#imagine you are so much into backstories that your backstory fanfic has fucking backstory

[mer-acle]

oh gosh my brain is procrastinating which helps my creativity stats lol

Imagine when Metis got pregnant, Hera naturally spent a little more time with her, I mean they are sisters-in-law and also Hera is the goddess of family and she doesn't have kids of her own yet, so naturally she's drawn to it.

They sit in a garden together, chatting a little. Metis smiles. "She's moving," she says softly, then motions Hera to feel. Hera almost gingerly puts a hand on Metis' belly. She can feel the baby moving and it aches in her chest, a strangely beautiful pain she can't quite define. "How do you know it's a girl?" she asks. Metis smiles. "Zeus doesn't think much of a mother's instincts," she says. "But it's not only that. I can hear her think. She's so curious already. And she feels safe, that's what matters most." Hera's gaze wanders over the garden, wistful. "That's true," she says thoughtfully. "How will you name her?" For a moment, Metis hesitates, as if it's a secret only herself and the baby know. "Athena," she says then. "Mind of the gods." Hera smiles, genuinely this time. "That's a beautiful name," she says, then bows over to whisper to the baby. "I cannot wait to meet you, little Athena." They both chuckle. It's peaceful now, one of the last peaceful moments they will share with each other.

Okay yeah that got heartbreaking so quick LOL anyway this was supposed to be the setup

bc Zeus doesn't want to reveal what he's done to Metis. He acts like Athena is his own child, born from his mind. Metis and he broke it off, that's all there is to it. But Hera knows the second Athena says her name. The second she sees the child's grey eyes. She knows what he did. She doubts Metis' daughter feels safe now.

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew. 

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded.  He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt.  It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation.  A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges.  And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled.  Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger. 

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders.  Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it.  He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own. 

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell.  Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost.  King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you.  Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you." 

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor.  You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back.  It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you. 

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead.  It must have been your imagination.  You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest.  Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen. 

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears. 

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets.  And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company. 

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal.  You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead. 

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly. 

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway. 

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him.  You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be.  You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't." 

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs. 

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you.  You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin.  Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall.  Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself -  but you can't help feeling your heart clench.  You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time. 

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him.  A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly.  Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind.  A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy.  Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips. 

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion.   You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you. 

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit.  He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely. 

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion. 

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly. 

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience. 

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps. 

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you. 

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him.  He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence.  You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious. 

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching. 

He doesn't let go of you. 

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him.  It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his. 

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you. 

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him.  You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow. 

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other.  Your hands are buried in his long silver hair.  You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet? 

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress. 

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices. 

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body. 

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry.  You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable. 

You need him. 

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears.  You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him.  It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you. 

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting.  For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness. 

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you.  You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy. 

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth.  You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie.  You know you should lie.  To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years.  You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not." 

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips. 

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye.  It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words.  You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath. 

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe.  It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity.  Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know." 

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him. 

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him.  You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up. 

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know."  Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence.  He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions. 

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

[bug-bites]

west side apartment, paper plane

tw: brief non-graphic mentions of ghost going thru war stuff and ghost's backstory in the comics (changed a few details because this is fanfic. duh), slight angst (bc yk,, yearning) but sort of fluff if ghost had a dollar for every moment he spent yearning he would have enough money to retire and live a happy life away from the military, also we're pretending british chinese takeout is good, not proofread :P

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x gn!reader (like always can be read as platonic or romantic)

characters: simon "ghost" riley

a/n: i hate how fucking massive the song link is but yk what its fine. but i am back and in a laufey moment!

simon has lived an interesting life, maybe he wouldn’t use interesting. if he could describe it he would probably use words like terrifying, cruel, or for a lack of better terms, shitty. from the moment he was born it seemed like misery and tragedy followed him around like a stray dog, finding its way into every aspect of his existence. his childhood home was always something he wanted to escape, or rather his father was what he wanted to run away from. there were good moments after he kicked the old bastard out, but the ever present threat of tragedy proved that it wouldn’t last. life had been cruel, dealing him possibly the worst hand possible, the only constant being misfortune, that is until you came along.

a temporary living arrangement. thats all it was. rent was a little too much for one person to afford, so you both signed the lease on a crummy, small, mixed-use apartment right in the middle of manchester. it wasn’t much, takeout dinners from the restaurant below and late rent payments were the norm but even with the busted heating, life in that apartment had never felt so warm.

after long shifts at your respective jobs he would come home, plastic bags of takeout in his hands, a sign for you to set a few blankets on the ground before both of you eat ungodly amounts of shrimp fried rice and orange sesame chicken. he could spend hours listening to you speak, nothing made him feel so at home. maybe it was the fact that the food was good and also inexpensive, or maybe it was because he was too exhausted to do anything else, but he loved those long sleepless nights spent sitting on the floor, talking about everything and nothing. simon cant imagine another time in his life when he was genuinely so happy or another time he laughed so hard water came out his nose.

he especially loved opening fortune cookies with you at the end of every meal. sure, he never believed in those fortunes but the idea was always fun to entertain. the sound of the cookie cracking open to expose the slip of paper, revealing what the future had in store for him usually filled him with a childlike curiosity. or at least got a laugh out of him.

“hah, mine says ‘there will be a happy romance for you shortly’. these things really could not be farther from the truth. bet yours is more accurate” you say, popping half of the broken cookie into your mouth “your father loves you and is always with you. remember that.” he reads out loud with a chuckle “oh. that- hm. yeah i take that back”

but the one thing he loved more than opening those silly fortunes with you or the late night dinners was after you both cleaned up the empty takeout boxes, taking the menus and folding them into paper planes. it became a sort of tradition after you got bored and began to mess around with the glossy paper that listed mouthwatering dishes and house specials. he could never get it right, one wing was always too big or his folds were clumsily made and uneven, making them practically incapable of flight but yours were the complete opposite. each crease made was perfect, every intricate pleat skillfully crafted to allow the small paper aircraft to glide through the air with ease. as you tossed your planes off the balcony of your shared flat, the sight of the plane sailing through the air as the sun set always filled the both of you with a sense of nostalgia. and of course you both picked them up and tossed them out because we dont mess w/ littering over here

simon cant help but look back at those simpler times and miss them. he knows from the start it was intended to be temporary, but he’s been through so much chaos and trauma all he just wants a quiet life where he doesnt have to be ghost. he just wants a nice warm home to come back to. it doesnt have to be big, it doesnt have to be expensive, it just has to feel like home. it just has to feel like you. its been so long since the two of you parted ways but as he stares at the last paper airplane that he kept, he cant help but wonder if you feel that way too. as he lies awake in his bed at the military base he’s stationed in, he spends those nights craving that domesticity he had with you. he recalls every memory, every minute detail that made him love that cramped apartment and maybe how he loved you even more.

