of daddy kink, if you want reader to be strong and a fighter... this is not for you sorry WC: 3664 Hello! Thanks so much for reading and for all of your support, Arthur is very... something. He is so conflicted about everything. LMAO Tags: no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur is sort of delusional omg,

You get a peek into Arthur's head.

The passing hours are filled with a bit of you exploring, looking around. He only watches fondly, after he pours himself a bourbon. When you go through all of his strange rocks he has displayed on his mantle you see those plain leather bound books he had picked one from earlier. When you move to pick one up, his hand is over yours.

“You really like to get in a man's business; don't you, girl?” He looks at your eyes and he gives you a harsh look before giving a huff. He turns his gaze away, shaking his head in disbelief before he lets out a “Fine…”

You smile and select one, this one is tan leather and looks a bit more well cared for than the others. The pages are nice and smooth under your fingers. You flip to the first page and can't help but wonder at his skill, pictures of horses and trees seem to come to life. Interspersed are his personal accounts, beautiful hand lettering with scrolling script. Arthur heaves a sigh before sitting in his armchair.

“Your pictures, they're… amazing,” You smile while looking at them, flipping past animals of all kinds. He can hardly muster a word, watching with obvious anxiousness. He’s red in the face but trying to hide how much your words affect him. The look on his face is somewhere between bewildered and panicked.

“Can I read? Or do you want me to just look at your pictures?” He seems embarrassed this moment is even happening. One hand covers his mouth, elbows down on his knees while he looks away, sitting in his chair.

“Do what ya want,” His tone is flooded with petty aggravation, like a grumpy dog who lost his bone. He waves his hand but you know it's anything but flippant. You read along.

At the beginning of this journal he describes a few months of living here, taking in the sights, getting to know strange folk; the visit and departure of a man named Charles. He speaks of missing people and some “nasty business”. He laments on things he could have done differently. Wishes that it had gone a different way. That certain people had lived and others died in their stead. The tone is rather somber in his writings.

Then he goes back to living by himself for a long while. Tedious writings of ‘nothing much’ ‘nothing new’ ‘saw a bird today’. Sometimes he writes of the headaches he has after drinking himself to sleep. Here, he writes his darkest thoughts. How he deserves this for all the pain he caused, for everything he had done wrong. When he sees you look up from the journal in concern, he stands and snatches it from you.

“That's enough of that, now,” He struggles with the strap to tie it closed. When you go to help him, he shrugs you off.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I didn’t-”

“Don't need your goddamn pity,” his voice is sour, venom like a rattlesnake, spitting it out at you. You flinch just a bit, making him sigh and shove the book away. “Really could never stop being a fool,” You move closer, even though you know he is not quite in the mood.

“I thought… I thought your pictures were beautiful, Arthur,” His hands grip the mantle and he gazes down at the fire, not saying anything. You sigh and take the book from where he put it. You flip to a landscape he drew, the view from his porch in the springtime. “This one is my favorite,”

“I’m sorry, shouldn't have-” At your words, his shoulders sag and his posture softens. Arthur looks at you and the picture you show him, his gaze so sincere. His hands tighten on the mantle, his nerves, you suppose, might be a bit frayed at the ends. He doesn't finish his sentence. He looks conflicted and at odds with his own innards. Then he snaps back into himself, like a hammer on a bullet. “Won’t happen again” he says with an odd finality. You're not sure whether he means he won't lash out at you or if he just won't let you see his journals. He walks off instead of being more specific.

The storm is much quieter now. The bellows of air no longer whip against the walls of Arthur’s sturdy house, rattle the delicate glass of his windows. Still, the hearth is lit and he has a pot of water boiling to make some stew for dinner. You sit and wonder what should happen when the storm dies down. Arthur has gone out to tend to your horses, not before giving you a kiss and telling you to stay put. You nod and it makes him smile and pet your cheek, his beautiful ram skin coat shrugged over his shoulders and then he’s out to muck the stalls and put out fresh hay. You find your clothes from yesterday, riding pants and combination and undergarments, a bit strange smelling from sitting out while wet. You lay them on a line Arthur has strung up on the wall, hoping that some of the moisture can dry. You're not sure when you’ll be riding out again so you set your boots neatly by the door. You look at the front door.