[immortalbutterflycos]

I've come to realize something important in writing. (specifically in my personal experience)

(TLDR; I have ADHD and writing is hard even though I'm still doing it every single day. Make it make sense.)

If you have a story in your head that means a lot to you, and you need to take more time to develop and fully flesh it out before posting it, that's totally okay! In fact, in my experience, it has the potential to make the story better over time, really forming it into what you imagine it to be.

Here's an example because I just typed a lot of words and right now I can't seem to process whether they make sense or not.

I have a fanfic that I've been working on for a year now. (For the Marauders fandom if y'all are curious)

It's one that I haven't talked about much because every time I do, I end up losing the motivation to write. This is what happened to another one of my fics for the Haikyuu fandom. (well that and the Marauders.. yeah they fucked me up in the best way and Freckles and Constellations has really suffered because of it smh)

So the reason why this fic is taking so long is because it is such a specific AU that I'm out here trying to meld magic systems, and I've got like EIGHT MAIN CHARACTERS to write backstories for to fit this AU while also being true to them and even though I know the basic plot, there are just so many little details and aspects that will make this fic what I desperately need it to be.

And no one knows just how intricate it is or how important it is to me. Which is totally fine. I don't even know if people are going to read it when I finally manage to post it. This fic is purely self-indulgent.

let me just break down for you what I have prepared for this already:

countless drabbles and scenes and plans written on the backs of receipts and on bits of scrap paper

a 3" 3-ring binder that I've been trying to organize it all in

a google doc titled "TAoRfOL Doc Masterlist" that has links to every single doc I have for this one fic. (it's dated back to March of last year and as of this month has 93 total links. Only 5 of those are reference links.)

notes and ideas i have written in my phone to transfer into docs so I can add them to the masterlist

Hero Forge digital models of those 8 main characters because I wanted to see what their group would look like outside of my imagination

Multiple Spotify playlists dedicated to this fic and the characters which I listen to every single day. (currently @ 494 songs)

And you know what? I just recently, at 6 am this morning, finally figured out the solution to a fucking plot hole I could not work around.

Basically what I'm saying is that I needed all of this time. Every single day I see things and get inspiration. Every day I learn new things and fix errors in my own plans.

As much as I crave the validation and recognition for all of my hard work on this project, I know that If I had just bit the bullet and posted the first chapter without having done all of this research and all of this planning, then it would not have lived up to the story I have in my head.

I admire people who can just write without all of the added steps and in some cases, I can do that. I haven't been able to in a while (which is why that Valentine's Day microfic was actually really big for me to have posted) but that's just how my brain works.

I needed all of my experiences and all of my daily thoughts and all of my collective playlists for this fic to be able to write the story I intended and that is exactly what I'm going to do.

(though if I'm being honest, this timeline is rough. I really want to just write and post this first chapter so so so bad. ToT)

[rosypenguins]

would you like to dump all your thoughts, headcanons, rambles, and yaps about dom? (i luv letting people yap and i love dom)

Y-yeah I’d like that.

Most of my headcanons and rambles have already been drafted into future posts, so I’m just gonna yap about them for a lil bit lol.

I genuinely did not expect to get as attached to these twins as I did. Hell, I remember when their beta designs dropped, I thought they looked lame. But then the spin-off came out and I was like ‘oh, they’re alright actually’ and then I kept rewatching the episode because I’m cripplingly addicted to this show and slowly I just grew more and more fond of them. Dom specifically. (Faye’s amazing too but Dom hits different.)

And then the second episode came out, and I started thinking more and more about them, which spiraled into a million headcanons and a whole damn backstory and my gallery looking like this-

And I basically did to them what I did to Drew: I took all the pieces canon gave me and filled in the rest with my imagination to make two little scrimblos I can more easily write about and analyze. (Normal things hot girls do.✨)

And I find it funny how Dom has managed to capture my attention just as much as Drew has, when he’s probably a character Drew would bully like RELENTLESSLY. (I have two scenarios of this: one being Drew calling Dom’s sweater stupid and childish while Dom’s like “At least mines not all plain and basic!” and then they argue for like two minutes OR Drew actually gets to something Dom’s insecure about or says something like “Oh my God, could you shut up for once in your life? No one fucking cares what you have to say. You’re annoying and if you spent the rest of life with your mouth glued shut I doubt anyone would care. It’d be better off for everyone.” And Dom actually goes silent and then he’s like REALLY hesitant about saying anything for two weeks- wait I made myself sad writing that FUCK.)

ANYWAYS I genuinely don’t really know WHY I’m so attached to Dom right now. He’s literally just a carrot, with about 5 minutes of screen time. Half of his lines are about squirrels and birds, and yet I’d trade my DAMN SOUL for him. HE’S SO FUCKING CUTE. (Maybe it’s because of the lack of backstory and relative mystery. I love me a character I gotta piece together like a puzzle. Or maybe it’s his voice Ireallylikehisvoice-)

But yeah, I’m obsessed with him and it makes me really sad how I’ve barely been able to find any content of him. Like there’s literally no fanfiction, and barely any art. Which I guess makes sense, they’re supporting characters with not much to them, but still, it makes me sad. (BUT IM WORKING TO CHANGE THAT WITH MY FANFIC WIPS AND DRAWING DRAFTS!)

And it sucks too, because I doubt they’re gonna play much of a role in S2. They’re probably gonna fade into obscurity, and I’ll never be able to learn about their backstories or potential mental issues. (Which I ALSO HAVE A POST ABOUT-)

I think going forward, I’m gonna try and post a little more about Dom and Faye, at least for now. I’m still Drew blog obviously, Drew’s still my personality unfortunately, but I really want to try and use my blog to sort of promote them, I guess? I want to share what I see in them, and I want to feed the Dom and Faye fans that are just as starved as me.

Anyways TLDR: I just like Dom a lot. He deserves the world. (I say as I discreetly shove him into the blender of suffering turn it onto high.)