You think of putting on your clothes and running out but there’s no doubt Arthur will hear you open the front door. And even worse, he’ll be on a horse before you, running you down. By the looks of his horse you got a peek of , it wouldn't be a good idea. Instead, you walk to his kitchen, beginning to peel and chop vegetables and aromatics for the stew, cutting some meat as well. The thought of leaving is not as hopeful as you thought, whether you’ve resigned yourself to Arthur or you just don’t want to leave; you’re not sure yet.

Dinner is rather quiet, only the sound of Arthur scooping stew into his mouth. He’s finished by the time you’ve only gotten through half the bowl of soup. He spreads his legs and crosses his arms over his chest, watching you. He gives you time to eat as slow as you need, fidgeting with his hands, scratching at his cheek or rubbing his neck.

“The storm is starting to blow over,” You comment stiffly between two mouthfuls of stew. He nods, fingers twitching and drumming on his arm. He hasn't smoked any of his cigarettes nor the cigars in his bedroom. Only poured a bourbon for himself. “Do you think we can go see my family?” You ask, setting your spoon down and crossing your legs underneath the table. He seems to think for a while, tapping his foot. Arthur looks deeply at you, something he sees in your pleading look makes him say yes.

“Sure,” a not too unusual twang lifts the word, sounding so casual, despite the set and flex of his jaw. You smile genuinely, excited to go and see them, even if in the company of a man who has taken you against your choice.

“Now, c’mere, honey,” His eyes are dark and you can hardly see that bright blue under the heaviness of his eyes. “Ain’t gonna say it again,” You rise from your chair, gulping down the saliva that pools in the pockets beside your tongue. He pats his lap and you sit gently on his knee, just like he had commanded you to. He makes the warmth in the cabin pale in comparison to the heat emanating from him as he pulls you to sit flush with him. You let his arms wrap around you, let his nose and face nudge along your skin.

You’ve never had anyone simply enjoy the way you feel in their arms. Such a foreign thing, a man holding you for so long, taking in the feel of you on his body. It makes your stomach tingle and you can feel something inside you rising to the surface. Your eyes start to droop, a warmth just like his bubbling up within the depths of you. Every sound he makes brings you away from your thoughts, the drag of his rough fingertips makes it so you can’t move away.

“Wanna have ya right here on this table, darlin’, show me that pretty little ass of yours before I tan it raw,” His command is so rough, the complete opposite of his softened affections, making you hesitate just a moment before you assign meaning to his words. Reluctantly, you move to the table, standing before bending slightly at the hips, careful not to disturb some of the objects on the table.

In a rush, he sweeps them aside, uncaring of the clatter he causes of spoons and a glass which merely rolls around on the ground. You feel a bolt of lightning go down your spine when his hand rubs the fabric that covers your behind. You're quick to catch his meaning, lifting the fabric of his shirt up to your waist, a deep heat floating up to your face, a twinge of embarrassment making your stomach curdle.

Arthur gropes and rubs slowly at you, chapped skin squeezing the fat of your rear. He scoffs when you flinch and try to retreat towards the table. His thumbs spread you open from behind, peeking at your center, beginning to dampen with the way he treats you, looks at you, commands you.

“You must feel so empty after I filled you up. Gettin’ wet for me, sweetheart?” As if his ego could get any bigger right now, your back arches even more at the thought of him making you feel what he made you feel the last time he lusted after you, made you his, made you beg for his ownership. He sits down and places his fingers at the softest part of you, the folds that cover your entrance part at his tender prodding. “Get my fingers wet, honey,” He wants you to push yourself back onto him. You bite your lip, thankful he can't see your face; the pleasure makes your mouth drop open when you let his fingers slide slowly inside of you. 

At first, your motions are jittery and nervous. You know he’s looking at you; like no man has ever looked at you before. Between your legs, watching his fingers spread you open for him. You want to stall but know exactly the kind of spanking he’ll give you if you don’t comply. Your face is warm and you're making your lip hurt with how much you worry it between your teeth. He has praises for you that make your lower belly squeeze. “Look too damn good,” has your heart beating a bit faster.

The texture of his fingertips is so perfect, every little bit you take inside makes you shiver and sigh, wanting more. Your shame is forgotten, embarrassment left behind when you get the pace right, finding yourself moving to meet it. The sound of you wetting his hand doesn't even affect you, all you want is to make him proud, to feel that sensation of overwhelming pleasure.