[blacksurvivalnostalgichanges]

my opinion on whether these characters bathe

Adela: she'd have good hygiene. minimum of once a day. for some reason i feel really, really confident on this. adela's just someone who seems clean

Adriana:stinky. wouldnt shower

Aiden:i wrote alex's first, and i think since the european part doesn't apply then i'm going with the second one and saying he probably showers before going out minimum

Alex:could go any way. you can argue "european from a cold country = not as much showering, more skewed to just wearing deodorant or perfume" or "theres no way a secret agent can afford to be stimky" and i would agree with both those options equally

Arda:the aspect of being depressed and a workaholic that nobody likes remembering is that you're not gonna be showering regularly. im sorry

Aya:normal amount of baths. whatever that is

Barbara:she's stinky. you can't convince me otherwise on this. she's stinky. it's not like she NEVER SHOWERS but i'd bet she's like "ehh once or twice a week is plenty"

Bernice:you look me in the proverbial eye and tell me he showers.

Bianca:i actually think she showers. why am i shocked at this. i think she showers though. the sort to say that if you don't shower before going to bed you feel worse. don't know if i'd go far enough to say twice a day though

Camilo:every time he goes out, minimum. he wouldn't be attractive if he stunk and i bet you could argue the strange self confidence stretches to. uh

Cathy:canonically showers a fucking lot

Celine:does not strike me as somebody who showers often. i think her ass can go a week without showering and not even think about it

Chiara: i think her self loathing has to stretch into baths. she probably showers at least sort of rarely, and when she does it's in the dark. she keeps her head down when she's brushing her teeth to not see herself in the mirror

Chloe:the ones i keep putting off because i'm not sure are the ones that probably default to "whatever the normal amount is". chloe showers whatever the normal amount is

Daniel:you know, i've heard secondhand so much advice on how to manage washing your hair. and you'd THINK this would help. it doesn't. because half the advice is "wash every day", the other half is "don't wash that often", and the one thing both of those agree on is "don't use scalding hot water, but don't use cold water either, both aren't a good idea, do warm water". the vibe i get is that he still showers semi often though

Echion:14 in 1 shampoo that smells like motor oil, like magnus

Elena:i think she'd only shower and not ever want a bathtub bath. because of trauma. idk i happened to be writing a bit in the fanfic that included her backstory and i actually sort of appreciate her after that. but what matters is that i think she showers twice a day

Eleven:she HAS to be the sort to shower twice a day. source:she's rich and for some reason that makes me really not buy that she'd bathe less. like. if you aren't bathing every day you're either depressed or poor and minding the water bill. she is neither

Eva:whatever the normal amount is also. i got nothing

Emma:i get the feeling, from the fact that she's a street magician, that she sometimes ends up having to not bathe every day and compensate in other ways. but also im pulling this out of my ass

Felix:i am so unbearably certain he doesn't shower ever day for some reason. i think every other day. i don't think he's at JP levels

Fiora:showers every day. i can't imagine otherwise

Hart:i am so sorry about this opinion for some reason but i can't imagine her showering more than every other day for some reason

Hyejin:showers every day, probably uses a nice flowery soap

Hyunwoo:showers every other day, probably

Isol:i think if we extend the way he feels about school he'd probably be like "i wish i could shower every day". since i dont think his circumstances would let him be very clean

Jackie:stinky. sorry

Jan:can we live in a universe where jan does bathe often. i don't want to imagine what it's like to live in the one where he doesnt. but also i just KNOW he smells so strongly of axe body spray. he needed that campaign going "only spray for as long as you say 'axe'!" but then he started saying AAAAAXE

Jenny:i feel like she showers twice a day. and id extend that she likes bubble baths but doesnt have a bathtub. and that her shampoo and conditioner are those ones that are really cheap and smell a bit "off" but in a particular way. cant figure out how to explain it

Johann:i think every day. before he goes to bed specifically. seems like a night bather

JP:canon stinky

Laura:rule of thumb:if a character is supposed to be attractive and doesn't have any good plot explanation otherwise, they shower at least once a day/before going out

Lenox:i think she doesnt shower that often but i dont like my conclusions on this :(

Leon:twice a day. i once found this soap that smelled like strawberry bubblegum and i think hed love that shit but then cover it up with man's deodorant

Li Dailin:i dont think she cares enough to shower. like. maybe she'd have trouble with getting herself to do it and kick herself over it since she's often like that. she has a slight undercurrent of self pity. but what that would mean is she's stinky

Luke: twice a day bare minimum. maybe more

Magnus:definitely showers shittily and uses one of those 14 in one shampoo for men that looks like motor oil

Mai:she so needs to have a bubble bath at least once every few days or she gets miffed. but in general i think twice a day

Nadine:you look me in the eye and tell me she showers

Nathapon: the logistics of him showering sound difficult and he seems like someone who lives life in a "bare minimum required to function well" way (like, someone that sleeps 8 hours entirely because he'll be tired otherwise. someone who puts veg in their plate so he doesn't die of scurvy but doesn't care either way aside from that) so he'd shower when he's getting sweaty but not make a habit of it

Nicky:im so sorry but she has the vibe of someone who doesn't shower as frequently as she should and is ashamed of it to me. maybe it's because depression adhd uncleanliness recognizes other uncleanlinesses. words that definitely dont exist. but sorry. i dont think im wrong though

Rio:now. as someone who's also really autistic. i struggle with keeping routines straight, but i also need them. and one thing that works well for me is basically what i call if-else chains but in my mind. like. before i go to bed, i always brush my teeth. once i got used to it i always did it, never forget it. what i'm saying is that she was taught as a kid to shower every day before bed or after waking up or whatever and now she can't break it

Rosalio:you look me in the eye and tell me he showers often. i KNOW he puts on deodorant after he sweats to cover it up but then he just smells pungently bad

Rozzi:i think she'd shower once a day after getting home or before going to bed. she isnt in a situation as precarious as isol as far as we know so i'm not accounting for it

Shoichi:i know his ass showers every day and wears loud men's perfume. this bitch definitely mastered the placement of the spritzes but acts like he doesnt put effort into it

Silvia:you look me in the eye and tell me this woman showers.

Sissela:imagining how she'd feel about hygiene makes me very sad. i get the feeling she'd hate showering

Sua:see laura's rule of thumb. none of her skins aren't babygirlified. she by nature can't smell bad. but i think she'd like that one perfume that smells like a new book

Tia:so here's the thing. it is very hard to not get your hands dirty while painting. and i myself end up being way more messy than the normal person because i Don't Care. and that makes me think she showers before going to bed because she has to make sure none of the paint is on her skin

William:he showers before going out. strikes me as the sort to sleep wearing his outside clothes

Xiukai:now. i do think he'd have good cleanliness in the kitchen. but that does not equal taking regular baths. but also he doesn't seem like he'd be UNCLEAN. so my gut feeling is baths every other day? baths every day in hot weather?

Yuki:he strikes me as someone who has a need to smell good and look good. like, two baths a day, shampoo and conditioner that smell a specific way, skin moisturizer afterwards. not in a vain way like camilo, but because he has this thing with looking perfect. which does mean. wearing charcoal masks with the girlies i just got that image and i love it

Zahir:canonically well-groomed. probably does bathe at least a good twice a day

[theflyingfeeling]

Laura: Talks about how she joked with others in Gdansk how Aleksi would react if he would read fanfiction and find out that he is always the one getting hurt (“yes yes shiping with my bandmates alright BUT WHY DO YOU ALL WANT TO HURT ME??”)

Jess: writes this: ".... now i'm imagining aleksi going up to olli at 3am with a sad face, phone in hand, going "you always go on cute dates with tommi, why do they always just hurt me :(“ and this: “aleksi why are you reading fanfic of yourself going on dates? are you feeling lonely? should we go on a friend date? oh shit--" *_olli grabbing a bat to chase away the feelings he's realising he has_*”

Me: Is board at work and writes this:

Aleksi throws away the iPad angrily and lets out a frustrated huff. Olli, his roommate for the night, looks up from his poetry book. "What's up, Ale?" he asks curiously.

"Niko sent me another fanfiction and again I am the one getting hurt. Why always me?? Joel gets cuddles, Niko is the Boss, Joonas gets lucky and you and Tommi always go on cute dates. Why am I always the one with a tragic backstory and a broken heart? Why can't I be the one who gets to go on a cute date with you?"

"Do you want to?" 

Aleksi freezes. Fuck. Did he really say that last part out loud? Did he really utter out his biggest wish, his deepest secret that he swore he would take with him to the grave, out loud? For the whole world to hear? And on top of that right in front of the person he crushes on for God knows how long. 

His mind is going a million miles per second while the rest of his body is in shock and frozen.

Suddenly he feels a warm hand on his body and a finger under his chin. Aleksi looks up and sees that it is Olli, who has put down his book on the couch and has come over to sit down in front of him on the bed. Their eyes meet and Aleksi can see a hint of fear in Ollis' eyes. But also hope. And love? 

"Do you want to?" Olli repeats his question. "Do you want to go on a date with me? I promise it will be just like in the movies. Or like in the fanfictions."

"Ye-ye-yes" Aleksi stammels. His mouth suddenly dry. His heart beating fast and praying that this was real and not a dream or some kind of sick joke. "Do you want to?" he asks Olli to make sure his friend was really meaning it and not offering it out of pity.

Instead of answering, Olli leans forward and softly presses his lips on Aleksis. "Does that answer your question?”

Hope you like it. I am sorry your week wasn’t the best🥺🥺. You are such a kind and wonderful and intelligent person. You deserve so much better🫂❤️‍🩹. May this little snipped from Delulu Land be a warm and soft blanket to tuck you in and make you forget your worries for a second🩷

omg what is thiiiiiiiiiiss 🥺 Aleksi you silly silly boy, Olli will take you on a date that is SO much better than all those fanfics in which you get hurt or cheat on your gf oops sorry

thank you so much, you're so sweet?? 🥹

[damnfandomproblems]

https://www.tumblr.com/damnfandomproblems/754768130433302528/5168-that-one-anon-get-the-fuck-out-of-fandom?source=share

Just who are you talking to lol?

"""That One Anon: Get the fuck out of fandom then if you are That against "theft". Your blorbos aren't yours, then, they belong to the original creators. Go pick up a pen and write your own characters, thief. Never make a creative aspect without citing every single possible subconscious influence you took for it. That head tilt you drew? The concept of a sad backstory? Proper credit only, you thief."""

You sound like anne rice.

The difference anon is not about the characters. No one is claiming they own characters from certain shows, or claiming that they are their own original designs.

Its about how AI datasets are trained on the art of other artists without their consent.

People love fan art. Most if not all smaller artist will love you if you decide to draw or write fan pieces about their characters. Games and shows would not be as popular as they are without fandoms. Many encourage the making of fanart and fanfic. I know genshin impact for example expressly allows the selling of fan made merch and even hosts hoyofair for fans to show off their fanart and such. Its not theft to draw a character but its theft to claim it as your own.

Its theft to generate images made from stolen artwork and claim it as your own original "art".

You also don't understand the concept of copyright laws.

"""Oh, what's that? You don't count?""

I do count actually. If i made a game and stole the characters from a bunch of other games and tried making money off it while claiming them as my own i would actually be in trouble.

Transformative works like fan art and fanfic dont count usually because these days by default as long as you dont try and claim it (the characters and canon stuff) as your own, you are more than allowed, encouraged even, to create and sell those things. Unless its disney. Because disney sucks.

Im probably not the best person to explain these nuances to you

Please actually educate yourself about transformative works.

"""I read books daily. I write and draw from pure imagination, and study artists on youtube to get better at drawing."""

Good for you? So do i lol?

"""I also think AI is a tool that can be used for good or ill, and it's how people use it that matters. Much like how a keyboard doesn't stop a human from sending anon hate."""

I tried responding to this but it got so long and convoluted that im just going to hope someone else has the patience to answer something as ignorant as this.

"""I'd commission artists if I could! I've done so in the past. But guess what, I don't feel safe asking for commissions now on the off chance a artist realizes I think AI is a tool like any other and harasses me when I never would have brought it up. Despite the fact many artists both fandom and original have tons of influences both credited and not. I've seen human artists and writers get accused of AI for STYLISTIC CHOICES that anyone with half a thought should be able to tell was artist intent and inline with previous works."""

1. That's a personal problem dude. Maybe you should reflect on why artists might not like you for using something that actively steals their work. Also this low-key screams entitlement.

2. What does the rest of that have to do with anything. I think you forgot to connect why any of that was important.

"""I can count on one hand the amount of collage art/blackout poetry/drawn over photographs I've seen in public museums that were properly credited beyond the editor. I can't count the amount of media I've seen that nudges at other pre-existing works that was either hyped up for it or was said to justify that aspect."""

I believe you should actually do some research on those things before bringing up your surface level observations in your argument.