“Ain't that a sight,” He murmurs, huffing and watching the spectacle that is you grinding back onto his fingers and moaning, small noises every time you push back and he hits as deep as he can go. You're running down your thighs, the room is heavy with heat. Just as you're about to crest over, he pulls his fingers, forcing a whine and a shiver from you. 

“Arthur,” You whimper out, knees about to buckle. He’s there to support you, pinning you to the table. His hands pull his suspenders down, unfastening his belt out of the way. He pushes your shirt above you, stripping you. One of his hands squeezes roughly at your breast and the other hikes your knee upwards. You feel so small in his hold, his hands envelop your breast, lift you so easily. His hips are high enough to put you almost onto the table entirely, gently testing, the very tip of him piercing into you, making you wiggle and pulse.

“Shit, honey, you’re so-” He can't get any more words out, only a relieved sigh and a jerky push inside of you, slow and restrained. “Jesus, girl, ain’t had nothin’ better,” The thickness of him spreads you and you feel him drive forward to fit the length of him inside the sopping heat between your legs. His words pet your ego so smoothly, undeniably happy that he likes the feel of you, the most special thing you can give a man. The stretch is so nice, already sensitive and receptive from his fingers. You can't help the noises you're making, almost like you're crying. Without much build up, he has you gasping as he tilts his hips all the way flush to you. His hands and fingers dig into your waist, helping you meet him in the middle, a hard and slow rhythm has your thoughts melting away.

“You like having me fuck you like this, sweetheart,” One of his exhales of smugness and satisfaction leave him, can practically see the smirk he has on his face. His hand comes down on your ass, making you squeal, his hand soothing the sting and then holding your shoulder, your elbows up on the table, listening to the legs scrape on the floor, the knocking of wood to the pace of him slamming inside of you. 

“Yes, I like- I like it,” you can barely speak, thoughts and tongue all jumbled together. You knew that would rile him but not so much. Arthur's even rougher, pinning you down completely. He has a fistful of your hair close to your scalp and he takes his pleasure while you brace yourself against the table. Little pants are all you can get out. “Sweet little girl, so goddamn wet,” His palm is on the side of your neck, feeling your pulse. Your hips wiggle and jolt, half away and half towards what he's doing to you. A succinct current of pleasure rolls over you, your eyes roll back in tune.

“Ruin you for good, won’t be another man but me takin’ you like this,” his hands paw at you, forcing you to meet him so that he touches just until it about hurts, so good that you hardly notice the stretch that you endure to take him. Your hips move so that he hits the perfect spot, lifting and tilting to push you towards the edge. Like a thread about to snap, you feel the tightness inside.

“You need me, darlin’?” He pants in the midst of you working on him as you chase your gratification. You nod, just wanting him to keep going. He catches on to your mindless motion, a hand slaps your ass, harder than before. You flinch and whine, “Yes, Arthur, need you-” You gasp and feel him touch and press into your most sensitive point. He’s doing something he hasn't done yet, flicking his fingers over the front of you, just under the top of your slit, rough fingertips finding something that makes you feel too much all at once. He makes you tense and moan far too loud, fingers gripping the table.

Your release is perfect, your mouth parting to call for him, his name dripping from your lips. You cry real tears when he keeps going, your wish granted; pushing you to your breaking point. 

Arthur is merciless, driving his hips into yours, even as you struggle, far too overstimulated but too weak to fight against his hold. All you can do is cry and whimper, on your tiptoes bent over his dining table. Your thoughts can't seem to focus on anything too well, can only think of how good it is, the very tip of him nudging as deep as it can go; you’re so incredibly sensitive from the peak he pulled out of you. Arthur has a bruising grip on you, over your hips and thighs. You can hear how good you make him feel, how he hisses, grunts when you wiggle too much.

A small whine of his name has him responding to you. He cusses loudly, pulling away from you, his spend splashing down your thigh, rolling down to your ankle. He’s panting and squeezing you for what feels like his life, listening to him groan and pull you to sit with him on his chair again. He’s holding your body, which is almost limp in his hold, pulling you close.