"""Ko-fi tipping, Patron subscriptions, sales of generically labled charms and prints and fanart to get around what's Actually being sold. Art style memes, art referenced from canonical works as intentional homage uncredited. Uncredited style inspiration. The entire existence of unsourced, constantly remixed memes.

You gonna claim that's all fine, but anons should expect to be accused of being "techbros" and linked to foreign words meaning "masturbating and crying" for just asking what an artstyle from a artist is called? That it's actually FINE to drive off people wanting to be creative no matter the medium because that particular one 'isn't art' and so no one can want to be a artist and use it?"""

See that all falls apart if you would all just realize stuffing stolen art into a machine, putting in a prompt to get a random result, is not creativity. There is nothing creative about that.

Best analogy i can come up with rn is thats almost like me searching for "powdered donuts" in the walmart online store and just picking whatever one i think looks best and then claiming i made the donuts. Instead of going to a bakery and custom ordering exactly what i want or making it myself.

The biggest difference between AI and other artforms is that what AI produces and generates is not creative. Theres no actual thought or consideration going into most of the work.

The machine itself is amazing. The programming needed to make such a thing function properly is actually impressive. But what it produces is not creative. And if you knew anything about how these machines and programs worked you would be able to understand that.

"""I swear I've gone back to the 2010s and 'is digital art REAL art though? the computer draws the line for you? You aren't a REAL artist, you just use photoshop to edit things.'

"That's still done by a human person though-"

Hypocrite. Get the fuck out of fandom."""

Again. If you actually understood how "AI" works you would understand the difference.

Its not hypocritical and this is a false equivalence. You are ignoring the process which differentiates these things in favor of focusing on the fact they are both machines.

In digital art it is almost no different that traditional. The difference being it doesnt use materials, and you have the cool undo and redo button, and other effects buttons you would not get with traditional art. You also dont HAVE to use those things and you are forgetting that you have to learn how they work and use them MANUALLY.

People who use digital art dont claim its easier either. Its more convenient. But as a digital artist, its imcredibly difficult and time consuming depending on what im making. I have a personal project that has 170+ hours on it. Even with all my fancy buttons ive had to go back and redo things countless times and fiddle with things. I have to deliberately choose what color goes where, what brush to use, what layer setting i need ect ect. And its all original.

Saying digital art isnt real art is like saying driving an automobile doesnt count as driving because you have a bunch of buttons and levers to do what you want instead of ordering horses around on a wooden carriage.

With AI the machine does everything for you. Its about the same as googling a picture of a bunny (typing a prompt), choosing a picture (taking what's generated), and posting it and claiming its your own. (Theft)

So no. People who use AI can get the fuck out of fandom. Thanks.

Posting as a response to a previous ask.

[grayintogreen]

If you wanted to be extra heathen about it, you could celebrate Cree rezzing Lucien instead of Easter.

BUT ANYWAY, ask game #3: Tell me about one of your fics you think is underrated/underappreciated.

The only Messiah that matters- the Nonagon.

OKAY, SO LIKE.

I genuinely look at the disparity between YCDHN and OUADYA in terms of like kudos/hits as something that genuinely makes me sad, even though it makes total sense that a lot of people who enjoyed OUADYA would probably not enjoy YCDHN (almost all the ships are together by then and there's no romantic tension, darker themes, Lucien as a main character), because to me it's not a full story unless you read both, BUT YCDHN has an EXTREMELY dedicated batch of devotees so like numbers wise yeah it's sad to think a lot of people never finished the series, but I can't feel too bad, because the engagement and excitement every update gives me means its fine.

I think as much as I have moved past the headcanons present in it and it's no longer relevant to what I imagine for the Tombtakers, I do like that I was able to tell a concise version of Lucien and Cree's backstory in a very minimum amount of words in this church takes no conversions. Like yeah, I could do better, but I also proved a point that I didn't realize needed to be proven at the time. And I think if more people had read it, people would understand that my disdain for TNEOL is NOT because of hc discrepancy, but sheer shock at how bad it was from a craft standpoint simply because I did this already and for free and didn't fuck up the characters and canon.

FANFIC ASK GAME.

[tathrin]

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about? ✨ Choose three adjectives to complement your own writing.⏰ Do you spend more time reading fic, writing fic, or do you do both equally?

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

Well, I don't have the very first stories I wrote on a computer anymore because they died when the old family desktop did, but I have brought all my files along with me ever since I got my own laptop for college, so let's go have a peek in my oldest folders...

From Star Wars:

Ooh look, here's Baby Tathrin's Very Mature And Not-At-All Mary-Sue-ish Lengthy Backstory Novel for Rhysati Ynr, who deserved so much more character development and screentime than Rogue Squadron gave her and I'll do it myself if I have to, dammit, fic... Yeah, I still think Rhys deserved more story-time, but I'm definitely never going back to that fic because I'm not thirteen anymore XD

Bounty Hunter's Winter, which was supposed to be a young-Boba-Fett-grudgingly-teams-up-with-Sheltay-Retrac-in-Clone-Wars/Purge-Era and then timeskips to juxtapose with an-experienced-Boba-Fett-grudgingly-teams-up-with-a-young-Winter-in-Rebellion-Era fic that basically just existed to show How Fucking Competent all three of them were. There's nothing wrong with this one, it's just not got enough framework/point to be interesting going back to now.

Padmé Jedi Prequels is the working-title for a what-if? re-writing of the Prequel Trilogy where Padmé, you guessed it, was a Jedi too. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon still get sent to deal with the Trade Federation over Naboo, but Obi-Wan has been recently Knighted and Padmé is Qui-Gon's new Padawan. I do like what I have written for this one, but it would be a LOT of work to write the rest of it (basically: everything between "landing on Tatooine" and "the ending scenes w/ the Purge"), and the canon has changed sooooo much since I started working on it that I'd either have to re-work a lot of details or just throw my hands up and go "this is pre-Clone Wars tv show continuity reconstructed from memory, it's gonna be a bumpy ride!" and know that everyone, including me, is going to be so fucking confused lmao.

From Lord of the Rings:

Okay I'm so glad you asked this question mainly for this answer, because I had completely forgotten I ever did this, but: apparently back when I was in college, I started writing a story where a portion of the Fellowship along with Elrond's kids, Faramir, Éowyn, and Éomer were all re-embodied (in the case of the mortals and Arwen) or sent from Aman (in the case of the elf, half-elves, and dwarf) to go deal with some Terrible New Threat by...pretending to be Normal Modern Humans Undercover In College, I guess??? The only things I ever wrote for it were the intro, an "everybody tries to figure out how modern clothing works in a big department store and it's a Disaster, thank goodness they have Éowyn there to wrangle everyone" scene, a snippet of Legolas and Gimli being Very Good At Acting Like Humans on a balcony and annoying Aragorn, and Legolas nearly having a stroke when a bartender serves Gimli and not him, because "he's clearly old enough, but you look way too young; sorry kid try again when you have a better fake ID."

I've also got an ancient Three Hunters get pulled into the Star Wars universe post-War of the Rings when Artoo and Threepio's escape pod lands in Gondor instead of Tatooine story that I can't imagine I'll ever touch again, but does admittedly have some amusing (if very painfully Old Writing) bits written for it, so that was nice to look at (and wince over) again.

Also there's this, of course.

From the X-Men Comics:

A fanfic about a New Excalibur Team being formed that actually has (if I do say so myself, and I will) an excellent beginning, but which I failed to write-down the Actual Planned Plot of, and now I can no longer remember wtf I was going to do with the damn story, so it's probably never going to get any further since that's uhhh. kind of an important part of Writing A Story lmao.

One where Illyana gets shunted back to Mythical Camelot somehow when she dies during Inferno, irritates/distresses Merlin, befriends both Guienevere and Mordred, annoys Morgan le Fay, learns some advanced magic, and eventually has to help destroy Mordred to save everyone else; only then does she find her way back to the present, and comes back to life several years after her younger self has died of the Legacy Virus to be re-united with Kitty and the New Mutants. Given that in the (many) years since I started that fic, Illyana already has been resurrected it's uhhh. kind of a moot point of a story now lol.

Also there's surely some half-started Potter stories sitting around here that idk if I'll ever feel the urge to touch again (Green-Eyed Snake included). Maybe the burst of celebration I'll feel the day she just self-combusts from all that hate and finally just fucking dies will be inspiring...

✨ Choose three adjectives to complement your own writing.

Detailed, plausible, and most especially verbose ;)

⏰ Do you spend more time reading fic, writing fic, or do you do both equally?

Writing, definitely; although I've read a lot more fic in the past few months than I'd read for years, and I'm enjoying it mightily (navigating on AO3 is sooooooooooo much better than trying to slog through FFnet and livejournal and geocities omgggggg I can actually find good stories now, what is this witchcraft???).

[quixoticrobotic]

at4w fandom for that ask meme u reblogged :]

The first character I first fell in love with: uuh i've always really liked mark bc his backstory was like the most fucked up thing i'd seen in media when i got into at4w???? and i just thought that was so INTERESTING like IMAGINE HOW THAT WOULD AFFECT YOU AND YOUR ABILITY TO TRUST PEOPLE AND FORM RELATIONSHIPS AND SCREW UP YOUR MORAL COMPASS and if canon just ignores that i'll think about it myself!

The character I never expected to love as much as I do now: Linksano! at first i just like didn't rlly care about the super early stuff, including his intro, but no hes so great i adore him hes so good and weird and has a lovely color scheme

The character everyone else loves that I don’t:  uhhh ninja style dancer is barely a character but hes in like all the character line ups and a ton of fanfic and like. hes not interesting enough to be an ensemble darkhorse hes just. a guy with cue cards. he adds nothing

The character I love that everyone else hates: 

If Mirror!Margaret has million fans, then I'm one of them, If Mirror!Margaret has one fan, then I'm THAT ONE. If Mirror!Margaret has no fans, that means I'm dead. to be fair its less that shes hated and more that the narrative is really harsh to her

The character I used to love but don’t any longer: IM JUST GONNA PRETEND MOARTE DIDN'T YEET A CHILD INTO THE VOID AND EVERYTHING WILL BE OK AND I DONT HAVE AN ANSWER TO THIS QUESTION

The character I would totally smooch: every time erin or joanna re on screen im like NOT TO BE A LESBIAN BUT

The character I’d want to be like: 90s Dude! I wanna be that confident in my interests and not care if people think im annoying or dumb

The character I’d slap: idk i feel like theres a sufficient amount of hitting in the show

A pairing that I love: JAERISJOANNA LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO like wheres the jaerisjoanna content like LOOK AT THEM

THEIR MAGIC GUNS MATCH AND ARE POWERED BY THEIR LOVE FOR ONE ANOTHER

A pairing that I despise: tbh there are parings im not wild about but none of them provoke enough emotion in me to warrant. being despised

[intheorangebedroom]

So I want to ask you:

- how do you decide what goes into the story and what won't make it into the final draft?

- do you have other stories in you for these two, like Roadtrippin'?

- you wrote a pretty detailed backstory for Frankie but you keep her past more private. Is that intentional? She is a more closed person so we only get glimpses of her. Will you write an extended history about her?

Thank you for the new chapter, I think I'll read it six more times this weekend!

Hey there bestie. Thank you so much for this ask 🥰 I'm afraid I'm going to rumble. Grab a drink 😬

How do I decide what goes in and what doesn't make it. Like so:

Seriously, I think it's down to my lack of self-confidence... I've had the story outlined since I started, with some major ideas/concepts and events I want to develop and insist on. Some elements are secondary, like the Millers' backstory for instance (I have it down to their parents' jobs and how they met...) so I just pepper some clues along the way (the picture of the little girl in Will's office seems innocuous enough, but that little girl is the very reason why he's so keen on Reader). I would love to develop all of it, but I'm not confident enough with my English, my story telling abilities, the chapters would reach 10k words and I'm afraid it would just bore the hell out of everybody. But I loved writing that random HC so much...

Sometimes, it's also quite simply because it imbalances the whole chapter. I had three extra paragraphs of pure Tom hatred for Shuffle Your Feet and I had to reason myself. "Ok, you hate the guy, I think every one gets it" 😂

Do I have other stories in me for these two

Well... This depends on how the story ends, right? If they get a happy ending or not.... I have approx a million and some of them are already written

The real question is, do I have anything else??? 😂 Sometimes I think I just had this one, and after that, I'll stop writing (it scares me and makes me sad, I'd very much like to keep going).

Will I write an extended story for our Reader

ARGH I'm dying to!!!!! I've got nothing against the reader insert/blank slate format, to each his own, but it's not for me, I'd rather read a story with a defined Reader and I can't, for the life of me, write something with a character I don't know. I'm not that good.

But I'm so new at writing fanfic, and not confident enough to go "Here, she's an OFC." I'm afraid it would turn people off (and well, I'll admit I like it when people read the words I sweat over for weeks...). But the more I progress, the more I feel like I'm betraying her by denying her this OFC status (I'm nuts).