Not much is said between you, he simply listens to your breathing as it evens out slowly, choosing to kiss you over your cheeks, wet with tears. Your hands hold his scratchy cheeks, petting a scar on his chin where his hair doesn’t grow. Letting him lick you makes a small smile break onto your face, his tongue in your mouth, you can taste the slight sting of bourbon. Your smile surprises even you, relinquishing your resolve to reject your feelings. Your instincts are confused, they respond to him, no matter how much your mind tells you that you should be running. Some part of you is possessed by the warmth in your belly, the fire in his hearth. His blue eyes consume every available piece of you, unable to look away when he stares at you. He’s happy to tuck you safely within him. Your hand explores the warmth of his neck and the unshaven hair that is starting to grow along the underside of his jaw. Arthur seems to enjoy your fingers and nails, soft groans rumbling deep in his chest.

He stands up with you, tossing you over his shoulder playfully. You squirm and gasp when he puts light pats on your ass while he ambles down to the bedroom, dropping you on the bed. Careful not to toss you too hard or smack your head on the bed frame. You can almost feel the way his gaze roves over you, like marbles, rolling along your skin. Arthur marvels genuinely, can’t hide his smile as he joins you, stripping down to his union suit, peeling his suspenders and trousers off. He contemplates taking it off and you’re up on your knees, helping to unbutton it. You look up at him and he’s almost shy about your eye contact, tips of his ears flush bright red. His chest is broad and muscled, honey brown hairs grow and swirl, all the way down his belly. A layer of plushness softens him, it only serves to make him even broader, fills him out. He helps you by shrugging off the shoulders slowly, a tad apprehensive in this intimate moment, much closer than when he first undressed in front of you.

He was quick and desperate to touch you, eager and unstoppable. Now he is softer, slower. It’s difficult for him to meet your eye but he does anyway, revealing a sensitive wound under the scab that is his hard and occasionally aggressive attitude. Some part of him takes pride in his body, a workman’s body, a fighter. And the other shies away from you.

“You don’t like when I look at you?” Your hand gently tugs the fabric of his clothes down.

“Hate these damn scars. Gettin’ old, too, bet you wish you had somethin’ better to look at, don’t you?” he heaves a sigh out. There are many scars littered over his skin, in no particular pattern. One looks quite painful, it must have been a burn, a violent cauterization.

“No, I think you look…” unsure what word to say to make him know that you like his body, that his scars tell his story, that he looked better than any scrawny farmhand or drunken grizzled lumberjack you’ve seen. You want to say he looks like your man. 

“Nice,” is the word out of your mouth. He scoffs, looking down. You can’t believe you’ve flattered him. Maybe he thinks you just want him to feel better. To prove it to him, your hand drifts over his chest, the hair and thick chest, his skin, freckled in some places by the sun, pale from being under his clothes in others. He breathes slowly, you can feel his lungs puff up and upwards over his heart is the sure beating. You don’t understand how he can be so unsure of his body, even now his mouth twitches, he moves from side to side. He may not want to look nervous, unsettled. But you can feel it just under his muscles, under the scars. He has a hand under your chin, thumb petting your cheek. You hover over the scar you had noticed earlier.

“How’d you get this one?” The memory seems to make him sour a bit, grabbing your hand and ushering you to scoot over on the bed. Arthur gets comfortable, rolling his shoulders and crossing his arms behind his head.

“That’s a long story and not a particularly fond memory of mine,” he reaches an arm out when he notices you keeping your distance, tugging you into the space that he designated you, holding you. “Ain’t exactly proud; some idiot got the better of me, goddamn O’ Driscoll boys,” on instinct, he reaches for the pack of premium cigarettes on his nightstand but he puts them down. His brows crinkle, clicks his tongue. “The things a fool does for a woman,”

“Did you really stop for me?” You whisper, not quite understanding why he would do such a thing. A selfless act in the face of all that he has done, all that he has made you do. You lay down beside him, sleepy and relaxed on his chest. He pets your hair.

“Yeah, well, it’s like I said,” he puts out the oil lamp. In the dark, you can smell dried tobacco and you lay awake, listening to him fidget with the box of cigarettes, never striking a match.

i really enjoy writing this series and thank you guys so much for the feedback, it fuels me to write more for this deranged arthur LMAO

Snow Angel Series Masterlist

[solomonara]

Game: 10 first lines challenge

Thanks for the tag @stevieraebarnes! Let's see if my first lines can hold a candle to your absolute bangers.

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able to and see if there are any patterns!

1. Investigator: The crash of shattering glass, and a lot of it, startled the pleasant hum of socialite conversation into hiding.