I've got a thorough backstory for her. Soooooo thorough... She even has a name. (Writing that fight without having Rosie say her name was so difficult, don't you use the other person's name when you argue with them??? And oh! How I am DYING to have Frankie say it... you've no idea.)

When I think of her, I imagine her at 15-year-old, with her carpenter jeans, her black Doc Marten's, and her beat up backpack, stepping into the teachers' room after lunch to pick an American pen pal. This was extracurricular, she didn't really have too, she was a good student and didn't need the extra points... But this day, sitting alone in her high school cafeteria, she thought "ok, fuck loneliness, I'm gonna prove myself I can make a friend."

So she gathered her strength and when her teacher handed her the tray of Bristol cards with the students' information, she picked one randomly. A young, stunningly beautiful, dizzyingly confident brunette in a stapled little square photo smiled at her as she read "Rosie Muñoz, 15 ans, New York City, Etats-Unis" and she felt an instant pull toward this bright sun. She thought there was no way in hell such a cool looking girl would write her back, let alone like her, yet she still chanced it.

But Rosie did write back. And she dragged her out of her loneliness. Showed her that her love could, in fact, be reciprocated.

And then, Rosie took her to that party, where she would meet Frankie. Who would alter the course of her life, and set her inner world ablaze.

Just because of a lonely meal, and a small, rectangular Bristol card.

Thank you so, so much for this ask, I'm sorry that I am incapable of brevity. I hope that at least, I answered all your questions 🧡

[sepdet]

As a bi woman, I cannot for the life of me figure out how so many women are able to get off without at least one woman in their sexytimes fic (the more the merrier).

Literature can be about anybody, and I'm all for gay guys getting their due, but when it comes to self-indulgent fiction that women make and read for pleasure and for one another? We can be our own stories.

So often we are expected to identify with a male protagonist, put ourselves in mens' shoes and imagine how they feel, or let men represent us, it's a relief — or, depending on how rare it is for you, maybe a little uncomfortable? — to allow ourselves personas that resemble us.

M/M fanfic takes characters beyond canon: it requires interpretation, interpolation, extrapolation and invention based on tiny scraps in canon. So please, don't think you can't do it for female characters, too! Many of the least-developed female characters nowadays are more developed than the Mr. Cardboards of yesteryear that have whole annexes of fanfic written about them (hello Hux, or for that matter dear old Legolas).

While we used to be starved for strong female characters in the sense of well-developed characters with agency, nowadays most franchises at least try to deliver such characters. Several shows from Critical Role to Doctor Who have also experimented with f/f love. So media is no longer steering us into m/m. If you make that choice, it's a choice.

May I gently challenge women who are exclusive m/m shippers to write a list of why they find m/m easier to write? What assumptions or tropes from m/m shipping might you adapt? Or from m/f shipping might you deconstruct and subvert?

What could romance be like if you treat each character as an individual driven by and attracted primarily to backstory and personality, not gender?

What is it about popular media's portrayal of heterosexual love and relationships (which has changed over the decades, and varies by culture) that you're escaping when you write m/m— what are some ways you could avoid those pitfalls in f/f or f/m fic?

Center the female character's experience, POV, or just their needs or privilege— a lot of media doesn't get inside the male protagonist's head, so much as the story arranges itself around them, like the most important feature in a photograph— and if anyone accuses you of writing a Mary Sue because the women or women are the focus in your writing, with whom the reader is supposed to identify or whom the audience is supposed to care about the most, fuck 'em.

the arguments for why m/m is better than f/f are always stupid and incorrect. “m/m allows women to escape misogyny” that’s just misogyny actually! “m/m has more high-quality fic and f/f is usually just ooc smut!” okay you haven’t actually looked for femslash fics beyond a cursory ao3 search. i can link you to five different authors without thinking. my own ao3 account proves this is wrong. “male characters are given more depth in the source material. ” explain why hux starwars has so many fics despite being a one-dimensional character with two lines. exhausting discourse

[cobalt-knave]

Mechanisms Fanfic Recs Part 2!

I was delighted to see people actually using my last rec list, and I have read a Lot of mechs fic since then, so let’s go. 

No particular theme, but we’ve got several Gunpowder Tim & Drumbot Brian fics here among others!

Five Times the Mechanisms took care of Gunpowder Tim, and One Time he protected them by TheHoardingPuffin                

One part character study to two parts found family. Featuring: moon war feels, hurt/comfort, and very protective mechanisms.

Indistinguishable From Magic by Garecc, Gunpowderdtim (Garecc)                

An incredibly interesting and well-written fic focusing on Brian of Brian’s past, eldrich powers, prophecy, and an old friendship between a now-metal man and a certain doctor.

One left behind by NammiKisulora

Have you ever wondered what the diary of Marius Von Raum looks like? Have you ever imagined him writing in it while lying in bed, kicking his legs in the air?

Have you ever wanted Brian’s-in-the-sun angst?

Well, boy of boy have you come to the right place! All that and more in this fic!

On Account Of The Jonny Doll by NammiKisulora  

If you’re a whump fan who likes the Mechanisms, you’ve probably wondered how exactly do you hurt an immortal being who seems to like pain a little more than is traditional? The answer of course lies in being rather... creative.

In this horrifying tale, we learn what happens when Jonny d’Ville is executed by skinning.

It also features an excellently-characterized Marius as the pov character!

The Edges of What We Might Be by HicSuntDracones  

In another world, another life, perhaps the Lucky Sevens’ rising star hired a tailor. Perhaps that rising star was one Ashes O’Reilly and that ttailor named Jonny.

A Pocket Full of Posies by Claribelle

IT’S A CROSSOVER WITH WOODEN OVERCOATS AND ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DELIGHTFUL GO READ IT

It is well with my soul by yallbitter

Hasn’t Brian earned a little revenge?

Vital Maintenance by Triss_Hawkeye

Gunpowder Tim is cleaning his guns when Brian needs the titular “vital maintenance”. But that doesn’t cover the SHEER amount of EMOTIONS that this fic will make you feel. It’s beautiful and well-thought-out, and GO READ IT. 

o, pallas athena! by pidgewings (violentlypan)                 

Emotions! Come get your emotions here!

Gunpowder was never Tim's first name. It was never even his nickname. Gunpowder was Bertie's nickname. 