2. For Good: Some days, Link wonders how they got so lucky.

3. Here, After: If asked, Sidon would not be able to say truly when it began.

4. The Cross Purposes Job: "Well, Mr. Jeffries," Sophie – or rather, Ludmila Popova, official representative of a wealthy overseas tech consortium that was definitely not a thinly veiled front for any shady Eastern European government, no matter how much they were funded like one, wink nudge – said with a charming smile.

5. Scarf: "Emma. What is that?" Georgia asked, stopping immediately inside the door to their apartment.

6. Fever Reducer: Bruce stared at the nearly empty shelf in the breakfast aisle, despairing.

7. Osteoclast: Dick knew, even before he was fully awake, that he wasn't going to enjoy what he discovered when he opened his eyes.

8. Per Aspera: Jason Todd was bleeding.

9. Looked After: Make sure he's looked after.

10. The Damned Prince's Bodyguard: The Damned Prince of Gotham surveyed his domain with a great deal of satisfaction and a very small amount of champagne.

Well, I don't know. Most of these introduce the main characters (but not Looked After or Investigator). Most of these ask a question or imply one (but not For Good or, again, Looked After.) And what was I thinking with The Cross Purposes Job. That's so many words... Maybe I should be looking at second lines XD

Hey @elwon, @dragonsorceress22, @bitterleafs, @burntheupholstery, @unicorncoalition you want to give it a whirl?

This invitation is also open to anyone who is reading it. Yes you! And tag me when you do it, I want to read your first lines (even you, stranger.)

[gods-perfect-idiots]

something something blood-soaked hands cradling your face something something

anyway here's the post btw

[lunar-system]

Izzy Hands: The Moon.

Re-imagined from the traditional Rider-Waite-Smith tarot, this version of the Moon shows Izzy taking the shape of a lone Lover, longing for what he cannot reach.

Longer exploration of the card's symbolism under the cut.

Symbolism of the card

I initially meant this card to be specifically Izzy's, but he is once again unseparable from Ed. Though the moon itself is depicted as Ed, it is through Izzy that I interpret the journey of the card. Feel free to invent your own interpretation as well!

In the original version of the Moon we see a dog, a wolf, and a crayfish. Izzy takes the place of the wolf, marking him as wild and untameable. He is accompanied by a dog, symbolizing his loyalty. The crayfish has retreated, and we can see a monster lurking in the depths of the water, reminding us of the beasts that lie within.

Rachel Pollack (2011) writes: "The Moon signifies the dangerous time between the end of one world structure and the beginning of another. On the emotional level it can indicate the strange state when something powerful has ended and you find yourself thrown back on your instincts."

In the card Izzy already has his wooden leg. He his stepping into his role as the Unicorn, marking a shift in his loyalty and his place in the world. His reign as Blackbeard's first mate is ending, and a whole new world order is being imagined.

Ed is also seen in a new light. With his short beard, he is at the end of his captaincy, possibly even at the end of his piracy. He as the Moon is illuminated by the light of the Sun, personified by Stede in another card, The Sun.

Izzy bears witness to their combined light, unreachable to him on the ground. He teeters at the edge of the water illuminated by that very light, and is faced with a choice. Will he turn, follow the path and try to reach the unreachable? Or will he explore the unknown waters in front of him?

In tarot, water symbolizes emotions, intuition and subconscious. Pollack writes: "Here in the unknown territory our animal selves take over. We cannot suppress the wild emotions but only travel through them." The message of the Moon beckons Izzy to step into the water and face his emotions.

However, there are also dangers in the murky waters of the subconscious. Pollack continues: "The Moon card calls forth powerful dreams, visions, and the power of the feminine." In tarot water is a feminine element. Izzy, a beacon of masculinity, has in the past confused the feminine with the monstrous. He is now dared to invite the feminine within him to the surface. His posture already mirrors that of the feminine lover from the Lovers-card. It also calls back to the Fool, to someone at the beginning of their self-discovery.

Tl;dr: Izzy, the Fool and the Lover, is on a journey from one world to another. Will he follow the path and try to reach the unreachable, or will he find the courage to plunge into unknown waters?

A comparison between the original Rider-Waite-Smith card from 1909 and the re-imagined version

Izzy's pose mirrors the feminine Lover

Sources

Image source: Pamela Colman Smith, 1909, republished as Tarot of A. E. Waite, 2016, AGM-Urania, Germany

Text source: Rachel Pollack, A Journey of 78 Steps, 2011, as cited in the booklet for instruction and guidance of Tarot of A. E. Waite, 2016, AGM-Urania, Germany

[demonslayedher]

I finished posting the unabashedly educational Sword Fic.

It includes a detailed (but hopefully beginner-friendly) explanation of all the steps of making a Nichirin blade from a sunny mountain like Mt. Youkou, a touch of swordsmith and metalworker folk lore (including demons), meta about what must make Kimetsu no Yaiba's swordsmithing methods different from real life methods, some character exploration for Haganezuka and his polishing method, vocabulary and additional resources in the chapter notes, and hopefully, an endearing, silly POV character to learn this all through.

[thegreatyin]

And thus, with the passing of 24 hours, Caeru's ambition truly comes to an end. Major Nemesis spoilers below the cut- we're talking endgame ambition business here. Mostly on a character RP front.

The Doomed Scientist made quite a few... choice decisions, in the end. Killing Cups once and for all, recording his story as one of grief-

And sparing what little remained of Mr Mirrors, leaving it free to roam Parabola as it sees fit.

Some of them, he can explain. Others, he's still left to feel... discontent.

Cups needed to die. That much was certain from the start. It was a tyrant, as all Masters are, and complicit in the bargaining and eventual destruction of four (potentially five) cities, as all Masters are. It was an obstacle. A murderer. A petty monster that felt no remorse even on its deathbed, and it went out of its way to ruin multiple lives just because it felt owed its own sick and twisted idea of revenge.

It killed his first love. It looked him in the eyes and he knew what it had done and he knew from the start it was going to die.

Perhaps, in the end, it knew too. And yet it still pleaded, and wanted to live, and-

It made a bargain.

A bargain Caeru didn't take.

Not because he didn't want to. Gods, he wanted to. He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything else in the world. To have Greylu back, to give him the gift of life, of love, to show him the wonders of the Neath and the beauty of the correspondence and all of the people Caeru has met and loved and found home with along the way-

But. He couldn't.

Because Cups was a monster. And no matter what, it deserved to die. And he could not, in good conscience, allow it to live.

Even if sparing it meant everything he's ever wanted.

So he's left here, now. With a bloodied traveling coat, and a bloodsoaked knife, and a favor finally fulfilled.

And nothing to live for. No resurrected lover, no charming visits to Helicon, no slow dances in the living room, no memories to rebuild and lives to live and he won't live again-

Nothing. All he has is a coat born of obligation, not to his love, but to people he's never even met. To lives he's never even touched. To a paramour, still alive, with hair of rose-pink, who doesn't even remember her own brother's existence.

Cups didn't die for Caeru's sake. Cups died for the sake of all who wanted it dead. For the revenger's court, and the ghost screaming in his ear, and the reckoning that will not be postponed indefinitely.

And Caeru, who acted as a tool to carry out their wills? Who all but betrayed his own lover, just to satisfy a cause he never knew existed?

All Caeru is left with, is regret. Regret-

-And grief.

[gothsuguru]

once i get back into the groove of things i’m gonna pick up some hobbies 🙏🏼

[eddiemunsonsmum]

Just saw this comment on a story posted a month ago.

*cries in Eddie Munson Solo Series no one wanted to read, interact with or request for*

No shade to the person that commented this on their own fic if you recognize it. It's not their fault. I'm not mad at them. More crying in the tags.

[melverie]

Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh today I've been constantly experiencing the urge to un-private today-in-the-devildom & start writing for it again

[no-light-left-on]

part of wanting a post-doto story where corvo starts off disliking the outsider and only later being nice is that I now need to replay the games to fully grasp why he would hate him to begin with and nail their relationship after the first game and who corvo was by the time outsider became human or it might come off out of character

[chloecherrysip]

breaking news: local woman goes to the movie theater and somehow DOESN'T see the mario movie again for the millionth time? who IS she??????

[tonariofjananda]

This was my participation piece for the @yuriolympics2023 ‘s first prompt, “Memory.”✌️

The fic covers things that will happen in Season 3 (including a theory that I’m treating as 100% canon tbh, lol) so if you’re not caught up with the manga, please keep that in mind :)