I Have Broken More and More by fromthedesert                

Brian needs repairs. Tim is there to help him.

it has only just begun by LadyDragonKiller 

Raphaella backstory! Once, she was known as Icarus.

The Walls Begin To Tear by Stargazer_lilies                 

An absolutely excellent opening fic in a series that saves -- if you can call being marked by an eldrich god “saving” -- Lyfrassir Edda. They encounter eventually, a floating piece of space junk... Nastya Rasputina is back.

Nastya and Lyfrassir are wonderful together, a great [platonic] relationship. I love them so much.

This series goes on to cross over with The Magnus Archives, if that is your thing as well.

The Mechanized Archives ch. 5 “The Shadow Of the Moon” by CloudDreamer

It is so easy to forget just how horrifying the Mechanisms and their actions truly are. This chapter is an external POV of someone who’s life ended when the moon was gone and had to live with that consequence. 

This chapter influenced how I think and talk and analyze the Mechanisms. It’s very good and very dark.

The Magnus Archives statement format.

[bumblebee-cuttiefish]

You know what.. I have a feeling I have to get this out of my chest before big announcements (renewal as I belive it should or the other word that should not be named). I really think this show and especially show runners got us a big deal. First season was exceptional not even gonna talk about this one. Like everything that was said and done and.. Like I literally have no words because I remember when I first decided to give warrior nun s1 a chance (don't get me wrong but the title.. It sounds so freaking funny, dumb, interesting and unbelievable at the same time😅.. For someone who has no idea) I fell in love with it.. So much..with every aspect of the series

It was my comfort show since the first time I watched it, and I belive it will be after whatever news we get in the next weeks.. Just the concept of the show, characters, the way it was filmed, scenes, aesthetic, cinematography, action! EvERYTHING is so great it hurts

Anyway to the point (getting sentimental here sorry)

In s2 they gave us everything they could (whole team of WN) and I mean it, if you watched season 2 you know what I'm talking about. Not just the facts (the fanfic tropes, amazing moments, fight scenes, real characters - which none of them were forced-everything feels so natural! Like backstories? None of them was like straight forward.. Like this character is like this because this and this happened in their life, no. They gave us space, entire warrior nun team gave us space(our own fictional world we can create) to only imagine what happened in-between. I cannot appreciate and thank them enough.

To the point again.. Even if (I pray to God/Netflix for not doing this to us) we.. I don't want to say it.. If the end of the season two is all we get.. We have so much space, by we I mean fans, writers, artists and so on.. To make the most of it (hyperbole) I think in the way the writers team prepared for it-for us as well. The hell! Simon even fought for the after credit scene because he could not let the fans hanging in the unknown. So they've tried to make the best they could.

So with this statement (which is propoably the longest I've ever made) I beg you not to compare avatrice with clexa because trust me I've been there when it happened and it's not the same. Not the Bury your gays trope nor the love story. (not bubbling here. I'm still carrying this fucking pain with me).

With this afrer credit scene they gave us hope they gave us so many stories we can carry on with.. even if it's not on screen.

So with this confusing pep talk I want you to carry on- make art, write fanfiction and so on..

Warrior nun team- They gave us all they could and even more

[shiningclown69]

Also replying to @winxdclub about that post

Its v fun to read and reply but also IM SO SORRY that this has led to so much spam 💀😭 Hopefully you don't feel obligated to respond to everything. Ok, now i can respond

Yeah, I am begging for the writers to let Riven NOT be the cause of every single problem. Helia is totally prone to make mistakes on his own, pushing most of the blame to Riven is such a cop-out. Esp when the lesson should be that mistakes don't define Helia's worth as a person at all. If Riven does screw up, let him be apologetic!!! He has shown he has the capability to apologise!!!

Also yessss it would make more sense that the rumour be that Helia was a prodigy who screwed up and left RF. It adds to that layer of mystery Helia has and makes it more rewarding when the rest of the guys grow to trust him

Helia: Maybe Brandon should be leader since he's the ONLY one who hasn't tried to put Riven in a chokehold at least once.

Timmy: But I haven't?

Helia: You would if you could.

I'm sorry to make you hopeful for S6, it WILL be disappointing. But hey, new characters mean new reworks from Rus haha wink wink

Oooo the idea that Brandon's struggle is not rly seen bc of the subtlety of is interesting, tho I wonder abt the logistics of it working in a episodic setting. Istg all these sound v prime for a specialists fanfic or rewrite haha

Yeah Brandon is probably an outlier when it comes to reacting to fuck ups. Tho, I don't think there's much opportunities we see that if i rmb correctly. Only times I can think abt is S4 when mitzi kissed him and he just awkwardly walked away from the argument, some moments from S6 when he confronts Stella, and him apologising solemnly when he breaks up w stella in the comics. And maybe the funniest moment: Him washing dishes when he hasn't resolved things with Stella yet, and there is an unecessary amt of awkward tension. For DISHES.

Brandon bias <3 <3 How he ends up being sexy haha funny man with this kind of backstory + the most serious way of dealing with conflict is a mystery to me.

Hmm I did consider that Erendor prob wouldn't like Sky being friends with Brandon. The only justification I came up with is that (if this info i saw from the magazine canon) Brandon's parents are close to Erendor/Samara, as their advisor/handmaiden respectively. I don't think they respect their courtesans much, but that connection might have given Brandon some leeway to be friends with Sky.

My hc before I knew his family info was q similar to your idea I think? That Brandon was the son of Erendor's longtime bodyguard. The fact that his father could easily train him + similar age + accessible and "acceptable" to let near Sky would prob make Brandon a good candidate

ALSO YES we need to acknowledge more than Nabu was prob left alone with his servants and guards!!! I feel he defo snuck out alot, which is why he learnt invisibility spells and changed his name. Might also explain why he has a tendency to babble sometimes abt things he's interested in (getting trapped in a cage is NOT a good time to talk abt music my man), mans prob happy to be around ppl his age who are willing to hold a conversation with him.

Ok i should have elaborated more. Brandon IS a child soldier, but I was imagining the duration that he's been put under this job. 15 is a good range but I hc he might have started younger at around 10-12? Idk maybe this has smth to do with the S6 thing i mentioned Brandon keeps mentioning "since we were kids" as if it feels rly long ago

Also I didn't know where to put this but I looked back at the S2E14. Brandon going "I've been here before" when the gang are inside Yoshinoya's prison cell?? Brandon what??? Are you ok????? I don't like that implication!!

I think Sky should defend Brandon more. Yknow, as a treat, for both of them.